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 THE FORTUNES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE COLYILLE FAMILY, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TWO PICTURES. 
 
 *' A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year ! " 
 
 Words, of course, in themselves good and well-chosen, and 
 embodying a wish which all who love their neighbour should 
 feel and communicate ; — God in his mercy grant there may })e 
 very many who can respond to such a salutation hopefully ; for 
 in this Valley of the Shadow of Death there must be some who 
 shrink from it as from a bitter mockery. Of such are those 
 who, loving deeply, have lost, or fear to lose, the object of their 
 fond idolatry ; of such are those to whom, gifted, perhaps, with 
 an even wider capacity of affection, such a fear would seem a 
 blessing, for then they would not have toiled through a lifetime 
 lonely-hearted. " A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New 
 Year I " God comfort those who shudder at such kindly 
 greeting I 
 
 One short month since, a httle space of time, but more than 
 long enough for the performance of many a deeper tragedy 
 than that to which we are about to refer, an artist, glancing 
 into the sunny breakfast-parlour of Ashburn Rectory, might 
 have made a pretty picture of the group on which his eye 
 would have fallen. 
 
 That gentleman (in rags he would equally have looked such) 
 with the calm, high forehead, mild eye, and earnest, thoughtful 
 mouth, must be the father of the family ; for his dark hair 
 
2 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 shows many a silver thread, and the lines that appear upon his 
 still smooth brow can scarcely be the result of mental occupa- 
 tion only ; but, if we are right in our conjecture, whence did 
 that curly-pated nine-year-old urchin, seated upon his knee, 
 contrive to get his arch, merry face ? for he can scarcely have 
 " come alive " out of one of Murillo's paintings, to give light 
 and life to our family sketch. Oh I we see, it is his mother's 
 countenance the rogue has appropriated, only the mischief in it 
 is all his own ; for the expression of her still-beautiful features 
 is chastened and pensive, as of one who has lived and loved, 
 and done angels' work on earth, until the pure soul within has 
 stamped its impress on the outward form. 
 
 But if you want something pretty — nay, we may as well tell 
 the whole truth, and say at once bewitching — to look at, cast 
 your eyes (you won't be in a hurry to remove them again) 
 upon the figure seated at mamma's right hand, and recognising 
 her facsimile (with twenty summers taken off her age, and 
 barely eighteen left), declare whether that is not " nice," 
 rather. The expression is not the same, we confess : more of 
 the woman and less of the angel, you will say. We admit it; 
 but then, how could that little rosebud of a mouth look any- 
 thing but petulant ? those violet eyes express — well, it's difficult 
 to tell what they don't express that is good, and fresh, and 
 piquant, and gay, and — must we add ? a little bit coquettish 
 also ; — why, the very dimple on her chin — such a well- 
 modelled chin — has something pert and saucy about it. There ! 
 you've seen enough of the Httle beauty : you'll be falling in 
 love with her directly ! 
 
 No one could mistake the relationship existing between the 
 gentleman we have already described, and that tall, graceful 
 boy, with his pale, finely-chiselled features, and clasically- 
 shaped head. Even the earnest, thoughtful expression is com- 
 mon to both father and son, save that the curl of the short 
 upper lip, wdiich tells of pride in the boy, has, in the man, 
 acquired a character of chastened dignity. 
 
 Reader, do you like our picture ? Let us turn to another, 
 less pleasing, but alas I equally true. 
 
 The waves of time roll on, and, hke a dream, another month 
 has lapsed into the sea of ages. 
 
 The sun is shining still ; but it shines upon an open grave, 
 with aching hearts around it. A good man has died, and his 
 brave, loving spirit has gone whither his faith has preceded 
 
THE FORTUNES OF TUE COLVILLE FAMILY. 6 
 
 him, and liis good works alone can follow him. " Blessed are 
 the dead that die in the Lord." 
 
 Let us reserve our sympathy for those who live to mourn 
 them. 
 
 When the curate of Ashburn preaclied a funeral sermon, 
 recalling to the minds of those who had practically benefited by 
 them the virtues of their late rector, holly garlands hung in the 
 fine old church, to commemorate the birth-time of One who 
 came to bring " peace on earth, and good-will towards men ;" 
 but none dared to wish the widow and orphans " A Merry 
 Christmas, and a Happy New Year," lest the wish might seem 
 an insult to their sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 " Percy, I have been quiet so long, and you say I must not 
 stand upon my head, because it disturbs mamma ; do come out 
 and let us ride the pony by turns," implored little Hugh 
 Colville in a strenuous whisper ; which was, however, clearly 
 audible throughout the small breakfast-parlour, which was the 
 scene of our family picture. 
 
 Percy Colville, the shy, handsome boy of our sketch, looked 
 up with a pensive smile from the writing on which he was 
 engaged, and shook his head negatively, in token that he felt 
 obliged to refuse the request of his younger brother, in whom 
 the reader will recognise, with little difficulty, a certain 
 Murillo-like urchin to whom he has been already introduced. 
 But the petition of her youngest born had reached the ears ot 
 the widow, who (if she had a virtue which had outgrown its 
 due proportions till cavillers might deem it a fault), was, per- 
 haps, a little over indulgent to Master Hugh. 
 
 " My dear Percy, you have been writing for me long 
 enough," she said, " you will be ill if you shut yourself up too 
 much ; besides, Hugh has been so good that he deserves his 
 ride, and you know I don't like to trust him by himself." 
 
 Percy hesitated : the writing on which he was engaged was 
 the copy of a surveyor's report concerning that vexata qucestto, 
 
4: THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 dilapidations. Some difference of opinion bad arisen on the 
 subject between the agent of the patron of tbe living and Mrs. 
 Colville's solicitor, and a copy of the report was to be forwarded 
 by the next post to Mr, Wakefield, Mrs. Colville's legal adviser. 
 The matter was of importance, involving a considerable sum of 
 money. Percy was aware of these facts : he knew, also, that 
 he could only just finish his task by the time the village post 
 w^ent out ; and he was about to declare tbat Hugh must give 
 up his ride for that day, when his mother, reading his thoughts, 
 stooped over him, and, kissing his pale brow, whispered — 
 
 " Do not refuse him, dear Percy : remember, he will not 
 have many more rides " 
 
 She paused, for her composure was failing, then finished in a 
 trembling voice — 
 
 " You know the pony must be sold when we go away." 
 
 As she spoke, an expedient suggested itself to Percy's 
 mind, and pressing his mother's hand atfectionately, he closed 
 his writing-desk, and, carrying it off under his arm, exclaimed — 
 
 ** Come along, Hugh I we'll take old Lion (he wants a run, 
 poor dog) as well as the pony, and have a glorious scamper." 
 
 And a glorious scamper they had, only Hugh rode the whole 
 way, and Percy ran by his side, declaring that he greatly pre- 
 ferred it, which was decidedly a pious fiction, if a fiction can 
 ever be pious. 
 
 **OhI mamma, mamma I do make breakfast — come, quick I 
 there's a good mamma I for I'm as hungry as — as — several 
 sharks," exclaimed Hugh, rushing like a small express train 
 into the breakfast-parlour, on the following morning. 
 
 " Oh, you naughty mad-cap, you've shaken the table, and 
 made me blot ' That Smile ' aU over I " cried his sister 
 Emily, in vain endeavouring to repair the misfortune which 
 had accrued to the " popular melody " she was copying. 
 
 We suppose it is scarcely necessary to reintroduce you to 
 Emily, dear reader. You have not so soon forgotten the rose- 
 bud of a mouth, or the dangerous dimple — trust you for that. 
 
 *' Well, I declare, so I have," rejoined the culprit, a little 
 shocked and a good deal amused at the mischief he had occa- 
 sioned ; then striking into the tune of the outraged ditty, he 
 sang in an impish soprano, and with grimaces w^onderful to 
 behold — 
 
 " ' That smile — when once — de-par-ar-ar-arted, 
 Must leave — me bro — ken har-ar-ar-arted.' 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE OOLVILLE FAMILY. 5 
 
 Oil ! Emily, ^Yhat a mess we have made of * broken-hearted,' to 
 be sure ! I'm so sorry, but what fun I" 
 
 And then came a burst of ringing, happy, childish laughter, 
 which, of course, sealed his forgiveness : no one could think him 
 to blame after that. 
 
 " I wonder where Percy is ; I scarcely ever knew him late 
 before," observed Mrs. Colville, when quiet had been restored. 
 
 " Sarah tells me he is out riding," returned Emily, applying 
 herself with very unnecessary energy to cut bread and butter. 
 
 As she spoke, the clatter of horses' feet became audible, and, 
 in another moment, Percy cantered past the window. 
 
 " Where can the boy have been ?" ejaculated Emily, holding 
 the loaf lovingly, as though she was afraid of hurting the poor 
 thing. 
 
 "/ know, / do!" observed Hugh, from under the table, 
 whence, having in his mind's eye metamorphosed himself into 
 a wolf, he was preparing to spring out and devour Emily. 
 
 ''You know, Hugh I" repeated Mrs. Colville in surprise; 
 " come from under the table, then, and tell me." 
 
 " But, mamma, I'm a wolf, and just going to eat up Emily." 
 
 " Not now, dear," was the calm reply, as if a daughter more 
 or less devoured by wild beasts was of little moment to that 
 un-anxious mother ; *' come here, and tell me about Percy." 
 
 " Well, you know, mamma," began Hugh, emerging from his 
 hiding-place, and assuming the grave air of a raconteur, " when 
 Percy came to bed last night, he did not go to bed at all — that 
 is, not for a very, very, very long time. Do you know, I think" 
 — and here he put on a solemn face, and spoke with an air of 
 mystery — " I think he was not in bed at twelve o'clock, perhaps 
 not till almost one I " Having disclosed this frightful fact, he 
 paused and nodded like a bird, for the greater effect, ere he 
 continued : " I went to sleep long before, but, whenever I 
 opened my eyes, tliere he sat, still write, write, writing on, as if 
 he was writing lii.s life, like Robinson Crusoe — only," he added, 
 parenthetically — " only he's got no man Friday." 
 
 " But what could ho bo writing ?" exclaimed Emily, coquet- 
 ting with the large bread-knife. 
 
 " I know," resumed Hugh ; then, having paused to balance 
 himself on one leg, and spin round like a teetotum, he con- 
 tinued very fast, and without any stops, for Percy's footsteps 
 sounded in the hall: "he was writing the paper he had not 
 time to finish yesterday, because I wanted him to go out with 
 
b THE FORTUNES OF THE COLYILLE FAMILY. 
 
 me and the pony ; and this morning he got up at six o'clock to 
 ride over to Staplehurst, seven miles there, and I don't know 
 liow many back again, to catch the post, and make it all the 
 same as if it had been put in yesterday ; I know he did, because 
 Sarah says so." And, having delivered himself with the greatest 
 vehemence of this somewhat incoherent account, he rushed up 
 to his brother, then entering the room, and, throwing his arms 
 round his waist, exclaimed, " Oh, Percy I I've gone and told 
 them all about your great letter, and sitting up late, and every- 
 thing, and never remembered till now that you said I wasn't to 
 mention it to anybody. Oh, I am so sorry, but what fun 1 " 
 and, acisured by the expression of Percy's face that his crime 
 was not quite unpardonable, Hugh's merry, childish laugh again 
 rang through the apartment. 
 
 The mother's heart was full : tears stood in her eyes as, 
 pressing her elder son to her bosom, she murmured, — 
 
 ''Dear, dear Percy, you must not overtask your strength 
 thus." 
 
 The post that morning brought the following letter directed 
 to Mrs. Colville :— 
 
 " My dear Sister, — That I have the will to aid you in 
 your distress you cannot doubt ; that the power to do so effec- 
 tually is denied me, adds one more to the troubles of life. My 
 imprudent marriage (he had run away with a pretty governess 
 at eighteen), and its subsequent consequences (he had nine 
 healthy children), force me to work like a horse in a mill, in 
 order to make both ends meet. Of this I am not complaining. 
 I did an unwise thing, and must pay the necessary penalty. 
 But I mention these facts to prove to you the truth of my 
 assertion, that my power is not coequal with my will. The 
 little I can do is this: I am shareholder in an exceUent proprie- 
 tary school, where boys are taught everything necessary to fit 
 tliem for a commercial life ; Wilfred Jacob has been there two 
 years, and is already conversant with, or, as he familiarly terms 
 it, 'well up in' tare and tret. I trust Adolphus Samuel, Albert 
 John, Thomas Gabriel, and even the little Augustus Timothy, 
 will soon follow, and profit equally. I therefore propose to 
 send your two boys to this school at my own cost ; and, if the 
 eldest distinguishes himself, as I am proud to beheve Wilfred 
 Jacob will do, a desk in my counting-house (No. 8, Grubbinger 
 Street, City) shall reward his diligence. Clementina Jane 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 7 
 
 desires her kindest regards, and begs me to say that, shorJd 
 you finally determine upon settling in London, she shall have 
 much pleasure in looking out a cheap lodging for you in some 
 of the least expensive streets in the vicinity of Smithfield. I 
 am, dear Margaret, ever your affectionate brother, 
 
 " Goldsmith and Thryft. 
 
 '< p.S. — So much for habit : I have become so accustomed 
 to sign for the firm, that I actually forget that my name is 
 Tobiah." 
 
 Mrs. Colville closed the letter, with a sigh, and placing It in 
 her pocket, waited till the boys had breakfasted. As soon as 
 they had quitted the room she handed it to her daughter, 
 saying. " Read that, dear Emily : it is very kind of your uncle, 
 but -" 
 
 ** Percy at a desk in Grubbinger Street I Oh, my dearest 
 mamma, what a dreadful ideal" exclaimed the Eosebud, arching 
 her brows, and pursing up her pretty little mouth with an 
 expression of the most intense disapproval : " Uncle Tobiah 
 means to be very kind, but he forgets what Percy is." 
 
 Mrs. Colville shook her head mournfully. " I am afraid it is 
 we who forget, love," she said: " Percy can no longer hope to 
 pursue the career marked out for him — with the very limited 
 means at my disposal, college is quite out of the question ; nay, 
 if Sir Thomas Crawley persists in his demand for the incoming 
 tenant's claim to these dilapidations, and should prove his right 
 to it, I shall be unable to send the boys to school at all; indeed, 
 I must not reject your uncle's offer rashly. I shall consult Mr. 
 Slowkopf on the subject ; he is a very prudent adviser." 
 
 " Oh ! if you mean to ask him, the matter is as good as 
 settled, and poor Percy chained to a desk for life," cried Emily. 
 " Ah 1 " she continued, as a tall, thin, gaunt figure, clothed in 
 rusty black, passed the window, " here he comes — the creature 
 always puts me in mind of that naughty proverb about a certain 
 person : one no sooner mentions him than there he is at one's 
 elbow ; — but, if you really want to talk sense to 'him, mamma 
 dear, I'd better go, for I shall only say pert things and disturb 
 you : he is so delightfully slow and matter-of-fact, that I never 
 can resist the temptation of plaguing him;" and as she spoke, 
 the Rosebud laughed a Uttle silvery laugh at her own wicked- 
 ness, and tripped, fairy -like, out of the apartment. 
 
8 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 The worthy Mr. Slowkopf, who had held the office of curate 
 of Ashburn for about two years, was a very good young man, 
 and nothing else ; all his other quahties were negative. He 
 wasn't even positively a fool, though he looked and acted the 
 part admirably. He was essentially, and in every sense of the 
 word, a slow man : in manners, ideas, and appearance, he was 
 behind the age in which he lived; in conversation he was 
 behind the subject discussed ; if he laughed at a joke, which, 
 solemnly and heavily, he sometimes condescended to do, it was 
 invariably ten minutes after it had been made. He never heard 
 of Puseyism till Tract Ninety had been suppressed, or knew of 
 the persecutions and imprisonments of Dr. Achilli till that 
 amateur martyr was crying aloud for sympathy in Exeter Hall ; 
 he usually finished his fish when the cheese was being put on 
 table ; and went to bed as other people were getting up. Still, 
 he had his good points. Unlike King Charles, of naughty 
 memory, 
 
 " Who never said a foolish thing. 
 And never did a wise one," 
 
 however dull and trite might be Mr. Slowkopf's remarks, his 
 actions were invariably good and kind. The village gossips, 
 when they were very hard-up for scandal, declared that, insen- 
 sible as he appeared to all such frivolities as the fascinations of 
 the softer sex, he was gradually taking a " slow turn " towards 
 the Rosebud of Ashburn. Nay, the rumour was reported to 
 have reached the dehcate ears of the " emphatic she " herself; 
 who was said to have replied, that as she was quite certain he 
 would never dream of telling his love till he heard she was 
 engaged to be married to some one else — in which case she 
 should have a legitimate reason for refusing him — the informa- 
 tion did not occasion her the slightest uneasiness. 
 
 However this might be, certain it is, that on the morning in 
 question, Mr. Slowkopf, gaunt, ugly, and awkward, solemnly 
 stalked into the breakfast-parlour, and that the widow, per- 
 plexed between her good sense and her loving tenderness for 
 her children, laid before him her difficulties and her brother's 
 letter. 
 
 The curate paused about three times as long as was neces- 
 sary, and then, in a deep, sepulchral voice, observed — 
 
 " In order to attain to a sound and logical conclusion in 
 regard to this weighty matter, it behoves me first to assure 
 myself that I rig-htly comprehend the question propounded. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 9 
 
 and if, as I conceive, it prove to be one which will not admit of 
 demonstration with a mathematical certainty ; then, secondly, 
 so to compare the different hypotheses which may present them- 
 selves, that, sufficient weight being allotted to each, a just and 
 philosophical decision may be finally arrived at." 
 
 Having, after this preauible, stated the case in language as 
 precise and carefully selected as though he w^ere framing a bill 
 to lay before Parliament, and were resolved to guard against 
 the possibiHty of the most astute legal Jehu driving a coach 
 and four through it, he argued the matter learnedly and steadily 
 for a good half-hour, ere he dug out the ore of common sense 
 from the mass of logical rubbish beneath which he had buried 
 it, and decided in favour of Mr. Goldsmith's proposal. Pleased 
 at his own cleverness in having solved this difficult problem, 
 and possessing unlimited confidence in his oratorical powers, he 
 volunteered to communicate the decision thus formed to the 
 person most nearly concerned therein, an ofi'er to which Mrs. 
 Colville, feeling her strength unequal to the task, reluctantly 
 consented. 
 
 Percy listened in silence till IMr. Slowkopf had talked himself 
 out of breath, which it took him some time to accomplish, for, 
 in every sense of the term, h-e was awfully long-winded ; when 
 at length he was silent, the boy fixed his large eyes earnestly 
 upon his face as he replied, '' I understand, sir, we are so poor 
 that it is not possible to send me to a pubKc school, or to college 
 as — as — my dear father wished ; but I do not see why I am 
 necessarily obliged to become a merchant's clerk, a position 
 which I shall never be fit for, and which I hate the idea of; the 
 Colvilles have always been gentlemen." 
 
 "A man may work for his living in some honest occupation 
 without forfeiting that title," returned Mr. Slowkopf, senten- 
 tiously. 
 
 " Not as a merchant's clerk," was the haughty reply : " No ; 
 let me be an artist, if I cannot receive a gentleman's education 
 in England. I know I have some talent for drawing, let me 
 study that, and then go to Italy, beautiful Italy, for a few years ; 
 people can live very cheaply abroad, and I will be wvy careful. 
 When I become famous I shall grow rich, and be able to 
 support mamma, and send Hugh to college, and then I shall 
 care less for not having been there myself." 
 
 " Without attempting to regard your scheme in its many 
 complicated bearings, or to argue the matter in its entire com- 
 
10 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 pleteness, for which time, unfortunately, is wanting," remarked 
 Mr. Slowlvopf, deliberately ; " I will place before you, in limine, 
 certain objections to it which render the commercial career 
 proposed by your excellent uncle, if not in every point a more 
 advantageous arrangement, at all events one more suited to the 
 present position of affairs. Your uncle proposes to take upon 
 himself all immediate expense connected with your education ; 
 while, as a clerk in his counting-house, you will be in the 
 receipt of a gradually increasing salary. Your scheme would 
 demand a constant outlay of capital, for certainly the next five 
 years ; nay, it would be no matter of surprise to me if ten years 
 should elapse, ere, by the precarious earnings of an artist's 
 career, you w^ere enabled to render yourself independent. In 
 one case you will be an assistance to your excellent mother, in 
 the other a burden upon her." 
 
 Percy walked to the window ; the burning tears of disap- 
 pointed ambition and mortified pride rushed to his eyes, but he 
 brushed them hurriedly away, as he said in a firm, steady voice, 
 "Thank you for telling me the truth, Mr. Slowkopf; we will 
 accept my uncle's offer." 
 
 Thus it came about that Percy and Hugh Colville were 
 entered, as boarders, at Doctor Donkiestir's excellent proprie- 
 tary establishment. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE. 
 
 The Rosebud of Ashburn possessed a female friend. Caroline 
 Selby was the daughter of Sir Thomas Crawley's agent. Sir 
 Thomas Crawley was the rich man of the neighbourhood, lord 
 of the manor, patron of the living, and owner of a splendid 
 place about a mile from the village; but although Ashburn 
 Priory was an old family seat, the present owner of the property 
 had by no means always been the great man he was at present ; 
 indeed, it may be doubted whether, in justice, he had any right 
 to be so at all ; though, unfortunately, in law he possessed a 
 very sufficient one. The former possessor of Ashburn Priory, 
 an irritable, perverse old man, had, in a moment of passion, 
 disinherited an only son (who had committed the unpardonable 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 11 
 
 crime of consnlting his heart, rather than his pocket, in the 
 choice of a wife), making a will in favour of a relative whom he 
 had never seen, and of whom the little he had heard wag 
 unfavourahle. It is true, he never intended this will to take 
 effect; meaning, when he had sufficient!}^ consulted his dignity, 
 and marked his disapproval of the sin against Mammon which 
 his son had committed, graciously to receive him into favour 
 again ; but Death, who has no more respect for ill-temper than 
 for many more amiable qualities, did not allow him time to 
 repair the injustice he had committed, cutting him off with an 
 attack of bronchitis, and his son with a shilling, at one fell 
 stroke. The son, an amiable man, with a large family (a con- 
 junction so often to be observed, that, to a speculative mind, it 
 almost assumes the relation of cause and effect), soon spent his 
 shilling, and, overtasking his strength to replace it, ere long 
 followed his unjust father, though we can scarcely imagine that 
 he travelled by the same road. Before this latter event took 
 place, however, Mr. Thomas Crawley made his first appearance 
 as lord of the manor of Ashburn, and m.aster of the Priory; and 
 everybody was so w^ell aware what he was, that they carefully 
 abstained from inquiring what he had been. To those capable 
 of judging, however, one thing was unmistakably apparent ; 
 namely, that neither in the past nor in the present could his 
 manners and appearance entitle him to the designation of a 
 gentleman. That he himself entertained an uncomfortable 
 suspicion of this fact, might be gathered from the indefatigable 
 perseverance wdth which he pursued the object of attaining to 
 the rank of knighthood. Up the rounds of a ladder of gold he 
 chmbed into Parliament; once there, if he voted according to his 
 conscience, that inward monitor must have been of a decidedly 
 versatile temperament ; for the way in which he wheeled about, 
 and turned about, on every occasion, conceivable and inconceiv- 
 able, was without precedent, save in the cases of Jim Crow, of 
 giddy memory, and of Weathercock versus Boreas and Co. At 
 last a crisis arrived ; votes were worth more than the men who 
 gave them : a minister stayed in who should have gone out ; 
 and Mr. Crawley became Sir Thomas. And this was the man 
 who, with a rent-roll of £15,000 a-year, was about to avail 
 himself of a legal quibble, in order to extort from a widow and 
 orphans a share of the little pittance that remained to them. 
 His agent, Mr. Selby, was a better man than his master ; and 
 might have been better still, if " his poverty, and not his will," 
 
12 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 had not led him to consent to be the instrument wherewith Sir 
 Thomas Crawley, M.P., transacted much dirty work in Ash- 
 burn and its vicinity. At the time we treat of, the will had so 
 often yielded that it had quite lost the habit of asserting itself; 
 and the poverty, profiting by this inertness, had gradually dis- 
 appeared, till Mr. Selby was generally looked upon as a man 
 well to do in the world, and respected accordingly. 
 
 And this brings us back to the point from whence we 
 originally started ; namely, that the Rosebud of Ashburn 
 possessed a female friend. Now, the office of female friend to a 
 Rosebud, romantic and poetical as it sounds, was by no means 
 a sinecure ; indeed, from the confidant of Tilburnia downwards, 
 these sympathisers of all work have hard places of it. Still, 
 there appears to be no lack of amiable creatures ready to devote 
 themselves to the cause of friendship ; the supply seems always 
 to equal the demand. Possibly occasional perquisites, in the 
 shape of a heart caught in the rebound, as in the case of a 
 discarded lover, or the reversion of some hon parti, rejected for 
 a more eligible offer, may have something to do with it — of this 
 we cannot pretend to judge. 
 
 That any such sordid notions influenced Caroline Selby in 
 her devotion to Emily Colville, we do not beheve : on the 
 contrary, the friendship arose from, and was cemented by, the 
 Jack-Sprat-and-his-wife-like suitableness of their respective 
 natures ; Caroline having a decided call to look up to and 
 worship somebody, while Emily experienced an equally strenuous 
 necessity for being worshipped and looked up to. But the 
 Rosebud was subject also to other necessities, which effectually 
 preserved her friend from falling into the snares of idleness. 
 First, she had a chronic necessity for " talking confidence," — 
 though how, in the quiet village of Ashburn, she contrived to 
 obtain a supply of mysteries to furnish forth subjects for these 
 strictly private colloquies, was the greatest mystery of all. 
 Then privy councils were held upon dress, in all its branches, 
 from staylaces up to blonde Berthes ; and committees of ways 
 and means had to combat and arrange financial difficulties. 
 Again, the affairs of their poorer neighbours required much 
 talking about, and speculating upon ; and their little charities 
 (for, despite sundry small weaknesses and frivolities natural to 
 their age, or rather youth, and sex, the friends were thoroughly 
 kind-hearted, amiable girls) could not be planned, or executed, 
 without a necessary amount of conversation. Then there was a 
 
THE FORTUKES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 15 
 
 towu, three miles off by the road, and two and a half by the 
 fields, where everything came from; for, though Ashburn 
 boasted a " general " shop, yet those who were rash enough to 
 particularise any article they might require, beyond the inevit- 
 able bacon, cheese, soap, bad tea, worse sugar, starch, and 
 hobnailed shoes, upon which agricultural life is supported, only 
 prepared for themselves a disappointment. 
 
 (This obliging town the Rosebud had a call to visit, on an 
 average, three times a week at the very least ; and of course, 
 when the pony-chaise could not be had, which — as Hugh, by 
 the agency of that much-enduring pony, existed rather as a 
 centaur than a biped — was almost always the case, Caroline 
 Selby was required as a walking companion. 
 
 Having thus enlightened the reader as to the nature of the 
 friendship existing between these young ladies, together with 
 other particulars, w-hich, at the risk of being considered prosy, 
 we felt bound to communicate to him, we resume the thread of 
 our narrative. 
 
 Three weeks had elapsed since Mrs. Colville had accepted 
 her brother's offer, and the day approached when Percy and 
 Hugh were to quit the home of their happy childhood, never 
 again to return to it. Mrs. Colville seldom alluded to the 
 subject ; busying herself in preparing their clothes, and in 
 other necessary duties appertaining to the mistress of a family. 
 Now it happened that Master Hugh wore turn-over collars, 
 famous for two peculiarities, viz., the moment they were put on, 
 clean and smooth, they became rumpled and dirty — and the 
 strings by which they were fastened, were the victims to a 
 suicidal propensity for tearing themselves violently off, so that 
 the amount of starch, labour, and tape, required to preserve 
 these collars in an efficient condition, formed a serious item in 
 ihe household expenditure. 
 
 Although the excellent factotum, Sarah, declared upon oath 
 (not a very naughty one) that she had reviewed the delinquents 
 cautiously that day fortnight, and been able to report them 
 fitted for service, yet, at the eleventh hour, when she was 
 actually packing Hugh's box, there were only three strings and 
 a quarter remaining among the twelve collars, and there was 
 no rehance to be placed even upon them. Moreover, on 
 examination, there was discovered to have been such a run upon 
 tape, of late, that not an inch of that useful aitick- w as forth- 
 coming throughout the entire establishment. Under these 
 
1-i THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY, 
 
 appalling- circumstances, Emily nobly volunteered to go to 
 Flatville, and invest capital in the purchase of a '* whole piece 
 of tape." But the boys were absent on a skating expedition ; 
 and the roads were slippery, and the pony liad not been roughed, 
 and Emily, not liking to walk by herself, set off, no way loth, to 
 enlist Caroline Selby as her companion. 
 
 Here, however, a difficulty arose. Mr. Selby was just 
 starting in his phaeton, co drive over to the railroad station, two 
 miles beyond Flatville, and his daughter was going with him, 
 for the sake of a drive. 
 
 Caroline was perplexed : had it been only to give up her 
 own plans, she would gladly have done so ; but between her 
 father and her friend, a double sacrifice was required of her, 
 and being only a single woman, she was unable to meet the 
 demand. Mr. Selby, happily, hit upon an expedient. He 
 proposed a compromise : Miss Colville should do him the 
 honour to take a seat in his phaeton (he called it phce-aton), he 
 would drive her as far as Flatville ; his daughter should alight 
 with her : they should make their little purchases (the words in 
 italics he uttered in a tone of the tenderest affection) ; and the 
 phee-aton, in returning from the station, should call and pick 
 them up. 
 
 Mr. Selby was a very polite man ; and perpetually rubbed 
 his hands together, as though he were playing at washing 
 them, a habit possibly induced by a consciousness of all the 
 dirty work he had performed. Emily patronised him, steadily 
 disbelieving everything that was hinted against him, because he 
 M'as Caroline's father, — a piece of scepticism, amiable, illogical, 
 and womanly, which we rather admire in the young lady than 
 otherwise. 
 
 Accordingl}^ favouring aim with a bewitching smile, that a 
 better man than he might have been proud to win, she scarcely 
 touched the hand he held out to assist her (which he carefully 
 dry-washed afterwards, as though the contact even of her fairy 
 fingers had dissolved the spell of its prudish purity), and sprang 
 lightly into the *' phce-aton." 
 
 Half an hour's drive brought them to Flatville, where Mr. 
 Selby, so to speak, washed his hands of them, and went on to 
 the railroad station. Then began the shopping, that most 
 mysterious and deeply-seated passion of the female heart — the 
 one master vice which serves the ladies of England, instead of 
 tho turf, the wine -cup, and the gaming table, which mislead 
 
THK FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. lO 
 
 tlieir lords. There can be little doubt who first invented 
 shopping I The same hand which launched that arrow into the 
 bosom of private life, gave to the child-woman, Eve, the apple 
 that betrayed her — an apple which contained the seeds of 
 shopping. It is such a seductive, hypocritical sin, too, this 
 same'shopping — one which is so easily dressed up to resemble a 
 vii-tue — that it is almost impossible to distinguish its true 
 character till the hill comes in : that, like the touch of Itlmriel's 
 spear, reveals the fiend in all its deformity. Every woman 
 (that we have known) is more or less addicted to this ruinous 
 practice, but some appear especially gifted with the fatal talent,^ 
 and, if the truth must be told, our little heroine was one of 
 these unfortunates. The amount of shopping she would con- 
 trive to get, even out of a piece of tape, was fearful to reflect 
 upon. In the first place, it was to be of a particular {very 
 particular) texture, neither too coarse nor too fine ; then society 
 w^ould probably be uprooted, and the Thames be set on fire, if 
 it were a shade too wdde, or, worse still, too narrow. Again, 
 tape was useless without needles and thread, wherewith to 
 operate upon it; and for some time— indeed, till the obsequious 
 parrot of a shopman had gone through his whole vocabulary of 
 persuasion, and become cynical and monosyllabic — all the 
 needles were too large ; and, that difficulty being overcome, 
 the thread (sewing cotton Emily called it) took a perverse turn, 
 and would by no means sympathise with the eyes of the selected 
 needles, till the harassed shopman muttered a private aspiration 
 in regard to those useful orifices, which would have cost him 
 five shillings in any court. of justice. But he took his revenge, 
 did that cunning shopman, for, no sooner had Emily bought all 
 that she required, than he suddenly recovered his good humour 
 and loquacity, and placed before her exactly the very articles 
 she most desired, and had not funds to purchase withal, till 
 Tantalus himself might have appeared a gentleman who lived at 
 home at ease, in comparison Avith that sorely-tempted " llose- 
 bud." Still, what woman could do, she did, for she firmly 
 resisted everything, till an unlucky remnant of magpie-coloured 
 ribbon, the " very thing she should w^ant when she changed her 
 mourning, and which she hnew she could never meet w^ith 
 again," a ribbon so cheap that the shopman declared he was 
 '* giving it away," at the very moment when he was adding 
 two shillings to the bill on the strength of it ; though this 
 Deductive ribbon beguiled her, the little concession only proved 
 
16 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 that she was not above humanity. With which fact we are 
 well contented, because, enjoying but a very distant and limited 
 acquaintance with such higher circles as she would otherwise 
 have mixed in, we might never have heard of her existence. 
 That she possessed some power of self-denial she proved, by 
 paying her bill and quitting the shop the moment that ribbon 
 had conquered her ; the next best thing to resisting temptation 
 being to fly from it. 
 
 " Why, Caroline dear, we must have been an age in that 
 shop, it is nearly five o'clock I What can have become of your 
 father's carriage ? " exclaimed Emily, glancing in dismay at the 
 hands of the old church clock, which pointed to a quarter to 
 five. 
 
 " Really I can't conceive," was the reply : " something must 
 have occurred to delay it, I suppose ; it will be growing dusk 
 before we can get home if we have to walk by the road, and we 
 can scarcely attempt the fields so late by ourselves." 
 
 " Mamma will be so frightened," suggested Emily, " if it 
 gets at all dark before we return — had we not better start at 
 once, and walk on till the carriage -overtakes us?" 
 
 Caroline agreed to this plan, merely proposing the emenda- 
 tion that they should leave word they had done so, and that the 
 groom, if he ever appeared, was to follow and endeavour to 
 overtake them. For this purpose they re-entered the linen- 
 draper's shop, where, while they paused for a moment to deliver 
 the message, that vindictive shopman actually was scoundrel 
 enough to display at arm's length a flimsy black scarf {harege 
 we believe the villain called it), which, down to the very pattern 
 itself (opaque spots of the same material, representing apparently 
 a turnip with a cocked hat on, though we can scarcely bring 
 ourselves to believe the draughtsman could seriously have thus 
 planned the design), Emily had dreamed of only the night 
 before : such is the heartlessness of men — at least of shopmen. 
 
 The two girls, having nobly withstood the scarf, started ener- 
 getically on their homeward walk, nor were their tongues less 
 active than their feet, but then they had so much to talk about. 
 The linen-draper's stock was first done ample justice to; that 
 " dear" silver grey mousseUne de soie, which wasn't dear at all, 
 but as cheap as — (the ribbon, perhaps, on which the shop-keeper 
 only realised some fifty per cent., but then it was a remnant, and 
 given away) — and then those gloves, French kid, oh I they must 
 have been smuggled ; how wrong it was to smuggle, at least 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 17 
 
 papa (Selby) always said so, but really the price was quite ridi- 
 culous ; didn't Emily think so ? 
 
 Emily did not know about its being ridiculous, but it was 
 dreadfully tempting ; and if she had not made up her mind 
 irrevocably against changing any one of the three sovereigns 
 she had in her purse, and which must last her for pocket-money 
 for the next two months, she should decidedly have bought a 
 pair, really, for the sake of economy. 
 
 This fruitful and edifying topic lasted them a good mile and 
 a half, and was not yet exhausted, when Emily interrupted her- 
 self by exclaiming — " Upon my word it's growing quite dusk ; 
 I wonder whether that carriage is ever coming?" 
 
 " I'm sure I hope so, for I'm getting dreadfully frightened ; 
 ah I what's that?" replied her companion with a sudden start; 
 " Oh I it's only a post, how silly I am ! I declare I thought it 
 was a man with a pistol hooked — no — what is it they call it 
 wlien they're dangerous and mean to go off, dear?" 
 
 " Cocked," returned Emily ; *' but surely that is a man, and a 
 very uncomfortable looking one too ; walk on quickly, and seem 
 as if you did not perceive him ; perhaps he may not take any 
 notice of us." 
 
 The advice was sound, but, unfortunately, the plan did not 
 prove as successful as it deserved to be ; the individual in 
 question, who, when they first came in sight, was lying appa- 
 rently asleep upon some fallen timber by the road-side, rose as 
 they came near, and approaching them, began in a tone half- 
 impertinent, half-imploring, to beg of them. He was a stout, 
 ruffianly-looking fellow, dressed in a style which accorded with 
 his profession. The poor girls were considerably frightened : 
 they were quite a mile from Ashburn, in a lonely part of the 
 road ; the evening was closing in rapidly, and there was no 
 human being in sight, except their persecutor, who, w^alking 
 beside them, grew every minute more pertinacious and impera- 
 tive. With a most transparent attempt at dignified composure, 
 Emily drew out her purse, and, taking a shilling from it, handed 
 it to him, saying — 
 
 " There, that is as much as we shall give you, so you need 
 not follow us any further — good evening." 
 
 Taking the shilling, with a look of sulky dissatisfaction, the 
 ^'llow paused for a moment in irresolution ; but, unfortunately, 
 when Emily produced her purse, his eye had caught the sparkle 
 of gold, and his cupidity was too deeply excited to be so easily 
 
 
 
13 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 satisfied : looking up and down the road, to assure iiimself that 
 no one was at hand to interfere with his designs, he again 
 followed the trembling girls; and, coming up with them, 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " What I will you only give a poor fellow^ that's starving, a 
 shilling ? and you with a purse full of money in your pocket — 
 and you calls yourselves ladies too ? It would only serve you 
 right to show you that ladies was no better than other people." 
 
 As he spoke, he pressed rudely against Caroline Selby, who, 
 shrinking from him, whispered in an agony of terror — 
 
 " Emily, what will become of us ? Pray give him some more 
 money, and entreat him to go away." 
 
 Thus urged, Emily again drew forth her purse, and, trembling 
 at her own temerity, said in an authoritative tone of voice — 
 
 *' There's half-a-crown for you, and now go away, and don't 
 annoy us any more." 
 
 " Not without something better worth taking w^ith me," was 
 the insolent reply, as, catching her wrist, he attempted to force 
 the purse from her grasp; but Emily, although greatly alarmed, 
 had a brave little heart of her own, and held on stoutly, till 
 the unmanly ruffian, provoked at her pertinacity, used so much 
 force that she rehnquished the purse ; wdiile at the same 
 moment, partly through pain, partly through fright, she uttered 
 a piercing scream. 
 
 Now, albeit insolent lords of the creation exulting in strong 
 nerves, and not possessing soprano voices, are accustomed to 
 regard screaming as a feeble-minded practice, equally useless 
 and ridiculous, yet in the instance before us it proved of the 
 highest benefit, and by far the best thing, wdiich, under the 
 circumstances, Emily could have done ; for, as if he were some 
 good genius evoked by the Eosebud's appeal, suddenly and 
 iinexpectedly a tall, agile figure sprang through a gap in the 
 nodge, cleared the intervening space at a bound, and, almost 
 before the footpad was aware of his approach, struck the 
 a.conndrel, with a stick which he carried, so severe a blow over 
 the knuckles, that he dropped the purse ; while, at the same 
 moment, seizing him by the throat, he forced him backwards, 
 and, putting out his leg, tripped him up, and flung him heavily 
 t o the ground. Placing his foot upon the breast of his fallen 
 ••'oe, to prevent his rising, he turned towards the frightened girls, 
 and, hfting his hat courteously, thereby revealing his dark chest- 
 uut curls, he said — 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 19 
 
 " Do not be alarmed, ladies, I am quite able to protect you." 
 
 Then, pointing to the fallen man with his stick, which he 
 slightly shook at him with a menacing gesture, ho continued — 
 
 '' Has the scoundrel robbed you of anything but the purse?" 
 
 As she turned to answer, Emily raised her eyes to the speaker's 
 face. He was young, apparently not more than five or six and 
 twenty; the exertion he had undergone had caused a bright 
 flush to overspread his usually pale features ; even at that 
 moment his look was calm and spiritual ; the prevailing expres- 
 sion of his face w^as power, which revealed itself in his flashing 
 eyes and stern, compressed mouth ; his voice, when he spoke, 
 sounded peculiarly rich and sweet. When Emily had informed 
 him that, with the exception of the purse, they had sustained no 
 loss, he continued — 
 
 " But he w^as struggling with you w^hen I came up ; he must, 
 surely, have hurt you ; are you quite uninjured?" 
 
 Both the girls having assured him that they were merely 
 frightened, and that until the moment before he appeared, the 
 man had simply been begging of them, the stranger turned to 
 his prostrate foe, saying — 
 
 '* It would only serve you right for your unmanly attack on 
 two defenceless w^omen, if I were to avail myself of the advan- 
 tage I have gained over you to take you into custody and have 
 you punished for the offence you have committed ; but as I wish 
 to spare these ladies the alarm of witnessing any further struggle 
 between us, I shall, with their permission, let you go ; but mind 
 this, I shall give a description of your appearance at the nearest 
 police-station; and if you do not immediately quit this part of 
 the country, you will have rather more attention paid you than 
 you will find by any means agreeable. So now take yourself 
 off while you may." 
 
 As he spoke, he removed his foot from the scoundrel's breast, 
 and with difficulty restraining an impulse to bestow upon him a 
 parting kick, allowed him to rise and slink doggedly away. And 
 now the Eosebud, who, between alarm, and gratitude, and shy- 
 ness, and an embarrassing consciousness that their champion 
 was young and handsome, was altogether in a great state of 
 agitation and excitement, felt it incumbent upon her, as spokes- 
 w^oman, to express her sentiments as best she might. Accord- 
 ingly, with some hesitation and many blushes, w4iich unfor- 
 tunately the increasing darkness rendered invisible, she informed 
 the stranger how very much obliged to him they were : and 
 
ZO THE FORTUNES OP THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 impressed upon his mind the state of abject terror from which 
 he had relieved them, glancing slightly at the anxiety they felt 
 for the favourable termination of the combat, and their admira- 
 tion of, and gratitude for, his heroic conduct. 
 
 The stranger received her acknowledgments with a quiet 
 smile, partly pleased, partly amused by the young girl's eager- 
 ness ; then, in a few simple, courteous, well-chosen words, he 
 expressed the pleasure he had felt in having been able to render 
 them such a slight service ; adding, he should always consider 
 it a most fortunate occurrence that, owing to a fancy which had 
 seized him, to find his way from the railroad-station across the 
 fields, he had been enabled to arrive just at the most critical 
 moment. 
 
 The Rosebud listened to him attentively. One thing was 
 quite evident, be he whom he might, both his language and 
 manner proved him a gentleman. Mysterious and deeply inte- 
 resting ! Could it be Prince Albert, wandering about the 
 country in disguise, for some inexplicable purpose connected 
 with poHtical economy, or the Admirable Crichton, suddenly 
 " come alive," to seek for a wife in the nineteenth century? 
 
 The arrival of the " Phee-aton," which had been taken poorly, 
 and obliged to have its wheel oiled, — a process which, owing to 
 the inefficiency of the blacksmith who {/aide de mieux) had been 
 called in to attend the patient, had occupied a longer portion of 
 time than was by any means necessary, — interrupted Emily's 
 conjectures. 
 
 The mysterious stranger, as soon as he understood the connec- 
 tion between the vehicle and the damsels he had rescued, politely 
 handed them in ; and, refusing Caroline's timid offer of a seat, 
 again raised his hat, and the carriage driving on, w^as soon lost 
 to sight. 
 
 '* Oh, Emily, what a brave, handsome, courteous, interesting 
 creature I " exclaimed Caroline, enthusiastically ; " who can 
 he be ?" 
 
 " I can't conceive ; but we shall be sure to find out, for he is 
 walking in the direction of Ashburn," w^as the reply. ** He 
 certainly knocked that dreadful man down very cleverly, and 
 was extremely kind and good-natured to us ; but do you think 
 him 80 very handsome ?" 
 
 " Oh, there can't be a doubt about it I Those pale, interesting 
 features — that lofty brow — those splendid flashing eyes — the 
 dark clusters of his waving liairl" 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 21 
 
 ** Carry, you've fallen in love with the man at first sight, and 
 are a susceptible little goose ; he is by no means the Adonis you 
 make out ; and, remember, we know nothing about him ; he 
 may be a bagman for anything we can tell to the contrary," 
 rejoined Emily. 
 
 " No, I'm quite certain he is a gentleman, and most likely 
 something better still. He spoke just like Lord Adolphus Fitz- 
 toplofty, W'hen I danced with him at the race-ball, and he asked 
 me whether I'd seen the ' Prophete,' and if I didn't doat upon 
 that dear Mario (so lucky that he should fix upon the only opera 
 I'd ever heard, wasn't it ?), and yet you pretend to believe he's 
 a bagman ; but I know you only say so to plague me, you 
 naughty thing ;" and thus speaking, Caroline relieved her over- 
 wrought feelings by giving her friend a playful blow, which the 
 most fragile fly might have endured unshrinkingly. 
 
 " My dear child, I never hinted anything of the kind," 
 returned Emily ; " au contraire, I believe Lord Adolphus to be 
 a thoroughly well-authenticated young nobleman, and consider 
 him the most gentlemanly puppy I have ever met." 
 
 *' Tiresome girl ; you know I don't mean Lord Fitz. But 
 I'll stake my penetration on the stranger's gentility ; you only 
 abuse him because you admire him so much that you are 
 ashamed to own it, you mean, deceitful girl I " 
 
 " Silly child, how can you be so absurd I " said the Rosebud ; 
 but although it was so dark that, if she had blushed, her friend 
 could never have discovered it, she turned away her head as 
 she spoke. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SHUFFLING, DEALING, AND TURNING UP A KNAVE AND A 
 TRUMP. 
 
 *' Take this to Sir Thomas Crawley, and tell him I am 
 waiting," 
 
 The servant to whom the above direction was given, carried 
 the card to which it referred to his master, w^ho, lifting it from 
 the silver waiter on which it was presented, read the following 
 name — " The Rev. Ernest Carrington." 
 
 ** Show the gentleman into the library, and bring candles 
 fiicre directly," said Sir Thomas; then, thrusting his fingers 
 
22 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 tbrongh tlie short, stiff, grey bristles, suggestive of a venerable 
 and well-worn scrubbing-brush, which constituted his head of 
 hair — an action which, to any one acquainted with his habits, 
 would have proved that he was anxious and excited — he 
 turned, and left the apartment. 
 
 When he entered the library, his excitement seemed to have 
 increased and taken a crabbed turn, for it was in no very cor- 
 dial tone of voice that he addressed his visitor. 
 
 " If, as I presume, you have come here in consequence of 
 my letter, I must say you have chosen a somewhat late hour 
 for a business visit, young gentleman." 
 
 " I lost no time, sir, in making the necessary inquiries," was 
 the reply. " Immediately on receiving your letter I hastened 
 to London, saw your solicitor, perused my grandfather's will, 
 obtained the information I required, and came down by the 
 first train that stopped at the Flatville station ; and, as your 
 man of business informed me time was of importance, I would 
 not wait till to-morrow, lest the delay might cause you incon- 
 venience. If that is not sufficient apology for my untimely 
 visit, I have none other to offer." 
 
 The calm, respectful, but at the same time perfectly self- 
 possessed manner of the speaker, appeared to have the same 
 kind of effect upon his auditor that the keeper's eye has upon 
 some savage animal, for he replied, in a more civil tone than 
 he had yet used, — 
 
 " Yes, well — I see — yes. I am obliged to you for the 
 prompt attention you have paid to my letter." He paused, 
 then added, with affected indifference, — " About the entail ; 
 you find, of course, that the point raised was a wholly unneces- 
 sary one, and that your signature is a mere matter of form, to 
 satisfy the absurd scruples of the party negociating for the pur- 
 chase ; some people are so ridiculously cautious, ha I ha I " and 
 here he laughed a forced, uneasy laugh. 
 
 " Such was by no means the view the solicitor whom I con- 
 sulted in town appeared to take of the matter," was Ernest's 
 quiet reply. " So far from it, that he declared, without my 
 signature, the title was worthless ; and that, if I were inchned 
 to litigate the question, he had not a doubt that I should gain 
 my cause. The estates, he said, were clearly entailed ; and, 
 therefore, my grandfather could not alienate them without my 
 father's consent, which, I need scarcely tell you, he never 
 attempted to obtain." 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLYILLE FAMILY. 23 
 
 Sir Thomas Crawley's brow grew black as midnight. '"' Pre- 
 posterous," he said, " quite childish and preposterous. I have 
 taken counsel's opinion on the point, and they say you haven't 
 a leg to stand on. You must have consulted some very igno- 
 rant person." 
 
 " On the contrary, it is Mr. S., of street," replied 
 
 Ernest, naming a gentleman whose reputation for legal know- 
 ledge and acumen was undeniable ; *' but," he continued, ** it 
 matters little, for I have no intention of raising the question. 
 The animus of my grandfather's will is unmistakable ; he 
 meant to leave every acre away from my father ; and I should 
 scorn to hold the estate on no better tenure than the jugghng of 
 a legal quibble." 
 
 " Then you are prepared to sign the paper resigning all 
 claim upon the entailed estates, are you ? " inquired Sir 
 Thomas, eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, this very moment, if you choose," was the ready 
 answer. 
 
 Sir Thomas paused an instant in thought ere he replied. 
 
 " There is no such extreme hurry : Mr. Selby, my country 
 agent, w^ill be here to-morrow morning, and can witness your 
 signature. I am glad to find that you take such a sensible 
 view of the matter. I feared you might have formed some rash 
 hopes on the strength of my application ; in fact, I was most 
 unwilling to apply to you ; but — but — " 
 
 *' You found it impossible to make out a title which could 
 sell the estate without so doing," interposed Ernest in a tone of 
 quiet politeness, in which it would have required perceptions 
 quicker and more delicate than those of Sir Thomas Crawley to 
 ^ave distinguished the covert satire that lurked beneath it. 
 
 *' Exactly : one of those contemptible legal quibbles which 
 you so justly reprobate," returned Sir Thomas ; " however, I 
 am glad to perceive you feel with me so completely. You 
 will dine with me ? and I have a bed very much at your 
 service." 
 
 Ernest thanked him, but civilly declined. Sir Thomas 
 however, persisted — he would take no denial ; and at length a 
 compromise was effected, Ernest consenting to dine with his 
 rich relative, on condition that he might return to the inn 
 where he had left his valise, in time to write one or two letters 
 of importance to go by the early post the next morning. 
 
 The dinner passed off agreeably enough ; Ernest being one 
 
24 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 of those happily endowed individuals who, without falsifying 
 their own opinions, or seeming the thing they are not, yet 
 possess the talent of adapting their conversation to those with 
 whom they are thrown in company, in such a manner as to set 
 them at ease, and draw out the best points of their characters. 
 
 Sir Thomas experienced the full influence of this fascination, 
 and talked largely of his schemes for the amelioration of his 
 tenantry ; of plans for the revision and modification of the poor- 
 laws ; of the advisability of erecting model lodging-houses for 
 the industrial classes, &c., &c., until he had deceived his com- 
 panion, and almost persuaded himself into the belief that he was 
 an enlightened philanthropist, overflowing with the milk of 
 human kindness. 
 
 On his return to the inn at Ashburn, Ernest wrote the fol- 
 lowing letter to an old college friend, who was junior partner in 
 the office of the legal luminary to whom he had alluded in his 
 \nterview with Sir Thomas Crawley. 
 
 " My dear Milford, — Since I saw you two days ago, I 
 have got through a considerable amount of business, met with 
 an adventure, and, in short, condensed more active existence 
 into the last eight-and-forty hours than one often acpomplishes 
 in as many days. One thing I am delighted to tell you, — I 
 have succeeded in procuring employment, which will more 
 than provide for the few requirements without which one must 
 degrade from the rank of a gentleman. You can now, there- 
 fore, carry out the arrangement I explained to you, and settle 
 the small residue of my poor father's property upon my sisters ; 
 — my mother, as you are aware, having (I own, against my 
 wishes) married again. Thanks to those unnaturally amiable 
 railroad shares which my father bought just before his decease, 
 and which have turned out a really good investment (I look 
 upon any one who, having gambled in railroads, leaves off a 
 winner, as I should at a rat, who, nibbling at a baited trap, 
 carried off the cheese scatheless), they will thus be able to live 
 in comparative comfort, especially on the Continent, which 
 their tastes lead them to prefer. The employment I have 
 obtained is not exactly to my liking, but I shall look out for a 
 curacy if I find the duties of my position unbearably irksome. 
 Owing to my wrangler's degree I distanced some half-dozen 
 competitors, and obtained the post of classical and mathematical 
 master at Doctor Donkiestir's well-known school, almost as soon 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 25 
 
 as I had entered my name as candidate. I begin my ne\* 
 duties the day after to-morrow, at which time the school meets. 
 
 " Having been thus enabled to place my sisters beyond the 
 reach of poverty, my last scruple, in regard to that which you 
 are pleased to call my absurd Quixotism, about the entailed 
 estates, has vanished ; and I, this evening, signified in proprid 
 perso7id to Sir Thomas, my willingness to ' do a little bit oi 
 Esau,' as you irreverently term signing away my birthright — 
 and here, par parenthese, let me observe that you are too much 
 addicted to this style of scriptural jesting — a fault the more to 
 be reprehended because (as I find to my cost) it is decidedly 
 infectious : verbum sat ! The aforesaid ' Sir Thomas ' seems, 
 as far as one can judge on so short an acquaintance, by no 
 means so black as he is painted ; indeed, upon many of the great 
 social questions of the day, his ideas coincide wonderfully with 
 my own : he was polite in the extreme, though I must con- 
 fess his amlsLhility followed my declaration that I was willing to 
 meet his wishes in regard to the entail. 
 
 " This epistle has run to such an unexpected length, that I 
 have no room to detail my adventure, and will merely stimulate 
 your curiosity by adding that it was intensely romantic, and 
 that it contained the elements of the two things which, in the 
 old Trinity days, we esteemed the greatest pleasures in life — 
 viz., a fight and a flirtation. 
 
 " In consideration of my cloth, I indulged in the first spar- 
 ingly, and abstained from the last entirely ; though, as far as 
 the twilight enabled me to judge, the provocation was a very 
 fair one. I know the epithet this confession will obtain for me ; 
 but I had rather bear the ignominy of being considered a 
 * muff,' than merit the designation of a ' fast parson ; ' and so 
 fare thee well. 
 
 *' Yours ever, 
 
 " Ernest Carrington." 
 
 " P.S. — Remember, my sisters are not to know that I am 
 sacrificing anything to add to their income ; you are merely to 
 inform them that, my father's affairs being at length arranged, 
 they will for the future be in the receipt of six hundred and 
 fifty pounds per annum, instead of the four hundred which you 
 before paid to them ; and the delightful mist through which all 
 women regard business matters, will effectually prevent their 
 making any further discoveries." 
 
26 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 Having sealed his letter, Ernest betook himself to bed, and 
 fell asleep as contentedly ns if he had not sacrificed an estate 
 worth i210,000 to a chivalrous scruple, and a patrimony of 
 £200 a-year to brotherly affection. 
 
 Sir Thomas Crawley might consider him a weak-minded, 
 good-natured fool ; IVIilford designate him a " muff." But if 
 there were a few more such muffs and fools in this realm of 
 good King Mammon, that same kingdom might be better 
 worth. living in. 
 
 By ten o'clock the next morning he was again at Ashbiirn 
 Priory ; signed the deed relinquishing all claim upon the 
 entailed estates ; shook hands cordially with the rich man who 
 was thus scheming to defraud him ; and started with a light 
 heart, and still lighter purse, to carry his own carpet-bag seven 
 miles to the railroad. About a mile from the station, a pony- 
 chaise overtook him, driven by a stout serving-lad, and con- 
 taining two gentlemanly-looking boys, dressed in mourning, 
 and a ponderous trunk, carefully corded and directed. As this 
 vehicle approached, Ernest, who had walked fast, paused to 
 wipe his brow, at the same time resting his carpet-bag — which 
 he had carried on a stick over his shoulder — upon the top of. 
 the last milestone. 
 
 The elder of the two boys regarded him attentively ; then 
 whispered something to the younger, who nodded and smiled 
 in reply ; making a sign to the driver to stop, the elder boy, 
 addressing Ernest, began — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, but you seem tired : we are going 
 to the Flatville station, and have a vacant seat at yonr service,, 
 if you please to accept it." 
 
 *' I will with the greatest pleasure," returned Ernest, " if you 
 are sure we shall not overweight tiie pony." 
 
 " Oh, you needn't be afraid — you need not be in the least 
 afraid of that, sir," interposed the younger boy confidently. 
 " Samson can draw us ; Samson is as strong as " 
 
 " His Israelitish namesake, perhaps," suggested Ernest, 
 placing his carpet-bag on the top of the trunk, and springing 
 lightly into the pony-chaise. 
 
 " Well, / was going to say, as strong as the Elephant and 
 Castle," remarked the younger boy, with a look of profound 
 sagacity; " but, perhaps, the original Samson will do as well. 
 What do you say, Percy ? " 
 
 ** I say that you are an absurd little chatterbox, Hugh, and I 
 
THE rORTU^'ES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 27 
 
 have little doubt the gentleman thinks so too," returned his 
 brother, — for the reader need scarcely read the direction on the 
 trunk, albeit written in Percy's plainest hand, to inform liim that 
 the boys were the two young Colvilles, then leaving home for 
 the first time in their lives. 
 
 The parting had been a trying scene for all the persons con- 
 cerned; and poor Hugh had only just recovered from the hearty 
 cry, in which even his incipient manly dignity could not preserve 
 him from indulging, when they overtook Ernest. 
 
 '' A chatterbox, perhaps, but not an absurd one," was the 
 good-natured repl}^ " I feel particularly interested about the 
 pony, I can assure you ; have you had him long ? I daresay 
 he is a great favourite." 
 
 This speech, which was addressed to Hugh, was too much 
 for the poor Httle fellow's fortitude, and, after a vain struggle to 
 repress them, his scarcely dried tears sprang forth anew. 
 
 Percy threw his arm around him, and drew him affectionately 
 to his side, as he said, in an explanatory whisper, " He is going 
 to school for the first time, sir ; and before he comes back, the 
 pony we are so fond of must be sold." 
 
 " And you?" inquired Ernest, interested by the boy's manner 
 and appearance. 
 
 " I am older, and therefore better able to bear such little 
 trials," was the reply. " Besides," Percy continued, in a lower 
 tone, " my mother depends upon me to take care of him, and 
 keep up his spirits, for he has no father now to protect him." 
 
 Ernest glanced involuntarily at their deep mourning, and 
 there was a pause ; for the circumstance brought vividly before 
 his recollection a similar period of sorrow, when death had been 
 busy among his own loved ones, and his father and a younger 
 brother, of whom Percy strongly reminded him, had been called 
 from this world of care, and sin, and sorrow, to that better land, 
 " where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at 
 rest." The silence was at length broken by Hugh, whose grief 
 was a very April kind of affair, even at the worst of times. 
 
 *' I suppose you are not going to school, sir, too?" he said, 
 addressing Ernest, while a merry sparkle in his eye behed the 
 fiimplicity the question indicated. 
 
 " Perhaps I may be," returned Ernest, smiling at the appli- 
 cability of the question to his own situation. *' If I should tell 
 you that I were going to do so, would you believe me ?" 
 
 " I don't think I should," replied Hugh, regarding him atten- 
 
28 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 lively. " People don't usually go to echool when they've these 
 things on their faces ; " and, as he spoke, he, with a gesture 
 half coaxing, half arch, gave a gentle twitch to Ernest's curling 
 whiskers. 
 
 Percy, afraid Hugh's sudden rush into intimacy might annoy 
 the stranger, attempted to restrain him, but Ernest, with a good- 
 natured smile, prevented him. 
 
 ** Do not check him," he said ; " our friendship will not end 
 any sooner because it has begun rather rapidly." He then 
 entered into conversation with the boys, choosing subjects in 
 which he imagined they would feel interest, and enlarging upon 
 them so cleverly and amusingly, that ere they reached the station, 
 he had completely captivated the fresh, warm hearts of his young 
 companions. 
 
 " What will you say if I guess where you are going to ?" he 
 inquired of Hugh, as they drove up to the station. 
 
 "Why, if you guess right, I shall say you must be a con- 
 juror," was the reply. 
 
 " I think you are going to Doctor Donkiestir's school, at 
 Tickletown. ^ Am I right?" 
 
 " Quite, quite right," exclaimed Hugh, clapping his hands in 
 dehghted surprise ; " but you 7nust be a conjuror ; how did you 
 contrive to find it out?" 
 
 Ernest enjoyed the mystification for a minute or so ; then, 
 casting his eyes on the box, observed quietly, " I was taught to 
 read when I was a good little boy ; and your brother has written 
 that direction so plainly, that I must have been blind if I had 
 not been able to decipher it." 
 
 " Oh, you cheat! anybody could have done that," returned 
 Hugh, contemptuously; " and I to think you a conjuror I Why, 
 I expected to see you take twenty eggs out of an empty bag, 
 and make a boiled plum-pudding in your hat, like the man we 
 saw perform last year. I say, Percy, it strikes me I've been 
 making a goose of myself." 
 
 " Very decidedly," was Percy's quiet reply. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 29 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A FAST SPECIMEN OF " YOUNG ENGLAND. 
 
 The railroad station at Flatville was a large and central one, 
 two or three branches converging at that point and joining the 
 main line. A train from London was due before that by which 
 the Colvilles were to proceed would start. Almost at the moment 
 our little party arrived it made its appearance, the engine snort- 
 ing and puffing, as though it were about to burst with spite at 
 having been forced to draw so heavy a train at the rate of fifty 
 miles an hour. 
 
 " This is the train by which our cousin, AYilfred Goldsmith, 
 was to arrive ; but it is so long since I last saw him, that I 
 scarcely expect to recognise him," observed Percy. 
 
 " Oh I I hope we shall not miss him, for he will take care 
 that they don't put us into a wrong carriage, and carry us off to 
 some desolate island, where we shall never be heard of any more 
 till we have been eaten by the savages like Captain Cook; and 
 then you know it will be too late," suggested Hugh. 
 
 " I will ensure you against that catastrophe," observed 
 Ernest, " even if your cousin should not make his appearance ; 
 for I am going as far as Tickletown, and we will travel in the 
 same carriage ; see, they are bringing them up now — follow me." 
 
 So saying, and having committed the important trunk to the 
 care of an amiable and intelligent porter, Ernest selected a 
 carriage, and the trio took their seats. Just before the train 
 was about to start, an individual bustled up, followed by a 
 porter carrying a writing-desk and a railway-rug glowing with 
 all the colours of the rainbow. The moment the door was 
 opened, he sprang in with such energy as nearly to overturn 
 poor Hugh. 
 
 " Beg your pardon, little boy, but 'pon my word I didn't see 
 you — you ought to grow a couple of sizes larger to travel safe 
 by rail ; it was nearly a case of infanticide — a spoilt child, as 
 somebody calls it. That'll do. Velveteens" (this was addressed 
 to the porter) ; " gently with that writing-desk, if you please ; 
 there's all my personal jewellery, and several £500 notes in it. 
 That's the time of day I Sorry the directors set their faces 
 against tipping ; but the first occasion on which we meet in 
 
30 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 private lif(3, half-a-cro\vn awaits you ; till then, Velveteens, aa 
 the Archbishop says in the play, ' Accept my blessing.' " 
 
 The speaker was either a very small man, or a large boy 
 dressed in adult clothing — at first sight it was not easy to 
 determine which — till closer observation detected, in the breaking 
 voice, now hoarse, now shrill, the youthful complexion, and 
 straggling, unformed figure, sufficient evidence that the latter 
 hypothesis was the correct one. His outer boy was encased in 
 a rough, very loose pea-jacket, with preternatural buttons, a 
 pair of the very " loudest " checked trousers, rea? Wellington 
 boots, with heels not above three inches high, a shawl round 
 his neck, in regard to which Emily's perfidious shopman might 
 have been beheved, had he declared the colours to be indis- 
 putably fazt; while a velvet travelling-otop, with a bullion 
 tassel, completed his costume. Having w^rapped his rug round 
 his lower limbs, and gone through a most elaborate pantomime 
 of making himself comfortable, he condescended to favour his 
 companions with a glance of patronising scrutiny; apparently 
 satisfying himself, by this means, that they were sufficiently 
 respectable to be honoured by his conversation, he turned to 
 Ernest, saying, — 
 
 '* Fine open weather this, sir — ^jolly for the hunting — none 
 of your confounded frosts to-day — regular break up yesterday 
 evening, and been thawing like bricks ever since — fond of 
 hunting, sir ? " 
 
 *' I consider it a fine, manly sport, but too dangerous for little 
 boys to be allowed to indulge in," returned Ernest, drily. 
 
 Either not detecting, or more probably purposely ignoring, 
 the covert satire of his speech, the fast young gentleman 
 appeared to agree in th# sentiment. 
 
 " Yes, that's true enough," he said; "' for instance, I wouldn't 
 advise this small shaver " (indicating with a motion of the 
 eyelid Hugh, who sat watching him with breathless astonish- 
 ment) "to trust himself across country outside a horse; but 
 when one has come to — ahem! years of discretion, and learned 
 how to take care of oneself, — the purpose for which divines tell 
 us we are sent into the w-orld, — why the more hunting one 
 gets the jolher, I Bay." 
 
 " Have you ever been out hunting yourself, may I ask ? " 
 inquired Ernest, fixing his penetrating glance full on the boy's 
 countenance ; who, despite his fastness, was not, wdien asked a 
 straightforward question, prepared to tell an actual He, though 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 31 
 
 to adhere to the exact truth woukl have made his previous 
 remarks appear singuLarly inconsistent and uncalled for ; 
 accordingly he answered — 
 
 " Ar — well — yes — oh I of course I've been out hunting — ar 
 — not exactly on horseback, perhaps, but it's just the same thing, 
 you know ; — what a shocking slow train this is, to be sure I — 
 — they hardly do tlieir five-and-thirty miles an hour ; I shall 
 certainly write to the Times about it, if they don't mind \\ hat 
 they're at." 
 
 During this speech Hugh's sharp eyes had deciphered the 
 direction on the important writing-desk, containing the 
 jewellery and the incalculable number of £500 notes, and he 
 promulgated the result of his discovery thus : — 
 
 " ' Wilfred J. Goldsmith, Esquire :' what 1 are you our cousin 
 Wilfred ? why I took you for a gentleman I " 
 
 " Oh, Hugh I " exclaimed Percy, scandalised at his brother's 
 rudeness. 
 
 ''No, I don't mean that," continued Hugh quickly, while 
 Ernest turned away his head to hide an irrepressible smile ; " I 
 mean, I took you for a grown up gentleman, and not a boy 
 like Percy, you know." 
 
 This involuntary tribute to the man-about-town-like adultness 
 of his manners and appearance dehghted Wilfred Jacob more 
 than the most elaborate compliment courtier could have devised ; 
 at length he had found some one to believe in him, and to take 
 him at his own valuation, and he adopted and steadily patronised 
 E[ugh from that time forth. He was much too wide awake, 
 however, to allow this to appear ; replying in the c^-hand 
 manner which he affected — 
 
 " Eather an equivocal compliment that, young 'un ; but I 
 expect it w^as better meant than expressed ; so I'll take the will 
 for the deed, as the lawyer's clerk did after he'd mixed the 
 ' dog's-nose ' rather too stiff at his early dinner. * Always give 
 credit for good intentions,' is a copy old Splitnib (so called from 
 an analogy between his professional avocations, and the fact of 
 his having, in by-gone hours, fallen over a form, and divided the 
 bridge of his own proboscis) will set you writing before yoa 
 are many days older ; and in me you behold a living embodi- 
 ment of the precept." 
 
 " How was it we did not see you at the station. Cousin 
 Wilfred ?" inquired Percy; '' we waited as long as we dared, 
 till we thought we should lose the train looking for you." 
 
32 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 *•' Why, you see, my dear boy," began Wilfred, stretching 
 out a boot beyond the rainbow-coloured wrapper, for the purpose 
 of tapping it admiringly with a dandyfied little cane, "leaving 
 the modern Babylon by the seven o'clock a.m., I necessarily 
 breakfasted early ; and as, according to Cocker, the interval 
 between six a.m. and one p.m. embraces seven hours, I ex- 
 perienced, en my arrival at the Flatville station, the very un- 
 comfortable sensation of nature abhorring a vacuum in my 
 breadbasket ; and, as even Curtius himself could scarcely have 
 contrived to fill up a similar gulf by jumping down his own 
 throat, I walked first into the refreshment-room, and then into 
 a basin of mock-turtle soup. A deucedly pretty gal it w^as 
 who handed it to me, too ; uncommon attentive she was, to be 
 sure : in fact, entre nous,'' he continued, leaning confidently 
 towards Ernest, " it strikes me she wasn't altogether insensible 
 to the personal attractions of * yours truly ' — do you twig ? " 
 
 Ernest smiled as he replied, *' Of course she charged for her 
 admiration as well as for your luncheon." 
 
 '* Real turtle as well as mock, eh ? I hope you don't mean 
 any insinuation about a calf's head too I But, now you mention 
 it, I do think seven -and-sixpence was rather high for a basin of 
 soup. Ah ! the women, they make sad fools of us youth ; but 
 as the old lady piously remarked, when her pet dog died of 
 repletion, ' Such is life, which is the end of all things :' — 
 heigh-ho I" 
 
 Having relieved his feelings by venting a deep sigh, Master 
 (he would have annihilated us for so calling him) Wilfred Jacob, 
 who appeared gifted with an interminable flow of conversation, 
 and an insatiable delight in listening to his own voice, again 
 addressed his companions, exclaiming — 
 
 ** I tell you what it is, gentlemen : the cares of existence, and 
 the heartlessness of that deluding mock-turtle soup gal, are 
 weighing upon my spirits to such a degree, that nothing short 
 of a mild cigar can bring me round again : that is, always 
 supposing you, none of you, entertain a rooted aversion (you 
 perceive the pun ?) to the leaves of the Indian herb." 
 
 '* I presume you are aware that smoking in a first-class 
 carriage is against the rules of the railway company," suggested 
 Ernest. 
 
 " I know that some such prejudice exists in their feeble 
 minds," was the rejoinder; "but they are not obliged to learn any- 
 thing about it, are they? 'Where ignorance is bliss,' you know.*' 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 33 
 
 ** The first porter who opens the door is certain to perceive 
 the smell ; and of course, if he inquires whence it proceeds, I 
 shall not attempt to disguise the truth," returned Ernest. 
 
 " Never fear," was the reply ; " even if such an alarming 
 contingency were to accrue, I know a safe dodge to throw him 
 ofi" the scent." 
 
 " If I possessed any authority over you, I should strongly 
 remonstrate against your violating such a wise and useful 
 regulation," observed Ernest, gravely. 
 
 " That fearful moral responsibility not resting upon your 
 conscience — for which, as a philanthropist, I feel humbly 
 thankful — I shall, with your leave, waste no more precious time, 
 but go ahead at once." So saying the young pickle drew from 
 his pocket a small neatly finished leather case, well filled with 
 cigars ; having politely offered it in turn to each of his com- 
 panions, who were unanimous in their refusal, he selected a 
 cigar, lighted it by means of a piece of German tinder, and, 
 placing it in his mouth, began puffing away with equal zest and 
 science. 
 
 Having set it going to his satisfaction, he removed it for a 
 moment, and, emitting a graceful wreath of smoke, resumed — 
 ** Capital good cigars these — came from Fribourg and Pontet's 
 — I never smoke any others — better change your mind and 
 take one, Mr. , 'pon my word your name has escaped me." 
 
 " Are you quite certain you ever knew it ? " inquired Ernest, 
 whilst a smile of quiet intelligence curled his handsome mouth. 
 
 In no degree disconcerted. Master Wilfred took another long 
 pull at his cigar ere he replied, " Not to be done, eh, sir ? 
 Well, I respect a man all the more for being unpumpable ; 
 dodginess, in all its branches, is the virtue I most venerate." 
 
 *' And what is dodginess, please, Cousin Wilfred ? " inquired 
 Hugh, upon whose youthful intelligence slang was, for the first 
 time, dawning with all its fascinating eloquence. 
 
 " Dodginess, my verdant young relative, is a j>8ychological 
 attribute compounded of equal portions of presence of mind 
 and fertility of resource, which enables every * cove' (cove is a 
 generic appellation for indiscriminate male humanity) thus hap- 
 pily endowed, to rise superior to all the minor obstacles of 
 existence ; as, for example, when I, trying to pump the gentle- 
 man opposite in regard to his patronymic, was by him foiled in 
 my attempt, and convicted of the logical absurdity of having 
 declared myself to have forgotten that which I had never 
 
 D 
 
3-1 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 known ; or, again, — when, this morning, my governor, your 
 venerable uncle, who, benighted innocent that he is, hopes to 
 coerce me into giving up smoking, took from me my cigar- 
 case, but allowed me to regain it by picking his pocket thereof, 
 Avhile squabbling with the cabman for an extra sixpence ; — 
 mind you recollect all this ; for, in these days, slang is completely 
 the language of fashionable hfe. Were I that epitome of slow- 
 ness, ' the father of a family,' I should have the young idea 
 taught to clothe itself in slang from the cradle upwards. And 
 now, as I've a notion the train is approaching a station, and my 
 cigar has arrived at its terminus, you shall witness a specimen 
 of dodginess with your own eyes ; — be silent, and observe me 
 attentively — ahem ! " 
 
 He then flung the end of his cigar out of window, and, 
 assuming an air of great consequence, waited till the train 
 stopped ; the moment he did so, he summoned a porter. 
 
 "Porter, open the door!" The man obeyed. "Put your 
 head in and tell me what this carriage smells of." 
 
 The porter, looking surprised at the request, complied — " It 
 smells tobaccer-efied like to me," he observed, after a minute's 
 investigation. 
 
 " Tobaccer-efied, indeed ! " repeated Wilfred Jacob, in a 
 tone of the deepest indignation ; *' some brute has been smoking 
 in this carriage, I'm certain of it ! a first-class carriage, too. I 
 tell you 'what, porter, when gentlemen pay for the comfort and 
 convenience of a first-class carriage, they expect to enjoy what 
 they pay for, and not to be poisoned alive wdth the odour of 
 tobacco." 
 
 " Smoking ain't never allow^ed in the fust class, sir," pleaded 
 the embarrassed porter. 
 
 " It may not be allowed, but it lias heen done,'' w^^s the cap- 
 tious reply : " I'll take my oath some one has been smoking in 
 this carriage; I'm as certain of it as if I'd seen them myself; 
 my nose never deceives me ; — what's your name ? " 
 
 " My name be Johnson ; but I'll call the station-master to 
 speak to you, sir." 
 
 " By no means ; it's no fault of his," replied Wilfred, hastily, 
 feeling anything but desirous that a more enlightened intellect 
 should be brought to bear upon the question : " no, I shall 
 write to the directors, to complain, and call you to witness that 
 I mentioned the fact at the first station we stopped at. It's 
 absurd to pretend to make rules, and then suflPer them to be 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 3o 
 
 broken in this way. Shut the door. I shall remember your 
 name — Johnson I " and as he uttered the last word, the train 
 started. 
 
 His companions exchanged glances : Percy's expressed dis- 
 approval ; Hugh's, mingled surprise and delight ; while Ernest 
 was so much amused at the boy's ready wit and cool impudence, 
 that, for the life of him, he could not reprove him for the 
 deception. 
 
 When the recollection of this little incident had, in some 
 degree, worn off, Percy asked his cousin how he liked Doctor 
 Donkiestir's school ; and begged him to tell them a little about 
 the manners and customs of the place to which they were 
 going. 
 
 " Put you up to a thing or two, eh ? Give you some small 
 insight into the time of day ? Well, I suppose, as it's all in 
 the family, and you're Tickletonians yourselves, or about to 
 become so, it's no breach of confidence. You won't split, sir ? " 
 he continued, appealingly, to Ernest. " Honour amongst 
 thieves, eh ? " 
 
 " You may trust me," was the concise reply. 
 
 " First promise me, upon your honour, that you will not tell 
 any of the masters, then," stipulated Wilfred. 
 
 " Upon my honour I will not tell any of them," was the 
 slightly Jesuitical reply ; " nor will I make an unfair use of any 
 information you may please to communicate to my young 
 friend." 
 
 " That's all right, then. You look like a brick (I'm a bit of a 
 physiognomist, you see), so I'll trust you. In the first place, 
 masters : there's the Doctor, alias old Donkey, alias (his name 
 is John) Jackass, with sundry other derivatives, more caustic 
 than complimentary. Well, he's not altogether a bad sort of 
 fellow, only he makes a fuss about trifles, and is especially 
 jealous if he fancies that any one appears Hkely to interfere with 
 what he calls his prerogative ; in fact, he would be a stunner if 
 his temper did not stand in his way : but, on the whole the 
 boys like him, and so look over his little faihngs. Then, there's 
 a sort of second master, ' Mat. and Clat.' we call him, which is 
 short for mathematical and classical; but we are changing 
 horses in that quarter, so, till we have tried the new animal 
 (pretty well tried he will be, too, before we've done with him, 
 I expect), it's impossible to say how he may suit us ; only, if he 
 ain't a tolerably wide-awake cove, I pity him ; for, between 
 
36 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 master and boys, he'll have a evveet time of it, poor devil! 
 Then there are two ushers — Hexameter and Pentameter (fami- 
 liarly Hex. and Pen.) so termed because one is six feet high 
 and the other scarcely above five : they are not gentlemen, 
 therefore they don't act as sich, so of course we * chouse ' and 
 bully them as much as we dare. Then there's old Splitnib, a 
 coach of the most unmitigated slowness, but who writes a 
 wonderful hand ; and, finally and lastly, Monsieur Beaugentil, 
 the French master, who is more involuntarily comic than all 
 the rest of his frog-devouring nation put together. These 
 worthies rule, and are ruled by, a floating capital of some tw^o 
 hundred boys, more or less, of whom the eldest may be about 
 seventeen or eighteen, and the youngest on a par wdth this 
 juvenile shaver here." 
 
 " And do you work very hard ? " inquired Percy. 
 
 *' Not we," was the reply. *' Of course, for decency's sake, 
 we do something. It don't pay for a fellow to be quite an 
 ignoramus in these days, unless he happens to have been born 
 a lord, or experienced some such jolly dispensation at starting ; 
 but as for hard work, — no, thank ye. What's the use of having 
 a fag, if you can't get your exercises done for you, I should 
 like to know ? " 
 
 '' What's a fag ?" inquired Hugh. 
 
 The first effect of this apparently simple question was to 
 throw the person to whom it was addressed into a state of the 
 most violent laughter. As soon as he could recover breath, he 
 gasped out, '* Oh, lor ! it's very fatiguing ; you'll be the death 
 of me with your blessed innocence, that you will." 
 
 After a less severe relapse, he continued, " You\[ soon know 
 what fagging means, you poor, unfortunate, green little w^armint ; 
 though I think I shall honour you by taking you myself. I've a 
 right to a fag now I'm in the fifth form ; and the chap I had 
 last half has left. You seem a jolly, good-tempered little 
 beggar, and I shouldn't like to see you made miserable." 
 
 '* He shall never be ill-used while I am alive," exclaimed 
 Percy, with flashing eyes. 
 
 " That's a very proper and plucky sentiment on your part, 
 my dear boy,'* returned Wilfred ; " but it's a precious deal 
 easier to talk about than to act upon. You can't thrash a whole 
 school, especially when some of them are almost men grown. 
 Such chaps as Biggington or Thwackings, who can polish off a 
 coalheaver in sporting style, for instance ; your namesake Hot- 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 37 
 
 spur himself would have found such fellows as them tough 
 customers. All you can do with them is to keep 'em in good 
 humour while you can, and get out of their way when you can't." 
 
 "But all this time you have not told me what a fag is," 
 interrupted Hugh. 
 
 " Well, a fag is a small boy, taken possession of by a larger 
 boy, according to an old established precedent, against which 
 the masters set their faces in vain. The small boy thus enslaved 
 is termed a fag, and his duties are to do everything the larger 
 boy finds it impossible or disagreeable to do himself. If the 
 small boy performs these duties zealously and good-humouredly, 
 he is only kicked and driven about like a dog, and survives to 
 become a fifth, and ew;entually a sixth form boy, and takes his 
 change out of fags of his own. If he sulks, or neglects orders, 
 he is either half or three-quarters* murdered, according to the 
 hands he falls into, and is usually taken away from the school, 
 or otherwise expended, before he reaches hobble-de-hoy's estate. 
 And now, have I made that clear to your juvenile capacity ?— 
 Yes ? — Then mind you profit by it, or I shall have to show you 
 practically how Tickletonians tickle," and as he spoke, he 
 pointed suggestively to his cane, though a good-natured twinkle 
 in his eye contradicted the threat. 
 
 Having thus broken ground, he favoured the company with 
 a series of dissolving views, illustrating various episodes of 
 Tickletonian life, wherein were vividly portrayed scrapes got 
 into and out of with much ability, and more impudence, by 
 certain scholastic heroes, past and present; but the gist of each 
 anecdote lying in the discomfiture or mystification of one or 
 more of the masters, it is scarcely to be supposed, giving 
 Wilfred Jacob credit for the most open disposition imaginable, 
 that he would have been quite so communicative, had he divined 
 the capacity in which Ernest Carrington was then journeying 
 to Tickletown. 
 
 When they reached the station at which they were to alight, 
 an omnibus, provided by Doctor Donkiestir, was in waiting to 
 convey any of his scholars who might arrive by that train. 
 Ernest, who was not to present himself till the following 
 morning, and had availed himself of the opportunity to accept 
 the invitation of an old college friend, from whom he had 
 originally heard of the vacancy, here took leave of his young 
 companions, saying, as he did so— 
 
 *' Good-bye. As I should not much wonder if we were to 
 
3S THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 meet again sooner than you at all expect, I wish you to 
 remember, that if at any time you require advice or assistance, 
 you will find a friend in Ernest Carrington." 
 
 He then touched Wilfred's arm, and drawing him aside, 
 observed, — " I have allowed you to run on in a way which I 
 am sure yon would have endeavoured to avoid had you known 
 who I was. I did so, not from any mean wish to entrap you 
 into confessions of which I might afterwards make use to your 
 disadvantage, -but simply in order to gain some insight into 
 your true character ; and now I will make a compact with you : 
 as long as you behave kindly towards your two cousins, who 
 interest me exceedingly, and befriend them as your superior 
 knowledge of the world " (the slightly ironical emphasis with 
 which he pronounced the last few w^ords was not lost upon his 
 auditor, who, for once in his life, felt conscious that he had made 
 himself ridiculous), " and especially of the little world comprised 
 in a boys' school, will enable you to do, I shall forget anything 
 peculiar I may have heard this morning. I will only add, that 
 I have misjudged your character if you consider the condition 
 I have proposed a hard one." 
 
 " Before I attempt to make a suitable reply to your mysterious 
 and startling communication, allow me, sir, to inquire, in the 
 most respectful manner possible, first, luho you are? secondly, 
 what you are ?" returned Wilfred Jacob, in a quieter tone than 
 he had yet made use of. 
 
 " The Rev. Ernest Carrington, classical and mathematical 
 master (or, familiarly, Clat. and Mat.) in Dr. Donkiestir's school 
 at Tickletown, at your service," was the reply. 
 
 The first effect of this announcement was to elicit from the 
 "fast young gentleman" a prolonged and expressive whistle; 
 next came an aside, " Well, if I haven't gone and put my foot 
 into it deepish rather, it's a pity." Then, turning to Ernest, he 
 asked, abruptly, — 
 
 " 'Pon your honour as a gentleman, Mr. Carrington, if I 
 stick to the young Colvilles like a trump, you won't peach?" 
 
 " Upon my honour," w^as the frank reply. 
 " It's a bargain, then," rejoined Wilfred. " And now, sir, 
 beibre we sink the amenities of social life in the less jovial rela- 
 tionship of master and pupil, allow me the honour of shaking 
 hands with you, while at the same time you must permit me to 
 express my opinion, that your conduct has been brickish in the 
 extreme." 
 
 I 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 39 
 
 With a smile called forth by the peculiar school-boy phraseo- 
 logy, and strange admixture of good feeling and never-failing 
 impudence, of his new ally, Ernest shook hands with him good- 
 naturedly, and turned to depart ; but Wilfred Jacob detained 
 him. 
 
 ''One shght additional favour would oblige," he said. "A 
 discreet silence in regard to the cigar episode would be a desir- 
 able addenda to our compact. Our friend Donkiestir has pre- 
 judices — verhum sat — a nod is as good as a wink. Farewell ; 
 * we meet again at Philippi.' " 
 
 So saying, he bowed low, removing a very shining new hat, 
 wherewith he had replaced the gorgeous travelling cap, and 
 hurried after his cousins, who were by this time seated in, and 
 sole tenants of, the omnibus, where they presented, so to speak, 
 a very forlorn and cast-away appearance. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CONSPIRACY. 
 
 "Oh, Percy, have you heard the news?" inquired Hugh, 
 eagerly, some five weeks after his arrival at Tickletown ; and as 
 he' spoke, he began dancing and clinging round his brother in a 
 state of the greatest excitement. 
 
 " What news, Hugh ?" returned Percy, who, seated at his 
 desk, was writing with the greatest assiduity. 
 
 '* Oh, then you haven't heard," resumed Hugh. " Well, you 
 know that a company of actors are performing at the Tickletown 
 Theatre, and that all the boys are mad to go and see them ; and 
 no wonder, either, for, from what Wilfred and others, who have 
 seen one in London, say, a play must be the most wonderful, 
 glorious, jolliest, brickish-est thing going." Hugh was making 
 surprising advances in slang, under his cousin Wilfred's able 
 tuition ; his progress in dear Dr. Valpy's Latin Delectus was by 
 no means equally rapid. 
 
 " I know what you have told me ; but I know, also, that the 
 Doctor has expressly forbidden any of the boys, even of the sixth 
 form, to go to the theatre, on pain of expulsion. His reason — 
 and it seems to me a good one — being, that he cannot exercise 
 any surveillance (that means care, or watchfulness) over them, 
 
40 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 if they are allowed to be out late at night," returned Percy, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Yes ; but you don't know that the manager has written to 
 the Doctor to say that he will give a morning performance, and 
 select only pieces of which the Doctor shall approve, if he will 
 allow the boys to go ; and the dear, good, jolly old Doctor has 
 said * yes,' and granted a half holiday next Thursday for the 
 purpose ; and I'll never call him old Donkey any more, if 
 Biggington kills me for refusing. Bat Percy, dear Percy, do 
 you think there is any chance that we could go?" 
 
 Now, although at first sight this question would appear a very 
 simple one, it was by no means so easy to answer as might be 
 imagined. In the first place, Percy had a vague and indistinct 
 notion that his mother disapproved of theatrical entertainments ; 
 certainly, as far as his own personal feelings were concerned, 
 the recent loss he had sustained, with all its painful conse- 
 quences, rendered him indisposed to enjo}'- any such amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 Then, again, on the score of expense : their pocket-money 
 was very hmited, Hugh being allowed sixpence, Percy a shilling 
 a week, — a sum which was barely sufficient to supply slate- 
 pencils, ink, peg-tops, clasp-knives, " toffy," and all the other 
 innumerable and incomprehensible sine qua nons of a public 
 school-boy's existence. 
 
 Although he had suffered both obloquy and inconvenience on 
 account of the paucity of his funds, Percy had resolved that, 
 during their first quarter, nothing should induce him to apply 
 to their mother for more ; and, when Percy had resolved upon 
 a thing, because he considered it a matter of principle, Hugh 
 was aware that Gibraltar itself was not more immovable. 
 
 It was, therefore, with rather a blank expression of counte- 
 nance that he replied to his brother's inquiry of w4iat it would 
 cost, — 
 
 " The admission is to be half-a-crown each." 
 
 " Then we cannot go," returned Percy ; " for I have not been 
 able to save anv of my allowance, neither do I imagine hare 
 
 you." 
 
 One reason why Percy found a difficulty in saving was, that 
 Hugh was for ever losing things which must be replaced, or 
 breaking things which required mending, or earnestly desirous 
 of something or other which Percy could not bear to see him 
 wishing for in vain; — for be it known, that unless P.mic matter 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 41 
 
 of deep feeling, or right principle, were concerned, bis elder 
 brother spoiled Hugh as thoroughly and unconsciously as any- 
 body. Thus, in point of fact, Master Hugh spent, in addition 
 to his own sixpence, some ninepence out of every shilling of 
 Percy's. 
 
 But Hugh's selfishness was a fault of which he was himself 
 perfectly unaware. Not being of what minor treatises on Chris- 
 tian ethics consider it the thing to term " an introspective habit 
 of mind," and knowing that if Percy required such a sacrifice, 
 he would willingly allow his right hand — the hand with which 
 he played marbles — to be cut off in his service ; he was so 
 accustomed to consider that, because he was the youngest, 
 everything was to be given up to him, that he forgot the injus- 
 tice of such an arrangement. 
 
 " Not a halfpenny," was Hugh's reply ; " that cake woman 
 cleaned me out yesterday I What a goose I am to be so fond of 
 cakes I but I like to have enough to give some to the other 
 fellows too, and all we little chaps have a weakness for cakes ; — 
 but have i/ou got no money ?" 
 
 Percy shook his head. " Breaking windows, and losing other 
 boys' balls, are expensive amusements, Hugh," he said. '* Re- 
 member, I have got you out of several scrapes of that kind since 
 we have been here. Of course, I was glad enough to do so ; 
 but I only mention it to account for my being nearly as poor as 
 yourself. A shilling a week is soon exhausted." 
 
 Hugh paused in deep perplexity ; at last he said slowly, and 
 in a hesitating voice, " Mamma would send us the money, I 
 think, if you would not mind writing to tell her that you had no 
 objection, and that I wish to go so very, veri/ much." 
 
 " But I should mind writing for such a purpose," returned 
 Percy ; " and I will explain to you why : since dear papa's 
 death, mamma has been very poor, and she is likely to be poorer 
 still, I am afraid, for she writes me word that Sir Thomas 
 Crawley still persists in his demand, and Mr. Wakefield is afraid 
 she will have to pay it whenever anew clergyman is appointed." 
 
 " How wicked ! how cruel of Sir Thomas ! " interrupted 
 Hugh, vehemently ; " and he is as rich as an old Jew, too ; — I 
 hate him !" 
 
 ** Gently, Hugh, you must not speak in that way ; every 
 man has a right to obtain anything the law of the land will 
 award him. But now I have told you this, I am sure you 
 would not wish me to write and ask mamma to send us money to 
 
42 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 be spent in annasement, whicli she must deny herself and Emily 
 the actual necessaries of life in order to procure." Percy waited 
 for an answer with some anxiety, but, in a matter of feeling, Hugh 
 would never have been hkely to occasion him disappointment. 
 
 " Do not write, for the world, Percy," he said ; " I would 
 rather never see a play in my life than grieve dearest mamma. 
 Oh, Percy I I wish I were a man, then I'd work hard, and 
 keep her and Emily, and give them pleasures and luxuries, and 
 make them quite happy ; and as for that wicked Sir Thomas, 
 I'd punch his head for him, as Wilfred says." 
 
 So saying, Hugh returned the caress his dehghted brother 
 bestowed on him, and walked off manfully. But his courage 
 only lasted till he had made his way into an old hayloft over a 
 largo rambling stable, capable of holding twenty horses, but 
 now devoted to the use of the doctor's fat pony, and a cow and 
 a calf, also the property of that dignitary. Having reached his 
 hiding-place, his fortitude gave way, and he bewailed his dis- 
 appointment with a hearty cry ; for he was but a child after all, 
 poor little fellow I and a spoiled one as well, and to such, how- 
 ever differently far-advanced Christians may appreciate the 
 quality, self-denial appears a very harsh and uncomfortable 
 virtue. 
 
 On the morning of the important day, a fresh trial awaited 
 him ; Wilfred Jacob, who had thoroughly falfilled his promise 
 to Ernest Carrington, by saving Hugh from ill-usage, and 
 Percy from many of the annoyances to which his proud, sensi- 
 tive nature rendered him peculiarly susceptible, as soon as 
 breakfast was concluded, shouted vociferously for his fag — 
 
 * Hugh, Hugh Colville I where has the young warment 
 hidden himself? Oh, there you are; come here, you imp of 
 darkness, I shall have to give you that thrashing I've owed you 
 60 long, I know I shall, and when it does come, old Bogie have 
 mercy on your precious bones ! for I shall have none. Now, 
 listen to me ; the moment morning school is up, cut away like 
 a flash of greased lightning, and turn out my things to dress. 
 Let me see — I shall wear — hold up your head, sir, and look 
 attentive I — I shall wear — ahem ! — my white d'Orsay overcoat ; 
 the light-blue coatee with fancy silk buttons ; the pink satin 
 under - waistcoat ; the green embroidered vest with coral 
 buttons ; the blue necktie with crimson ends ; the MacFerntosh 
 plaid trousers, those with the green ground and broad red, and 
 blue, and white checks over it ; and the polished boots — do you 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 4-^ 
 
 twig ? Now, then, repeat it all, that I may be sure you'v(» 
 taken it in correct." 
 
 " D'Orsay wrap ; blue coatee ; pink under, green and coral 
 over-vests ; blue and crimson choker ; MacPerntosh sit-upons ; 
 and japanned trotter-cases," returned Hugh, gabbling over the 
 different items with the velocity at which tradition has decreed 
 it proper to inform society that '" Peter Piper picked a peck of 
 pepper." 
 
 " Bravo, young'un, you improve apace ; but you took to 
 slang uncommon kindly from the first, I will say that for you. 
 Well, when you've looked out the toggery, and — ahem ! 
 brought me my shaving w^ater ;— I've felt, for some time past, a 
 tickling sensation at the sides of my face, which, I am sure, 
 indicates the approach of whiskers. Ar — I should be rather a 
 good-looking fellow if I had but got whiskers, I flatter myself ; 
 wouldn't I wear 'em bushy, that's all. As soon as you've done 
 all I've told you, jump into your own juvenile habiliments, and 
 be ready to go with me at a moment's notice." 
 
 *' But — but you know, Wilfred, I'm not to go," faltered poor 
 Hugh. 
 
 " Not to go, why not ? Who says so ? What I has Percy cut 
 up rough, with his sanctified. Puritanical, Puseyitical, Pontifi- 
 cal, Hieroglyphical notions; oh I leave him to me, I'll soon 
 talk him round; — I've the highest possible veneration for 
 morality and piety, and all that sort of thing, particularly on 
 Sundays ; but to fancy they've got anything to do with going 
 to the play, is an association of ideas little short of downright 
 sacrilege, to my notion." 
 
 " No, it is not that," returned Hugh ; " Percy would have let 
 let me go, only " 
 
 "Only what?" inquired AYilfred, " come, make haste, I've 
 got thirty lines of Terence to knock off before I go up to 
 Carrington." 
 
 " Only we've both spent our allowance, and I've not got 
 money to pay," replied poor Hugh, fairly driven into confessing 
 his poverty. 
 
 " Phew I" whistled his patron, "no assets forthcoming, eh ? 
 that's unfortunate, all the more so, because just at the present 
 epoch my own financial arrangements are in a somewhat em- 
 barrassed condition — ar — banker's account over-drawn — owing 
 to their confounded free -trade, I expect, I can't get my rents 
 paid up, — in fact, to be frank with you, when this play busi- 
 
44 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 ness was first started, I, with incautious liberality, volunteered 
 to make one of a jovial crew of fifth -formers, who intend to fol- 
 low up the theatrical entertainments with a sort of extempore 
 dejeune a la fourchette of oysters and porter. Well, sir, when 
 I came to examine into the state of my funds, I, after much 
 deep and intricate calculation, arrived at the following result, 
 viz., that I had contracted liabilities to the amount of one 
 pound five, while to meet them I possessed the exact sum of 
 two shiHings and threepence halfpenny — the halfpenny being 
 scarcely an efficient coin of the realm, by reason of my having 
 that morning punched a large hole in its centre, in pursuance 
 of a mechanical experiment which failed. Under these cir- 
 cumstances I immediately wTote to the governor, saying that 
 several unusually distressing cases of charity having come 
 under my notice since I had last received his blessing and a 
 ten -pound note, the blessing alone remained ; adding that 
 another case more urgent than any of the former now appeahng 
 to my sympathies, I trusted he would not object to replace the 
 money without unnecessary delay. They say it is a wise child 
 that knows its own father ; certainly in this particular instance 
 I seem to have formed a strangely mistaken estimate of the 
 manners and customs of mine, for yesterday morning I received 
 from him the following heartless reply : — 
 
 " * Dear Wilfred Jacob, — As I happen to know your 
 charity is of the kind which begins and ends at home, and as 
 two pounds a week is rather more than I wish you to spend on 
 lollipops, I strongly recommend total abstinence from such deli- 
 cacies for the next fortnight, at the expiration of which period 
 you may look for a five-pound note (the last you will receive 
 before the holidays), from 
 
 " ' Your affectionate father.' 
 
 " Well, my father being thus obdurate, the only alternative 
 that remained for me was to apply to my uncle, in consequence 
 of which application, my watch will have a little extra ticking 
 to do for the next fortnight ; my relation, on the security of 
 that valuable, favouring me with the loan of five and twenty 
 shillings. Thus, the admission to the theatre being two and 
 sixpence, you will perceive, by a reference to ' Bonnycastle's 
 Arithmetic,' or * Smith's Wealth of Nations,' I am still two- 
 pence-halfpenny behind the world, which sum I must beg, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 4:5 
 
 borrow, or otherwise realise before two o'dock to-day, at which 
 time the doors open. So, you see, young 'un, I literally cannot 
 treat you, for which, without chaffing, I'm really uncommon sorry ; 
 but never mind, put your trust in jollity, and depend upon it 
 something to your advantage will turn up some day;" and with 
 this well-meant, but slightly vague attempt at consolation, 
 Wilfred Jacob passed on to have, as he termed it, a *' go in " 
 at Terence. 
 
 In the meantime, a solemn and important discussion was 
 being held among the boys of the sixth form (some of whom 
 were lads of seventeen and eighteen, and considered themselves 
 young men), as to whether these morning theatricals, being got 
 up solely with a view to the juveniles, were not infra dig. Big- 
 gington, who had grown up to fit his name, and stood six feet 
 one in his stockings, and who, moreover, in virtue of the date 
 of his entrance, as well as from his strength and prowess, was 
 looked upon as leader of the school, decidedly set his face 
 against it, and declared, with unnecessary vehemence of expres- 
 sion, that the play might be — that to which its author would 
 have especially objected — before he would go to see it. 
 
 Stradwick quite agreed with him, which fact possessed every 
 advantage but that of novelty ; Stradwick being a mere reflec- 
 tion, and by ho means a brilliant one, of Biggington. 
 
 Fowler also considered the thing would be infernally slow, 
 nothing sporting about it ; besides, Jackass (alas for boy nature, 
 that so could paraphrase the respectable name of Doctor John 
 Donkiestir I) was going himself, and would have nothing to do 
 but to watch them, so that if a fellow happened to sneeze, he 
 would be safe to g6t an imposition for winking at an actress ; 
 for his part he'd rather be in school at once. 
 
 Norman and Piper followed on the same side ; Swann, Pitt, 
 Kitely, Martin, and Jones, agreed with the foregoing, but had 
 an original opinion of their own, that old Donkey was growing 
 superannuated. 
 
 On the other hand, Warmingham, Gaston, and some dozen 
 others, although considering that an exception ought to have 
 been made in favour of the sixth form, thought the measure a 
 judicious one, as far as the little fellows were concerned, and 
 were, therefore, prepared to pocket their dignity and go ; — 
 unless anybody had got anything better to propose. 
 
 •' I tell you what, Gaston, that was not a bad notion of yours 
 about an exception being made in favoar of the sixth ; surely. 
 
4G THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 if that \Yere properly placed before old Jack, he could nover be 
 so besotted as to refuse," observed Fowler. 
 
 " Bravo, Fowler, " exclaimed several voices ; " let us draw 
 up a formal representation of the affair, and send up a deputa- 
 tion with it to Jack." 
 
 " What do you say, Biggington ? " inquired Fowler. 
 
 '* Simply that I'll have nothing to do with it ; I'll neither 
 sign the address, nor head the deputation," was the sulky reply ; 
 " I consider I have demeaned myself too much to Jack already, 
 in submitting to his absurd prejudices." 
 
 " Biggington and I view the matter exactly in the same 
 light," observed Stradwick : *' you'd all better give up the 
 notion directly." 
 
 " Speak for yourself, stupid 1 " returned Biggington : " if 
 Fowler and the rest like to try, let them, and they'll see what 
 will come of it ; my own feelings are purely personal. Don't 
 you see, fool," he continued, drawing his satellite aside, " by the 
 plan I adopt, they will do the dirty work, and, if they succeed, 
 I shall jDrofit by it; if they fail, I avoid the slight of having my 
 request refused." 
 
 " Then what shall I do ?" inquired Stradwick, who possessed 
 just intellect enough to perceive that the rule of bhndly follow- 
 ing his leader would, in this case, annoy rather than propitiate 
 the autocrat. 
 
 " Why — a — you see, you are— that is, we are differently — a 
 — in fact, in your position I should decidedly sign the address ; 
 though — stop, wait a minute — on second thoughts it strikes me 
 it may look odd to have every name but one on the list : Jack 
 may think I've got some dodge in my head, Well, never 
 mind ; if you hke to follow my example you can," returned the 
 slightly selfish Biggington. 
 
 Accordingly, Gaston, who w^as famous as a scribe, wrote the 
 address ; and Fowler^ and some half-dozen others, carried it up 
 to the Doctor. 
 
 Dr. Donkiestir, who was a tall, fine-looking man, of about 
 fifty, with a clever, energetic countenance, marked, however, by 
 the stern, worried expression common to schoolmasters, received 
 the deputation courteously, read the address, and then observed — 
 
 " All the sixth appear to have signed this, except Biggington 
 and Stradwick : why are their names absent ? " 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and then Fowler, who was 
 naturally of an open, fearless disposition, replied — 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 47 
 
 " I believe, sir, Biggington preferred giving up going to the 
 theatre, to asking a favour which he considered it unlikely you 
 would grant; and Stradwick generally does whatever Bigging- 
 ton does." 
 
 As Fowler announced this well-known fact, a general smile, 
 which even the Doctor's presence could not entirely restrain, 
 went the round of the deputation. 
 
 The Doctor seemed not to notice it, though a twinkle in the 
 corner of his eye revealed to those who knew his every look, 
 that he was not so unobservant as he appeared. 
 
 " Biggington and his friend are very prudent," he said, with 
 a slight ironical emphasis on the last w^ord. He then paused a 
 moment in thought ere he continued, "I am very sorry that I 
 consider it my duty to refuse your request, for the straight- 
 forward, gentlemanly way in which you have preferred it has 
 much pleased me; but I cannot believe that I should be 
 fulfilling the trust reposed in me by your parents, if I were to 
 allow you to be exposed to the temptations of a theatre, in a 
 town, at night, when it would be impossible for me to exercise 
 the shghtest vigilance over you ; and this applies more strongly 
 to the sixth form than to the younger boys, as many of you are 
 almost young men, and peculiarly liable to the evil influences to 
 which I allude. As some compensation I will grant a whole 
 holiday, either for skating, if the w^eather permits, or boating, 
 or cricketing, later in the season, whichever you may prefer. 
 I hope, as a proof that you do not think I have been unneces- 
 sarily strict, the sixth will think better of it, and that I shall see 
 many of their faces at the theatre this morning." 
 
 The Doctor's harangue was not without its effect, for Fowler 
 (who, though somewhat of a pickle, was of a warm-hearted, 
 generous disposition) thanked the head master for the promised 
 hohday, and declared his intention of going to the morning 
 performance. Gaston, Warmingharn, and the rest of that 
 party, followed his lead, and the deputation withdrew. 
 
 " So you've eaten humble pie for nothing, been humbugged 
 into promising to go to a childish affair you ought to be 
 ashamed to be seen at, and been choused out of the only bit of 
 fun and jolHty that has come in our way this half. I wish you 
 joy of your promised holiday, you good little boys," was 
 Biggington's sarcastic speech, when he learned the result of 
 their mission. 
 
 '* Chaff away, Big-un " (a familiar abbreviation of Bigging- 
 
48 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 ton's patronymic, of which only the elite of the si^th were 
 permitted to make use), returned Fowler, good-humouredly. 
 ** Jacky's a stunning good old fellow, after all, and I, for one, 
 shall go, to show him I don't hear malice ; you'd better pocket 
 your dignity for once, Big-un, and come too ! " 
 
 *' Not if I know it, to please either old fools or young ones," 
 was the unamiable reply ; and, turning on his heel, Biggington 
 walked angrily away, followed, at no great distance, by Strad- 
 wick and two or three other recusants. 
 
 In spite, however, of their disapproval, the morning perform- 
 ance went off with great eclat; and those who attended it, 
 amongst whom were a large proportion of the sixth form boys, 
 raved about their dehght to such a degree, that even Bigging- 
 ton, albeit he pretended to take the matter with a high hand, 
 felt intensely provoked, and thrashed most unmercifully a small 
 boy, who, in the innocence of his heart, incautiously promul- 
 gated his opinion, within the tyrant's hearing, that " any one 
 who could have gone and did not, must be a precious slow 
 coach, and no mistake." 
 
 As for the fictions founded on facts, upon which the prolific 
 imagination of Wilfred Jacob dehghted to expatiate, they had 
 such an effect upon poor Hugh, that he fairly cried himself to 
 sleep that night, from sheer vexation and disappointment. 
 
 The next morning, a flashily dressed, sharp-looking young 
 man, w^ho was none other than the usher introduced by Wilfred 
 Jacob into his description of the Tickletown masters by the 
 nickname of Pentameter, but whose proper appellation was 
 Sprattly, and who was, as Wilfred had truly stated, anything 
 bat a gentleman, approached a group, consisting of Biggington, 
 Stradwick, and one or two others, with whom he appeared on 
 the most intimate and confidential terms. 
 
 " I say, old fellows," he began, " is it actually true that the 
 Doctor won't let you go to the theatre at night? " 
 
 " Yes, worse luck," was the reply. 
 
 " And are you going to stand it quietly ? " continued 
 Sprattly. 
 
 " Eh ? why what can we do to help ourselves ? If the 
 whole of the sixth had stuck together, we might have made 
 something of it ; but that ass, Fowler, was talked over. He 
 Bays Jack appealed to his feelings, or sympathies, or some such 
 disgusting rubbish. So Fowler went, and took half the form 
 with him ; and altogether, if I was to express my true opinion, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 49 
 
 I think the whole affair is about as absurd, not to say dis- 
 graceful, to all parties as it well can be." 
 
 Norman, the speaker, w^as a tall, slender stripling about 
 seventeen, with w^ell-cut features and beautiful glossy hair of a 
 raven blackness, which he w^ore long, and evidently bestowed 
 much care upon ; but his cold, grey eyes, and the immovable 
 expression of his mouth, gave a clue to his true character — 
 viz., a clear, vigorous intellect, but a total deficiency of that 
 which is commonly called heart. He was very anxious to leave 
 the school, as a rich relation, who had taken a fancy to him, 
 and intended to make him his heir, had purchased for him a 
 commission in a cavalry regiment, on the strength of which he 
 affected a pococurante air ; and possessing great natural powers 
 of sarcasm, made himself feared and looked up to by the other 
 boys. Outwardly he and Biggington were the greatest alhes 
 possible, but beneath the surface lay hidden a mine of envy, 
 hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, which only required 
 the application of a match to cause an explosion, the effects of 
 which could scarcely be foreseen. 
 
 " It's an awful bore, really," replied Sprattly, " for my 
 cousin Courtenay Trevanion " 
 
 "Which, being interpreted, means Jack Sprattly," inter- 
 rupted Norman, sarcastically. 
 
 " No I come, really Norman, 'pon my life you're too bad. I 
 told you of his being my relation quite in confidence. All 
 theatricals have a professional name, and a fellow may as well 
 choose a spicy one as not, while he is about it," continued 
 Sprattly ; " but I was going to tell you about to-night. They 
 are going to do the * Beggars' Opera,' Juliet Elphinstone " 
 
 " Alias Betsey Slasher," put in the incorrigible Norman. 
 
 " Plays Polly Peachum," continued Sprattly, not heeding the 
 interruption ; " Coralie, the French girl, does Lucy Lockit ; 
 and Courtenay — or Jack, if you will have it so," he added 
 quickly, perceiving that Norman was again about to speak — 
 " Jack himself is cast for Macheath ; stunningly he'll play it 
 too, for I heard him last winter — can't he just tip 'em, * How 
 happy could I be with either ' in style I — Uncommon well he 
 looks, too, in the highwaymen's dress — red frock-coat, with 
 gold frogs, and high shiny leather boots ; but Jack's a regular 
 spicy-looking fellow." 
 
 " Little too much of the lamps and sawdust about him," 
 returned Norman, superciHously. 
 
50 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 He paused a moment, then turning to Biggington, he said 
 abruptly, fixing his piercing glance upon him as he spoke — 
 
 " Big., we must go to this affair." 
 
 Tims appealed to, the cock of the school, v/ho at heart was 
 more dunghill than game, like most other buhies, turned rather 
 pale as he replied in a low voice — 
 
 *' How is it to be done ?" 
 
 " I have ideas on the subject," returned Norman, confidently; 
 but we need not trouble other folks with our private affairs. I 
 don't exactl}'- agree with Solomon about the advisability of a 
 multitude of counsellors." 
 
 " If you're good for a spree I'll stick to you to the back- 
 bone ! " exclaimed Terry, a boy nearly sixteen, who lived only 
 for mischief, and worshipped Norman, as Stradwick did Big- 
 gington, only with enthusiasm, instead of servility. 
 
 Stradwick, the remaining member of the party, was beginning 
 
 slowly and gravely, " I shall do whatever Big " when a 
 
 shout of laughter from Norman, Sprattly, and Terry, cut him 
 short. As soon as Sprattly had sufficiently recovered from the 
 effects of his hilarity to be able to speak, he observed — 
 
 " Well, if you naughty boys are determined to plot mischief, 
 of course I must not hear it : only, if we should meet by any 
 accident behind the scenes of the theatre, I shall have much 
 pleasure in introducing you to Polly Peachum and the fascinat- 
 ing Coralie ; — by-the-bye, let me give you a hint I that stuck-up 
 parson, young Carrington, is a precious sight more wide awake 
 than the Don, so keep out of his way as much as you can." 
 And having thus spoken. Pentameter Sprattly carried off his 
 five feet four of vulgar humanity, with the most conceited air 
 possible of underbred pretensions. 
 
 " What a thorough snob that unfortunate Httle Pen. has 
 improved into ! " observed Norman, as soon as the amiable usher 
 was out of earshot. 
 
 *' He never was anything else since I've known the animal," 
 returned Biggington, surlily ; " that's him all the world over : 
 he'll give a fellow information which he knows will set him 
 raving to do a thing, and then come out with his humbugging, 
 * Well, you would do it ; I told you you'd get into a scrape.' I 
 wonder what his object now is '? " 
 
 " Oh I merely to help his cousin, or, more hkely brother, 
 Jack," was the reply ; *' they're as much alike as two men can 
 be, only our Spratt left off growing a couple of years too soon ; 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 61 
 
 if Jack draws a good lioiise his salary will be raised. And now 
 I'll explain to you my plan, as far as it is at present matured ;" 
 and so saying, Norman unfolded to them a scheme — with the 
 details whereof we need not trouble the reader — which, from 
 his intimate acquaintance with the manners and customs of 
 both masters and boys, he had been enabled to adapt to circum- 
 stances so cleverly, that even the cautious Biggington confessed 
 he could only discover one flaw in it. 
 
 " And that is," he continued, " supposing everything to have 
 gone smoothly up to the moment of our return, pray how are 
 we to get in, when every door and window will be carefully 
 closed and barred, and the Doctor's six-barrelled revolver, 
 which he is so proud of, awaiting us if we make noise sufficient 
 to rouse him ? 
 
 *' I've ideas on that point, too," returned Norman, medita- 
 tively ; " I'm certain I remember a window in that old loft over 
 the stable, by which I used, w^hen a Httle shaver, to get in and 
 out through the school-room skylight : I must contrive to make 
 some excuse for inspecting the premises." 
 
 " I'll tell you who knows more about the loft than all the rest 
 of us put together," exclaimed Terry ; " and that is little 
 Oolville : he has a pet cat which resides in those parts, and he 
 is constantly climbing and scrambling about up there, and has 
 the place pretty much to himself, I suspect ; for most of the 
 juveniles have faith in a ghost, which Hugh Oolville seems too 
 plucky to care for." 
 
 " That was exactly my case some ten years ago," returned 
 Norman : " find little Oolville and send him here to me, and 
 let us meet again in Biggington's room after morning school, 
 when I will report progress, and the affair shall be finally 
 arranged. Now be off with you different ways : we must not 
 be seen talking together too long." 
 
 And so with breasts more or less burdened by a conscious- 
 ness of their evil secret, the conspirators parted. 
 
62 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 " Come here, Colville. How is your cat this morning ? " 
 inquired Norman, as Hugh approached, a good deal puzzled, 
 and rather alarmed, at his summons, by reason of the fact that 
 when a sixth -form boy sent for one of the little fellows, the 
 interview, however it might begin, generally ended by the 
 juvenile coming in for a thrashing. 
 
 " Thank you, sir, she is very well," replied Hugh ; then, 
 judging from Norman's face that no very adverse fate awaited 
 him, he continued, '* If you please, air, she caught a rat to-day 
 all her own self; such a monster, sir." 
 
 " Indeed I she must be a most meritorious and praiseworthy 
 animal," returned Norman ; then, anxious to set the little fellow 
 at his ease before he began to pump him, he continued — " How 
 did you like the play yesterday ? were you very much 
 charmed ? " 
 
 " I did not go, if you please, sir." 
 
 " Ha ! how was that ? Did the Doctor keep you in for a 
 punishment, or don't you care about such things ? " inquired 
 Norman, pretty well foreseeing the answer. 
 
 *' No, it was not that, sir," returned Hugh. *' I should have 
 been delighted to go ; but I had spent all my pocket money, 
 and so could not pay for entrance." 
 
 " Unlucky for you — very," rejoined Norman ; " I wish I'd 
 known it sooner, I'd have tipped you the half-crown ; more 
 particularly as I want you to do something for me. You know 
 the loft well?" 
 
 Hugh grinned, as he replied, " Every inch of it, sir." 
 
 " So used I when I was your age. Is not there a little 
 square window, or trap door, by which one can get on the top 
 of the school-room, near the part of the skylight which opens ? 
 and which can be reached by standing on the doctor's desk?" 
 inquired Norman. 
 
 " Yes, sir," was the reply ; " I often get up that way if the 
 boys are plaguing me ; and they don't dare to follow me 
 because it is dark inside that part of the loft, and they are afraid 
 of a ghost ; but I'm sure there's no ghost, or else Puss would 
 not leave her kittens there : if the kittens are safe, why should 
 not I be?" 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 53 
 
 Norman smiled at this specimen of juveijile logic 
 
 " That's right," he said, stroking Hugh's curly pate, " you're 
 
 plucky little fellow ; and now show me this window. I want 
 to see if I have forgotten the way." 
 
 "I'll show it to you, and willingly, sir," returned Hugh, 
 whose affections were easily won, more especially when one of 
 the sixth condescended to lay siege to them ; " but you won't 
 be able to get through yourself, now. You were a little fellow 
 like me, I suppose, when you used to do so." 
 
 This information was what the immortal Dick Swiveller would 
 have termed " a staggerer," and for a moment, Norman began 
 to fear his scheme was knocked on the head ; but possessing 
 two main elements of greatness, namely — presence of mind and 
 fertility of resource, an alternative occurred to him, which, 
 although by no means so safe or easy as his original plan, 
 might yet be practicable. Everything depended on the 
 character of the child before him : of its strong points he had 
 already some experience, and felt satisfied that he might rely on 
 them. The boy possessed pluck enough for his purpose : he 
 had now to test his weakness. 
 
 *' Suppose," he begun — " mind, I only say suppose — there 
 were yet a chance of your going to the theatre, what should 
 you think of it ? " 
 
 ** Think I why I should be ready to jump out of my skin for 
 joy, to be sure!" returned Hugh, his eyes sparkling, and his 
 cheeks flushing at the bare idea. 
 
 Norman had gained a step : he perceived the strength of the 
 temptation he had to offer. 
 
 " Well," he said, after keeping Hugh in an agony of expecta- 
 tion for a minute or two, " there is a chance ; but it must 
 depend on whether you do exactly as I wish and approve. In 
 the first place, promise me not to say a word to anybody about 
 this conversation, or even mention that I have been talking to 
 you ; — in the second place, come to me in Biggington's room, 
 as soon as dinner is over." 
 
 " Please, sir, may not I tell Percy ? I always tell him every- 
 thing," pleaded Hugh. 
 
 " Did you tell him who broke the Doctor's inkglass ? " 
 inquired Norman, sarcastically. 
 
 Now this inquiry referred to a little afi'air which had occurred 
 within a week of Hugh's first arrival at school. Indulging in 
 hat propensity, common alike to boys and monkeys, viz., of 
 
54: THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 examining everything with their 'fingers' ends, Hugh had 
 allowed to fall, and thus broken, Dr. Donkiestir's own peculiar 
 inkglass. Overwhelmed w^ith the aw^fal nature of the offence 
 he had committed, and expecting, at the very least, to be 
 flogged for the same, the poor child sat down by the side of the 
 devastation he had caused, and commenced the uncomfortable 
 operation of crying his- eyes out. 
 
 In this forlorn condition he was discovered by Norman, who, 
 without being really kind-hearted, possessed that not uncom- 
 mon species of negatively selfish good-nature, which leads 
 people to dislike to look on distress, physical or mental. 
 Moreover, the fact of Hugh being a very pretty boy pleased 
 his taste, and therefore interested him. Accordingly, he first 
 inquired the cause of his grief, and then devised a remedy. 
 
 It so happened that Norman's own inkbottle and the one 
 which Hugh had just broken, were, as nearly as possible, 
 similar. He knew, moreover, that the Doctor was by no means 
 observant of such minor particulars. He, accordingly, substi- 
 tuted his bottle for the broken one, assisted Hugh to clear away 
 all traces of the accident, and, advising him to keep his own 
 counsel, left him greatly consoled. But Hugh felt a conscious- 
 ness that there was something in this transaction of which 
 Percy w'ould not approve ; and, fearful lest, in his strict sense 
 of honour, he should pronounce it necessary to acquaint the 
 Doctor with his delinquency, his moral courage failed him, and, 
 up to the moment in which Norman asked him the question, he 
 had never revealed the misdeed to his brother. It was the first 
 time he had ever been guilty of that mildest form of lying — 
 suppression of the truth ; but the stone of dissimulation, once 
 set rolling, soon gathers force, which the feeble hand that 
 sufficed to put it in motion is powerless to restrain. 
 
 Nor was Hugh's first '* little sin "' fated to prove an exception 
 to the rule. Of course he was obliged to confess to Norman 
 that he had not told his brother, and of course Norman 
 replied that what he had done once he could do again : and that 
 if he cared to go to the play, he must not tell Percy or any 
 one ; and Hugh, not having a word to say in denial, the discus- 
 sion ended by his promising to preserve a strict silence on the 
 subject, and to come to Norman in Biggington's room. 
 
 In that same apartment was assembled, that afternoon, a 
 solemn conclave. Biggington took the chair (there was but 
 one) ; Stradwick drew a box from under the bed, and seated 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. hO 
 
 himself upon it, in an attitude exactly copied from that of Lig- 
 gington ; Norman, resting his elbow on the chimney-piece, 
 remained standing ; while Terry turned a wash-hand basin 
 topsy-turvy, and perched himself, monkey-like, on the apex of 
 the semi-cone thus created. After a moment's silence, Bigging- 
 ton exclaimed — " Well, Norman, how are we going on ? have 
 you brought your plan to perfection yet ?" 
 
 " Unforeseen difficulties have sprung up," was the reply, 
 " but none which the three Ps — patience, perseverance, and 
 pluck — will not carry us through." 
 
 " Difficulties be hanged ! " rejoined Biggington, impetuously. 
 *' I tell you one thing, go I loill, by fair means or foul ; the fact 
 is, Trevanion" ("Jack Spratty," murmured Norman. "With 
 a great pair of dyed moustachias on him," urged Terry) " has 
 been here, and promised to take us behind the scenes, and to 
 come and sup with us at the Bull afterwards, and induce Oorahe 
 and the other girl to come too." 
 
 " Ay I and Coralie's a stunner, and no mistake," observed 
 Terry ; " such a pair of black eyes, by Jove I they go through 
 a fellow like — like " 
 
 *' Bradawls," suggested Stradwick, complacently. 
 
 "A j9o?>i^ecZ illustration, decidedly," resumed Terry; " but I was 
 walking the day before yesterday with old Beaugentil, when we 
 met this said Coralie, taking a constitutional for the benefit of her 
 complexion ; the moment Beaugentil set eyes upon her, he went 
 off into an ecstacy, throwing up his arms and capering about 
 like a bear on hot bricks. ^ Mais, ce rC est pas possible T he ex- 
 claimed, '■ vot shall I be'old ? Est-ce toi, Coralie ? Am it thou, 
 CoreHar, zie daugtaire of thy mama, zie beloafed de ma premiere 
 Jeunesse ! et quelle ange ! vot an angle I mai ange dii del, a right 
 angle of 'eaven ! Yoyez done, Monsieur Terrie ) permettez que 
 je vous ptresente mon cher eleve. Monsieur Terrie, June liomme char-* 
 mant ; mais n est-ce pas que Mademoiselle estjoliej ees not Mees 
 superbe, beautiful, magnijique, pretty veil I ' and so the old boy 
 ran on till I was in fits." 
 
 " What is your confounded difficulty, Norman '? " inquired 
 Biggington, abruptly. 
 
 " Why, the window in the loft turns out to be too small for 
 anything bigger than a boy to get through," was the reply. 
 
 Biggington muttered something unintelligible, which it would 
 be the height of charity to consider a good word, as he con- 
 tinued — "What do you mean to do, then?" 
 
56 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 "' Put a small boy through it, who shall open the back door 
 into the school-room for us, whereby we shall enter and walk 
 up to bed," returned Norman, stroking the raven down on his 
 upper lip, where the " cavalry moustache " was just beginning 
 to show itself. 
 
 " And what chance is there of finding a boy whom you can 
 trust to do such a thing ? " asked Biggington, gloomily. 
 
 *' He is already found, or I am much mistaken," was the 
 answer. " Moreover, properly handled, he'll do the thing well, 
 and con amore ; I'd sooner work with one willing agent than 
 with twenty forced ones." 
 
 " And his name ?" 
 
 " The younger Colville." 
 
 Biggington mused. " He might do it ; but his brother will 
 not allow him," he said after a pause. 
 
 " His brother will have no voice in the matter, for he will 
 know nothing about it," returned Norman ; " but you shall 
 judge for yourselves, for I have appointed the boy to come to 
 me here. Only leave me to talk to him, and don't bully or 
 frighten the little fellow, else you will defeat your own object. 
 If, when you have seen him, you wish me to persevere with 
 the plan, Biggington, stroke your chin thus." 
 
 As Norman raised his hand to indicate the appointed signal, 
 a modest tap at the door was audible, and, on the bolt being 
 withdrawn, Hugh made his appearance, and, at a sign from 
 Norman, entered. The door was closed and fastened by Terry, 
 w^ho resumed his seat on the inverted wash-hand basin, with 
 the air of a monarch ascending his throne. Hugh bore the 
 scrutiny to which all the plotters, Biggington in particular, 
 subjected him, unflinchingly ; he looked rather more grave and^ 
 anxious than was his wont, but did not appear intimidated or 
 abashed, though he stood in the awful presence of the cock of 
 the school. 
 
 " Come here, Colville," began Norman ; then, as the boy 
 approached, he continued, fixing his piercing glance upon him, 
 " have you mentioned what w^e were talking about this morning 
 *o anybody ? " 
 
 " No, sir," was the unhesitating reply. 
 
 " Not to your brother, even ? don't attempt to deceive me I " 
 
 " No, indeed, sir, I would not tell a lie ; if I had mentioned 
 it to Percy, I'd say so at once," returned Hugh, colouring at 
 his assertion being doubted. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 57 
 
 *' I believe you," replied Norman, glancing towards Bigging- 
 ton as he spoke to attract his attention. " I am sure you are a 
 brave, honourable boy, who would neither tell a lie nor betray 
 a secret, which is worse, if anything." 
 
 At this commendation, Hugh's eyes sparkled, and a bright, 
 honest smile lit up his innocent, childish face, which ought to 
 have touched the hearts and disarmed the purpose of those who, 
 for their own selfish ends, were thus deliberately leading him 
 into evil ; it probably would have done so, were it not a well- 
 established fact in pathology, that, during the phase of public 
 schoolboyhood, the human heart remains in a torpid or chrysalis 
 state ; the animal, at that period, consisting of a head, a 
 stomach, and (fortunately for those who have the control of it, 
 as well for its future chance of developing into a reasonable 
 mortal) a tail also. Not being actuated by any such tender 
 feelings, or indeed by an feelings at all, except selfish ones, 
 Biggington replied to Norman's look by stroking his chin. 
 Stradwick stroked his at the same moment, giving involun- 
 tarily a slight shudder at the alarming future to which he was 
 thus committing himself. Terry only grinned, which indeed 
 was his invariable custom on all occasions, solemn or comic. 
 
 ** As I am now convinced that you are trustworthy," resumed 
 Norman, " I am going to tell you a secret; the secret, in fact, 
 upon the safe keeping of which depends your going to the 
 play." 
 
 " Or getting every bone in your skin broken," muttered 
 Biggington in an aside, which was, however, sufficiently audible 
 to convey to Hugh a knowledge of the alternative w^hich 
 awaited him. 
 
 " Mr. Biggington, these other gentlemen, and myself," con- 
 tinued Norman, " mean to go to the theatre this evening, and 
 if you w^ill do exactly as we tell you, we will take you with us." 
 
 " But the Doctor I " exclaimed Hugh, aghast. 
 
 *' That is the very point I was about to touch upon," rejoined 
 Norman, in no way discomposed : " the Doctor not approving 
 of the younger boys being out at night, thought himself obliged 
 to give a general order to the whole school ; but at the same 
 time he contrived to have it hinted privately to us, that if the 
 elder members of the sixth form chose to go, he should not 
 make any inquiries about it ; the only point he insisted on 
 being, that such an expedition must be managed privately, and 
 without his being supposed to know anything about it. Now 
 
58 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE rAluiLT. 
 
 in order to contriv *hh, we had thought of making our way in 
 at night (we can easily get out unobserved after five o'clock 
 school), through the window in the loft ; but, as you say, and 
 as I now remember, it is too small to render that possible, — we 
 want you to get through the sky -light into the school-room (as 
 we were talking about this morning), and unfasten the little 
 door which opens into the playground ; it is only secured by one 
 bolt, which is not above your reach, so you can easily undo it. 
 If you will undertake this, and promise faithfully not to breathe 
 a word about it to anybody, you shall go with us to the play." 
 
 Poor Hugh was sorely puzzled ; and his sense of right and 
 wTong entirely confused ; one idea, however, soon extricating 
 itself from the chaos, he immediately gave it utterance. ** The 
 Doctor," he said, '^ will be angry with me, sir, though he may 
 not be so with you, for I am only a little fellow, and a long way 
 off the sixth form." 
 
 Norman hesitated ; he knew that if they were discovered he 
 should be quite unable t • protect the child from punishment, 
 and a sense of self-respect made him adverse to pledge himself 
 to anything which he could not perform. 
 
 Biggington was trammelled by no such scruples. ** Never 
 fear, young 'un," he said ; " if the Doctor should by any chance 
 speak to you on the subject, just refer him quietly to me ; 
 merely say, — Biggington desired me to go ; Biggington will 
 explain everything ; — and you'll have no more trouble from the 
 Doctor. Don't you think so, StradwickV" 
 
 " Oh ! certainly," was the reply : " refer him to Biggington, 
 by all means ; say — Biggington desired me to go ; Biggington 
 
 will " 
 
 " That will do," interrupted Terry, grinning. " Shut up, 
 Slow-coach, we didn't encore the sentiment ; moreover, I can 
 perceive by the expression of our young friend's optics, that he 
 is awake to a sense of his sitiwation. The play, a jolly good 
 supper, and immortal honour and renown on one hand ; and an 
 awful thrashing from Biggington, with a gentle refresher from 
 myself appended, on the other ; between such a Scylla and 
 Charybdis he will hardly be inclined to forestall Jack Sprattly 
 by singing, ' How happy could I be with either.' So now, 
 young'un, favour us with your sentiments." 
 
 *' If I might but tell Percy ! " pleaded Hugh, glancing ap- 
 pealingly towards Norman. 
 
 That individual shook his head. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 69 
 
 " If you do," he said, " you will have broken the trust re- 
 posed in yon,' and proved yourself a mean-spirited, cowardly 
 child, quite unfit for the service we require of you, or the 
 pleasure with which w^e propose to reward you ;— tell your 
 brother, and you lose the play." 
 
 Poor Hugh ! his better nature made one final struggle, but 
 he had dallied with the temptation till it had obtained too firm 
 a hold on his imagination to be shaken off; and so, like many 
 folks older and wiser than himself, who have indulged in a re- 
 prehensible longing for some forbidden fruit till the appetite 
 has grown too strong to be resisted, he fell. 
 
 '' I will promise," he said. " I do so want to see the play, 
 and you will take care of me if the Doctor is angry, Mr. 
 Biggington ? " 
 
 " Oh, decidedly ; both myself and Stradwick," was the reply. 
 "Stradwick and the Doctor are hand and glove just now, be- 
 cause Straddy's such a dab at Euripides." 
 
 This insinuation referred to the uncomfortable fact, that the 
 head-master had that morning informed Stradwick, in conse- 
 quence of his total inability to construe the works of the ancient 
 Greek in question, that if after another week he did not per- 
 ceive a very decided improvement, he should be under the dis- 
 agreeable necessity of degrading him to the fifth form. Strad- 
 wick, therefore, hung his head sheepishly as he echoed — 
 
 " Oh ves, decidedly." 
 
 "We understand each other, then, and had better agree to 
 meet here, prepared to start, at a quarter to six," observed 
 Norman. 
 
 A general assent was given, and the conspirators separated. 
 Normlm glanced at his victim ; there was a determined look in 
 the boy's face, which gave assurance that he would go through 
 with the task he had undertaken. Resolution was one of the 
 few qualities Norman reverenced, and for the moment he 
 repented the evil into which he was leading the child ; but the 
 two strongest passions of his nature, ambition and revenge, were 
 linked with his scheme for that evening, and he could not re- 
 linquish it. ^ 
 
 *' Courage, little one," he said, laying his hand on Hugh s 
 curly pate ; *' if you and I live, and, as something here" — and 
 he touched his forehead as he spoke—" tells me will be the case, 
 I achieve greatness, I will not forget this evening. Silence and 
 
60 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 N O R M A n's REVENGE. 
 
 When the devil suggests some pleasant but wrong scheme to 
 frail humanity, his dupes generally find him a most amiable and 
 efficient patron at the beginning of the enterprise, however he 
 may leave them in the lurch when the fatal catastrophe ap- 
 proaches. To give that much-abused personage his due, on the 
 occasion to which we are about to allude, he adhered to his 
 word like the gentleman Shakspere has declared him to be, for, 
 as at seven o'clock the very small curtain of the very " minor '* 
 theatre at Tickletown drew up, and the limited orchestra, with 
 a hoarse, eccentric, and ad libitum bass, left off playing, four 
 distinguished-looking young gentlemen entered the stage-box, 
 and arranged the drapery in such manner that, themselves un- 
 seen, they might alike be able to witness the performance and 
 criticise the house, which, in virtue of its being the fascinating 
 Courtenay Trevanion's {alias Jack Sprattly's) benefit, was 
 crowded by all the rank and fashion of Tickletown. 
 
 Any person who had very closely observed this same box, 
 might have perceived peeping from under the corner of the red 
 curtain nearest the stage, a little, euger, restless, excited face, 
 watching with the deepest and most engrossing interest every 
 trifle that occurred, as though it presented some great and 
 striking novelty. Had the looker-on been of a speculative turn 
 of mind, he might have wondered why this little, bright face, 
 which ought naturally to have expressed nothing but childish 
 delight and surprise, should have had this expression marred by 
 an anxious, scared look, which occasionally passed across the 
 boy's intelligent features. To the reader, however, this evi- 
 dence that Hugh Colville was feeling slightly ill-at-ease, even in 
 the midst of his enjoyment, need present no mystery. But as 
 the play proceeded, and Polly made her appearance, looking 
 like a single angel, and singing like a whole covey of them, 
 interest and delight overpowered conscience; and when Jack 
 Sprattly came on in jet black boots and moustachios, and bright 
 red coat and cheeks, and swaggering about the stage as 
 Macheath, and looking so charmingly impudent, sang in a rich 
 rolHcking tenor, " How happy could I be with either," toll-de- 
 rolling at the end with a devil-may-care joviality, which pro- 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 61 
 
 duced him three several encores, Hugh Colville's delight waxed 
 to such a pitch that he mentally decided, if the Doctor had 
 suddenly appeared, armed with his stoutest cane, and then and 
 there varied the performance by flogging him before the faces 
 of the assembled audience, the exquisite pleasure he enjoyed 
 would have been cheaply purchased at even that frightful cost. 
 
 Then followed a pantomime ! Hugh's first pantomime ! 
 
 Juvenile reader whose first pantomime is yet to come, mark 
 my words, the words of one who speaks from experience ! You 
 look forward eagerly, no doubt, to the wonderful time when you 
 shall be a grown-up man, and do as you please, which you 
 firmly believe will involve alvA^ays sitting up till three o'clock in 
 the morning ; riding a prancing horse all day ; eating unlimited 
 plum -pudding without uncomfortable consequences ; and having 
 that very pretty little girl next door, with whom you danced — 
 and, in your small, unassuming way, flirted also — at the chil- 
 dren's ball last Christmas, grown up into a beautiful wife for 
 you, who will always do exactly what you wish with her, and 
 never go near Howell and James's at any price. You have 
 heard poets and other licensed story-tellers rave about there 
 being 
 
 " Nothing half so sweet in life 
 As love's young dream ; " 
 
 or prate of the delights of ambition ; the charms of fame ; the 
 pleasures of hope and of memory ; the satisfaction of a good 
 conscience ; or the inestimable blessings of domestic felicity — 
 which, in a general way, means buying cradles, paying taxes, 
 and settling bills : — you may have heard all this, and believed 
 much or Httle of it, as your bump of veneration happens to be 
 largely developed or otherwise. But what I am going to tell 
 you is a real "great fact;" and do you remember it, and act 
 upon it accordingly. The happiest time of your life ought to 
 be, and probably therefore will be, the glorious night on which 
 you, a light-hearted, merry child, witness your first pantomime I 
 — and you may go with my compliments to Papa and inform 
 him that I say so. 
 
 At all events, Hugh Colville felt strongly that until he had 
 seen a clown he had been ignorant of the real dignity of human 
 nature, or the sublime heights to which, properly cultivated, it 
 was eapable of soaring. Columbine also (as enacted by that 
 houri, Rosetta Matilda Slammock) impressed him with a deep 
 eense of the sylph-like grace and ethereal purity of woman, — • 
 
62 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLYILLE FAMILY. 
 
 all but the very pink calves of lier seraphic legs, in regard to 
 which, beautiful and praiseworthy as they were, viewing them 
 in the abstract as mere bounding, pirouetting, sliding, and 
 gliding machines, he could not help indulging some scruples of 
 conscience, mentally classing them with unpaid-for toffy, clan- 
 destine nine-pins on Sunday, and the few other examples of the 
 " pleasant, but wrong " principle, w^hich had come within the 
 limits of his juvenile experience ; and he was just considering 
 that, if Heaven had vouchsafed to place him in the proud and 
 enviable position of her elder brother, he should have mildly 
 remonstrated against her making such a very prominent feature 
 of her legs ; when to his surprise and regret. Virtue suddenly 
 triumphed amidst ablaze of fireworks, and Vice being punished 
 in the person of the Lurid Wizard of the Forty -locked Mur- 
 derer's Cavern, who was dragged by three supernumerary fiends 
 to a naughty place under the stage, the curtain fell, and all was 
 over. 
 
 The next phase of the evening was to Hugh one strange and 
 uncomfortable scene of inexplicable confusion. Biggington, 
 Norman, and his companions, went behind the scenes, under 
 the auspices of Jack Sprattly, who did not look nearly so brave 
 and glorious out of his scarlet coat ; and Hugh followed them 
 for fear of being lost, receiving at their hands much the same 
 kind and degree of attention that a little dog would have met 
 with. 
 
 Of all miserable, desolate, chaotic-looking places, the stage of 
 a theatre in dishabille is one of the most forlorn. The incom- 
 prehensible machinery for scene-shifting, the frightful backs of 
 all the brilliant effects, the dirt, the smell of the lamps, the 
 ropes, the rubbish, the dangerous trap-doors, the tired, sleepy 
 carpenters, the haggard, snobbish actors, and, worse than all, 
 the pale, hollow-eyed actresses, with their forced, heartless 
 laughter — a very mockery of mirth — of all places for de- 
 stroying illusion, commend me to the region behind the 
 scenes as the most dismally effectnal. 
 
 Biggington, Norman, and Stradwick, having disappeared 
 somewhere within the mysterious precincts of the green-room, 
 where they remained long enough for Terry to jump over 
 everything, and tumoie aown everywnere, and set wrong bells 
 ringing in all kinds of unexpected places, and have a terrific 
 combat with nobody in virtue of a " property " sword and 
 buckler wherewith he had illegally armed himself — the party 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. G3 
 
 re-assembled, and without further dehay proceeded to " The 
 BiilL'* 
 
 Thi3 remarkable quadruped must have been, in his interest- 
 ing lifetime, a most rare and wonderful creature, at least, if he 
 at all resembled his portrait, which hung creaking on a species 
 of jovial gibbet in front of the hostelrie bearing his name. The 
 picture certainly mai/ have been a Hkeness, but as it represented 
 the bovine original got up, regardless of expense, in richly-gilt 
 hoofs and horns, with his tail twisted over his back in the shape 
 of a horizontal figure of eight, ending in a bright golden flame, 
 while such a cluster of Hyperion curls waved over his massive 
 brow, as involuntarily to suggest the idea of his wearing one of 
 those false fronts, paraded by self-deluding old ladies in the for- 
 lorn hope of deceiving society on the score of their undesirable 
 longevity, wo can scarcely conceive the artist to have adhered 
 to nature with a proper degree of pre-Raphaclite severit}^ Be 
 this as it may, the present proprietor of the Bull had exerted all 
 his energies to provide a supper commensurate with the dignity 
 and gullibility of the givers of the feast; and Hugh Colville's 
 eyes sparkled with dehght, when the goodly array of nice 
 things first met his gaze ; for, though by no means greedy, he 
 w^as still almost a child, and was a hungry school-boy into the 
 bargain — need we say more ? 
 
 Then arrived Courtenay Trevanion (alias Jack Sprattly) and 
 the young ladies, who, from a strict sense of propriety, which 
 was one of their marked characteristics, had refused to come 
 unless they might be allowed to bring with them Mrs. Belvidera 
 Fitz-Siddons as chaperone. This great lady, for such she was 
 in every sense of the word, had done the heavy tragic business 
 for many years with immense eclat, until latterly she had grown 
 too heavy even for that, which fact had been painfully impressed 
 upon her by reason of her constantly, at harrowing moments of 
 heart-rending despair, disappearing suddenly from before the 
 streaming eyes of the astonished audience down traps calculated 
 to support mortals of moderate (but not immoderate) weight. 
 Finding that these unexpected disappearances tended to impart 
 a burlesque character to her acting, rather than to increase the 
 pathos thereof, Mrs. B. Fitz-Siddons had wisely restricted her- 
 self to such parts as suited her advanced years ; and now having, 
 by the trifling addition of sixpence weekly to his salary, bribed 
 the call-boy to chalk B. T. (beware traps !) upon all dangerous 
 footing, she still shone in the elderly comic line, and played 
 
64: THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 Mrs. Malaprop and Mrs. Backbite to delighted audiences. For 
 the rest, this illustrious woman rejoiced in a pair of large, bold, 
 uncomfortable black eyes ; a man's voice, slightly the worse for 
 
 wear, and and a little failing she had in regard to hquor ; 
 
 stiff horse-hair-like curls, which might have been her own only 
 that she had a harmless scruple against wasting money on pay- 
 ing her bills ; and a generally hooked outline, so essentially 
 Israelitish, that her green-room cognomen of " Mother Moses " 
 appeared by no means inappropriate. Of the young ladies we 
 will only say that, like all young ladies, they were irresistible. 
 
 Just at first starting, matters appeared a little dull and un- 
 promising ; the fact being that the two elder Tickletonians, not 
 finding, when put to the test, that they were quite such thorough 
 men of the world as they imagined themselves, suffered under 
 an uncomfortable inability to make small talk ; while Jack 
 Sprattly, possessing a most inconvenient appetite, was so en- 
 grossed with the good cheer before him, that conversation, under 
 the circumstances, became a physical impossibihty. 
 
 As the supper progressed, however, and more especially 
 when the champagne (which really was not bad for Tickle- 
 town) had made two or three rounds, affairs began to brighten. 
 Mrs. Fitz-Siddons, unlike the voracious Macheath (which 
 hungry highwayman still continued to demolish a supper more 
 fitted for forty thieves than for one), was able to eat, drink, and 
 talk at the same moment; and soon, by the cheerful, not to say 
 jolly, style alike of the sentiments she expressed and of the 
 manner in which she expressed them, succeeded in placing the 
 ^' young people," as she called them, upon a more friendly footing, 
 
 "Cora-lee, my love," she began (and be it observed, paren- 
 thetically, that this noble woman spoke with a slight Irish 
 brogue — a philological fact to be accounted for only by the 
 hypothesis, which she herself had started on a particular occa- 
 sion, when she was suffering from a temporary nervous 
 affection which confused her speech and imparted a shght un- 
 steadiness to her gait, viz., that her mother must have been an 
 Irishman), " Cora-lee, my love I don't ye see Mr. Biggington 
 v>'aiting to take wine with ye ; thank ye, sir, since you're so very 
 pressing I '11 not refuse ; only up to my thumb, if you please, 
 sir " (as she spoke, she, with delightful unconsciousness, ran her 
 thumb up the glass as the wine advanced, until her digit and 
 the champagne reached the brim simultaneously). " Your 
 health, Mr. Norman, sir ; 0-phaliur, my darling, the same to 
 
 I 
 
THE FORTUNES OP THE COLVILLE FAMILY. ^^ 
 
 you ; — it's the cavalrj^ you're going into, Mr. Norman, they de 
 tell me, and it's an ornament you'll be to the ridgimint — fin« 
 men they, are, the Lancers. I'd a brother in them once ; maybi 
 you'll have heard tell of Major Fitz-Siddons ? Six feet six di« 
 lie stand in his stocking-soles, till he fell gloriously leading a 
 forlorn hope at the siege of — of — bless the name of the place I 
 now I can't for the life of me lay my tongue to it." 
 
 " Troy, perhaps," suggested Terry, politely. 
 
 " Belleisle, more likely," put in Jack Sprattly ; it was the first 
 word he had uttered since they sat down, and he had a largish 
 tartlet in his mouth as he spoke ; — swallowing the morsel, he 
 continued in a whisper to Biggington, next to whom he was 
 seated — 
 
 " The major was no major at all, but only a private, and was 
 drummed out of the regiment for stealing the captain's shirts." 
 
 Having once found his tongue, which was not until he had 
 more than satisfied even his uncompromising appetite, Jack pro- 
 ceeded to make use (we can scarcely in conscience say, good 
 use) of it, to relate all sorts of anecdotes, theatrical and other- 
 wise, of which the wit was so small as scarcely to deserve the 
 name, while what ought to have been the moral was rather the 
 reverse. 
 
 Then, quite by accident, another gentleman connected with 
 the theatre called to speak to Mr. Sprattly, so of course he was 
 invited to join them, and proved a great acquisition to the 
 party, as it was generally reported of him that there was no 
 subject, grave or gay, human or divine, on which he could not 
 perpetrate a bad pun ; and certainly on that evening he did his 
 best, or more correctly, his worst, to justify popular opinion. 
 And thus a vast amount of nonsense was talked, and many 
 bottles of wine drunk, until Norman conceived that the time was 
 ripe for the execution of his project. 
 
 It has before been intimated that the apparent friendship 
 existing between Biggington and Norman was based upon a 
 most false and hollow foundation, — the truth being that the 
 cock of the school, who was older than Norman, had, in times 
 past, availed himself of his superior strength to bully, and 
 impose insults and indignities upon, his junior, under which 
 the proud spirit of the embryo lancer had chafed, until a deep 
 thirst for revenge was excited, which he only waited a favour- 
 able opportunity to satisfy. During the previous year, a change 
 had taken place in their relation to each other. Biggington 
 
66- THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 having grown up, was, by the immutable laws of nature, pre- 
 vented from growing any higher, while Norman, in obedience 
 to the same laws, grew steadily after him until he also had 
 attained the full stature of man ; while, although of a slighter 
 build, he had so strengthened his frame by athletic exercises, 
 that he was now no contemptible antagonist even for the colossal 
 Biggington. That the bully himself was aware of this fact, 
 may be gathered from the extreme care with which he avoided 
 giving Norman an opportunity of picking a quarrel with him — 
 a Una of policy which, until the evening in question, had proved 
 most successful. 
 
 Norman, although apparently enjoying himself to the utmost, 
 and constantly hastening the circulation of the decanters, con- 
 trived to drink very little wine ; Biggington, on the other 
 hand, who was essentially animal in his tastes, indulged freely, 
 until the effects became unmistakably apparent in his flushed 
 cheeks and rapid, thick utterance. During the earlier part of 
 the evening he had devoted his attentions to the amiable and 
 accomplished Juliet Elphinstone {alias Betsy Slasher) as he 
 found that young lady, who was of a singularly affable, not to 
 say free and easy, disposition, least trouble to get on with ; and 
 Biggington hated trouble. But as Coralie's diffidence vanished 
 before the influence of the champagne, and the pohshed com- 
 pliments which Norman from time to time addressed to her not 
 unwilHng ears, she laughed and displayed her white teeth and 
 uttered piquant nothings in the prettiest broken English 
 imaginable, till she appeared altogether so fascinating, that 
 Biggington began to perceive he had made a mistake, which 
 the wine he drank rendered him determined at all hazards 
 to remedy. 
 
 Norman, who watched him closely, remarking this, redoubled 
 his attentions to Coralie, and Biggington's dissatisfaction and 
 ill-temper became so unmistakable that they were observed 
 even by Mrs. Fitz-Siddons, whose troublesome nerves w^ere 
 again beginning to inconvenience her, as was evinced by a 
 slight disposition towards the unromantic spasmodic affection 
 popularly termed winking, with which she punctuated (so to 
 speak) her sentences. Feeling desirous that so agreeable an 
 evening should end as harmoniously as it had begun, she tossed 
 off a fmal bumper of claret (Mrs. Fitz-S. was great at claret), 
 and, turning to the young ladies, began — 
 
 "Cora-lee, my love — 0-phaliur, my darling, all that's bright, 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 67 
 
 my dears, must {loinJc) — the fondest hearts mnst part ; * parting 
 is such sweet sorrow,' you remember I Not another drop, I'm 
 obleeged to ye, Mr. Biggington, sir — well, if you will have it 
 so I suppose I must {wink) ; we weaker vessels you know — " 
 
 "Hold as much as the strong ones," interposed Jack, "and 
 carry it off a precious sight better too, and no mistake," he 
 added sotto voce to his punning friend, glancing towards Big- 
 gington as he spoke. 
 
 In the meantime, the young ladies having risen, were ' "'c - 
 ing for their bonnets and mantles. Terry, whose strong point 
 was activity, had discovered Miss Ophelia's shawl, and, with 
 many grimaces as of a polite monkey, had placed it over her 
 shoulders ; and Norman was about to perform the same friendly 
 office by Coralie, when Biggington sprang to his feet, and 
 advancing with a shght unsteadiness in his gait, exclaimed in a 
 hoarse, angry voice — 
 
 " Give me that shawl directly, Norman ; I intend to escort 
 Miss Coralie home." 
 
 " Excuse me," was the quiet reply ; " having found the shawl, 
 I shall not yield the privilege of placing it over the fair owner's 
 shoulders, to you or any one." 
 
 " Won't you ? " returned Biggington, with an oath ; " we'll 
 soon see that I " and as he spoke he grasped the shawl with one 
 hand, while he attempted to push Norman aside with the other. 
 
 Drawing back to avoid his grasp, Norman whispered to 
 Terry, " Watch and see who strikes the first blow, and then 
 lock the door and put the key in your pocket." 
 
 Irritated at the tenacity with which Norman still retained 
 his hold on the shawl, Biggington pressed angrily forward, 
 when, by putting out his foot, Norman contrived to trip him 
 up, while, by a slight push, he caused him to lose his balance, 
 so that he reeled and would have fallen, had not Jack Sprattly 
 caught him just at the critical moment. Kendered furious by 
 the laugh which followed his discomfiture, and losing sight of 
 his habitual caution from the effects of the wine he had drunk, 
 Biggington's savage nature blazed forth in all its full ferocity, 
 and, springing forward with a bound hke that of some wild 
 animal, he aimed a blow at Norman's head, which if it had taken 
 effect as it was intended, would have ended the struggle at once. 
 
 But Norman was prepared for such a salute, and, dodging 
 aside, received the blow on his shoulder, whence it glanced off 
 innocuously ; then, before his antagonist could recover his guard, 
 
68 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 he rushed in and planted a well-directed hit on his face, in a 
 direction which was certain to render him the proprietor of a 
 black eye for the next week to come, at the very least. There- 
 upon ensued a grand shindy. Terry, in obedience to Norman's 
 directions, having recorded in the tablet of his memory the fact 
 that Biggington had struck the first blow, hastened to lock the 
 door and secrete the key ; having accompHshed these feats, he 
 called out, ** A ring ! a ring ! " at the same time exhorting the 
 combatants to take it sweetly and easily, and to fight fair, and 
 like gentlemen of the sixth form. 
 
 The two girls, frightened out of their affectation, shrank into 
 the farthest corner of the apartment, where they clung to each 
 other in speechless terror. Mrs. Belvidera Fitz-Siddons, con- 
 siderably flustered (no other word could express her exact 
 state of mind so graphically), in trying to get out of the way, 
 fell first over, and finally upon, a sofa, w^here, after making one 
 or two abortive efforts to rise, she remained uttering incoherent 
 ejaculations to which no one paid the slightest attention. 
 
 Jack Sprattly made a feeble and futile attempt to bring about 
 a reconciliation ; but his friend — who, from being invariably 
 cast as the benevolent uncle, or philanthropic benefactor, in all 
 the genteel comedies, had, by a not unnatural reaction, acquired 
 a sanguinary and democratic habit of mind — drew him back, 
 muttering in a theatrical whisper — 
 
 " Let the serpent-brood of haughty aristocrats prey upon each 
 other, Jack ; there will be more room in the world for the honest 
 sons of labour." 
 
 In the meantime, after a short but spirited rally, the com- 
 batants came to the ground together, when Terry picked up 
 Norman and gave him a knee, w^hile Stradwick, frightened 
 out of his wits (the few he possessed), did the same by Big- 
 gington. Five or six rounds ensued; but as Norman, who was, 
 to begin with, the most scientific pugilist, appeared perfectly 
 cool and self-possessed, while Biggington was furious with rage, 
 and excited and bewildered by the wine he had imbibed, each 
 round terminated in Norman's favour ; he having escaped any 
 disfiguring blow, while his antagonist's countenance already 
 showed marks of severe punishment. When the seventh round 
 commenced, and Norman again succeeded in planting a well- 
 directed hit on the bridge of his adversary's nose, it became 
 evident that the bully's temporary courage was failing him, and 
 that one or two more rounds would completely exhaust it. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLYILLE FAMILY.. 69 
 
 By this time the landlord of the inn and his myrmidons had 
 been aroused by the noise, and were clamouring at the door 
 demanding admission ; but so effectually had Terry hidden the 
 key, that Jack Sprattly, unable to find it, was reduced to shout 
 to them to burst the door open. This, however, was more 
 easily said than done, for the door was made of stout oak, and 
 the fastenings were strong and in good repair. 
 
 In the eighth round Biggington, rendered furious by pain, 
 pressed so hard upon Norman that, in avoiding his blows, he 
 entangled his foot in the carpet, and stumbled, while at the 
 same moment a left-handed hit from his opponent catching him 
 on the side of his head, brought him to the ground so violently 
 that, when raised on his second's knee, he stared wildly about 
 him and scarcely appeared conscious where he was ; but a few 
 moments served to restore him, and when time was called, he 
 sprang to his feet with an expression of countenance which showed 
 he meant mischief. 
 
 Biggington, elated by his success, fought with more energy 
 and spirit than he had shown in the last round or two ; but iu 
 attempting to end the conflict by a tremendous hit, he over- 
 reached himself, and Norman, seizing his opportunity, drew back 
 his arm, then flinging it out from the shoulder, with the force 
 and rapidity of a sledge-hammer, caught his antagonist a crash- 
 ing blow between the eyes, before which he went down like a 
 shot, and when time was again called, he remained stunned and 
 insensible. At the same moment the fastenings of the door 
 suddenly gave way, and the landlord and his wife, supported 
 by the entire dramatis per&onoe of the establishment, appeared 
 upon the scene of action in various attitudes of terror and 
 amazement. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE DISCOVERY. 
 
 Ernest Carrington sat in the retirement of his little study, 
 and gave himself up to thought. His scholastic labours were 
 over for the day, and with a head too tired for mental occupa- 
 tion, and a heart too full of the great problem of existence to 
 find pleasure in frivolous amusements, he sat resting his aching 
 brow upon his hand, pondering the mighty enigma of human 
 
70 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 life in general, cand his own individual experience of it in par- 
 ticular. He thought of the aspirations of his boyhood, of the 
 bright hopes of his later youth, and mentally compared them 
 with the dark reality of his manhood ; he called to mind the 
 dreams of greatness which he had pictured to himself — not the 
 false and hollow greatness of mere rank and riches, but the true 
 greatness of living to become a benefactor to his species ; the 
 greatness w^hich he sought when he took upon him the duties, 
 and privileges, and responsibilities of his sacred calHng ; great- 
 ness the praise whereof is uttered by the lips of widows and 
 orphans, and written on broken and contrite hearts, to be trans- 
 ferred thence, by an angel's hand, to the Book of Life. And 
 then, for he was young and loving-hearted, he thought of 
 softer, brighter visions ; of a fair ideal being, with an angel's 
 brow and a woman's form, who should pass by his side through 
 life, and, loving him more than all things else save the GOD 
 who gave them to each other, should meet him again, and be his 
 reward in Heaven, where perfect bhss could be ensured by the 
 certainty that they should part no more. And in what had 
 these bright visions ended ? — a life of solitary drudgery. Even 
 independence, the one thing that sweetens labour — the power 
 of carrying out his own ideas of right and wrong — even that, 
 by his subordinate position, was denied to him. And why was 
 all this ? What wrong had he committed to deserve so severe a 
 punishment ? Why was he condemned to this mental prison- 
 disciphne, this alternation between psychological oakum-picking 
 and solitary continement ? Nay, was not his present position 
 the result of his own unselfishness and liberaHty ? If he had 
 not given up his patrimony for the benefit of his sisters, nor 
 relinquished his claim upon the entailed property, he would 
 have possessed a fair income, on which he could have lived 
 comfortably until he should have met with some ecclesiastical 
 preferment, the duties of which would have afforded him the 
 opportunities he sought of devoting himself to the good of 
 others. If not permitted to exercise the talents committed to 
 him to the glory of God, why was he born into this world at all? 
 Poor Ernest ! he had yet to learn that hardest of all lessons, to 
 an eager, energetic spirit : he had yet to acquire belief in the 
 great truth, that — 
 
 *' ^They also serve 
 
 Who stand and wait." 
 
 But his trial was more nearly ended than he was aware of: 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 71 
 
 even as he sat there late into the night, pondering on the evils 
 of his position but perceiving no means of escaping from them, the 
 very fact of his unaccustomed wakefulness constituted the first 
 link of the chain of events which was to bring about his de- 
 liverance. Days afterwards this idea struck him, and taught 
 him a useful lesson. 
 
 The great clock in the school-room had just proclaimed, for 
 the benefit of the blackbeetles, crickets, and mice then tenanting 
 the apartment, the interesting fact that it was two a.m., and 
 Ernest, weary and dispirited, had just determined to put him- 
 self and his troubles to bed, when he recollected he had left some 
 Greek exercises, which he had to look over before the school 
 opened the next morning, lying on his desk in the school-room. 
 Anxious not to disturb any one, he substituted a pair of soft 
 shppers for his boots ; and knowing exactly the spot in which 
 he had left the papers, he determined to dispense with a candle. 
 Feeling his way cautiously, he descended the stairs and reached 
 the school-room without any contretemps — but here a difficulty 
 arose, for some one had moved the papers. Recollecting he had 
 some lucifers in his desk, he was preparing to light a taper 
 which he kept there for the purpose of sealing letters, when a 
 sound, as of footsteps in the play -ground, caught his ear : — he 
 paused to listen ; — the steps appeared to come nearer, till at length 
 they approached the outer door; — from the sound it was evident 
 that there were two or tliree persons. When they reached the 
 door, they paused and spoke to each other in a low whisper; then 
 Ernest became aware, from the altered nature of the sounds, that 
 some one was climbing into the loft over the stable ; his first 
 idea was, that they were common pilferers, intending to steal 
 the Doctor's oats ; but it occurred to him that there might be 
 some communication between the loft and the dwelling-house, 
 and that they weVe burglars attempting to effect an entrance ; 
 desirous of obtaining a more certain knowledge before he gave 
 any alarm, Ernest remained motionless, listening to the sounds 
 without. Suddenly, a noise above him caused him to look up ; 
 as he did so, a small window in the skylight was cautiously 
 opened, and a boy's head and shoulders were thrust in ; — seeing 
 this, Ernest stooped down so as to become hidden by the rails of 
 the desk. Having reconnoitred the apartment, and imagining 
 it untenanted, the owner of the head and shoulders noiselessly 
 drew in the rest of his small person ; then, hanging by hia 
 hands, he allowed his legs to drop, till, with his feet, he was 
 
4 a THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 enabled to reach the Doctor's desk, which was considerably 
 higher than any of the others ; he next closed the window, and 
 silently gUding down the slope of the desk, by the aid of a high 
 Btool gained terra firma. 
 
 Ernest's first impulse was to coUar him, but on second 
 thoughts he determined to wait, and let the affair develop itself 
 a little further. Having reached the ground, Hugh (for of 
 course the reader has long since surmised that it was that mis- 
 guided child) crept cautiously to the outer door, and withdrew 
 the bolt ; as he did so, Ernest noiselessly crossed the apart- 
 ment, and, when the door opened, seized the first person who 
 attempted to enter. A short, but severe struggle ensued, 
 which ended in Ernest's favour : finding himself foiled in his 
 endeavours to free himself from the young tutor's grasp, Nor- 
 man (for he it was) observed quietly — 
 
 " Let me go, Mr. Carrington, you have half strangled me : I 
 shall not attempt to escape." 
 
 '* I'll take good care of that," returned Ernest drily, releasing 
 his grasp on his antagonist's throat, though he still retained his 
 hold on his collar. " Oblige me by walking across the room," 
 he continued : " I must take measures for securing your com- 
 panions in this nocturnal adventure, as well as yourself." 
 
 So saying, he conducted Norman to the door of the school- 
 room which led to the interior of the house — this he locked — 
 then, still retaining his hold on the prisoner's collar, he rang a 
 bell which communicated with the Doctor's private apartments. 
 In the meantime, perceiving farther concealment to be impos- 
 sible, Biggington, leaning on Stradwick's arm and Terry's 
 shoulder, entered considerably the worse for wear, and flung 
 himself doggedly on a bench. The sound of approaching foot- 
 steps soon broke the uncomfortable silence which followed the 
 capture of Norman. Ernest unfastened the door, and Dr. 
 Donkiestir, followed by a man-servant with a lantern and a 
 thick stick, hastily entered. 
 
 " Ha : Mr. Carrington I Norman I What is all this ? What 
 is all this ? " he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the two most 
 prominent figures. 
 
 In a few words, Ernest explained his own share in the 
 matter ; then setting Norman at liberty, he crossed his arms on 
 his breast, and, leaning against a high desk, left the Doctor to 
 finish the adventure. 
 
 " In the first place, who have we here ? " inquired the 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 78 
 
 head-master, sternly. Receiving no answer, he took the lan- 
 tern from the servant, and held it so that the light fell in turn 
 on the faces of the different delinquents, remarking as he did 
 so — " Norman ! I believed you to have been too much of a 
 gentleman to have been mixed up in an affair of this kind — 
 you have disappointed me ; go to your room, I shall speak to 
 yon to-morrow. Biggington ! why what is the matter with 
 him ? " throwing the light of the lantern full upon his swollen 
 and discoloured features, he continued — " Why you've been 
 fighting, sir, and are partly intoxicated I Disgusting I you 
 shall disgrace my school no longer. Stradwick! with Big- 
 gington, of course. At all events, I am glad to perceive you 
 are sober — fighting is a vice I never suspected you of. Terry ! 
 have all the pains I have taken with you led to no better 
 result than this ? but I suppose you chose to copy Norman, 
 even in his faults ! And lastly, who is this poor child you have 
 suborned to aid you in your nefarious practices ? The younger 
 Colville ! your brother should have prevented this I " 
 
 Poor Hugh, his worst fears realized, had been crouching 
 close to Terry (the most goodnatured of the party) in an agony 
 of apprehension ; but, at this insinuation, all his love for Percy, 
 together with the innate sense of justice which was one of his 
 best traits, rose up within him, and, at any cost, he hastened to 
 repel it. 
 
 " Percy knew nothing of it ; knows nothing yet," he said ; 
 " I have deceived him ; and it will serve me right if you flog 
 me to death, sir, but do not be angry with dear Percy I" and 
 here a burst of tears chocked his utterance. 
 
 The Doctor was as much affected as a school-master can be 
 
 " Poor child ! " he replied ; " do not be alarmed for your 
 brother ; if he is, as you state, ignorant of this business, he has 
 nothing to fear. You may all," he added, raising his voice — 
 " you may all depend upon my acting with the most strict and 
 impartial justice ; and now to your dormitories instantly. I 
 shall investigate this affair most scrupulously to-morrow." 
 
 So saying, the Doctor withdrew, courteously but stiffly bow- 
 ing to Ernest; leaving the man-servant, with the thick stick 
 , and the lantern, to see the delinquents safely to bed ; where it 
 is but charitable to desire for them a good night ; a consolation 
 we can scarcely expect them to obtain, however much we may 
 " wish they may get it." 
 
74: THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMnjT. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE TRIBUNAL OF JUSTICE. 
 
 It cannot be a pleasant thing to be going to be hanged I — how- 
 ever thoroughly you may be aware that you deserve it — 
 however clearly you may perceive that it will be for the good of 
 society, nay, possibly, looking beyond the present moment, for 
 your own good also ; yet the stubborn fact must ever remain 
 the same — it cannot be a pleasant thing to be going to be 
 hanged I 
 
 Now, although as the law at present stands they do not 
 exactly hang refractory or disobedient schoolboys, yet there is a 
 process analogous thereunto, though milder in degree, termed 
 flogging, to which such juvenile offenders are occasionally 
 subjected; and this process it was which, as Hugh Colville 
 sobbed forth his penitence and remorse on his brother's neck, 
 loomed large in the distance, and hung over him, and weighed 
 upon him, and crushed him down into a very abject and despond- 
 ing condition indeed. It was not simply the pain (though that 
 constituted a large and uncomfortable item in his depression) 
 that frightened him, but the publicity, the exposure, the disgrace, 
 were more than he could bear to contemplate ; — while Percy, 
 cut to the heart by his brother's misconduct, yet sympathising 
 with a bitter intensity in his dread of the probable consequences, 
 could only comfort him with feeble hopes of commutation of 
 punishment, which his reason belied. 
 
 Poor Httle Hugh ! how deeply did he repent having yielded 
 to the temptation ; how bitterly did he reproach himself for 
 having deceived Percy ; what vows of amendment did he 
 register, if only he should escape that dreaded flogging ; and 
 how pale did he turn, and how sick at heart with apprehension 
 did he feel, when the bell rang for morning school, and he knew 
 that, before it broke up, his fate would be decided I 
 
 As the boys assembled in the great schoolroom, it was evi- 
 dent by their eager, excited faces, and by a general amount of 
 Bubdued whispering, that the news of the escapade of the pre- 
 vious night had transpired, and all eyes were fixed on Norman, 
 Stradwick, and Terry (Biggington did not appear) ; even 
 Hugh Colville came in for a degree of observation which served 
 still more to embarrass and distress him. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 75 
 
 As the clock struck eight, the Doctor, followed by the other 
 rriasters, entered; and the cloud that hung upon his brow was 
 without the smallest vestige of a silver lining, and appeared so 
 awful and portentous as to strike terror into the stoutest hearts 
 The moment prayers were ended, the head-master rose and 
 said, in a clear, stern voice — 
 
 " Before school commences, I have a painful duty to perform. 
 Regardless of my express prohibition, certain scholars of the 
 sixth form have ventured to break through the regulations of 
 the school — which do not permit any of the boys to be out at 
 night — and have been to the theatre, taking with them one of 
 the younger boys, who, on their return, was put through a 
 window, and made to unbolt the school-room door, in order to 
 admit them. How they employed their time after they quitted 
 the theatre, I have yet to discover ; but they did not return till 
 two o'clock in the morning — one of them in a disgraceful state 
 of intoxication. As the whole school is aware of my orders, 
 and the manner in which they have been disobeyed, I consider 
 it salutary that they should also be witnesses of my method of 
 dealing with the culprits, so as at once to vindicate my autho- 
 rity, and to mark my disapprobation of their rebellious and 
 ungentlemanly conduct." 
 
 The Doctor then resumed his seat, and continued — " Let 
 those whose names are mentioned step forward — Biggingtonl" 
 
 There was a moment's breathless silence, and then, with 
 trembling knees, downcast eyes, and guilty, sheepish manner, 
 Stradwick replied, that " Biggington was too ill to leave his 
 bed." 
 
 " I am not surprised," was the reply. " Let Norman, Strad- 
 wick, Terry, and the younger Colville stand forward." 
 ■ With a proud, haughty bearing, Norman advanced, and 
 placed himself immediately in front of the head-master's desk. 
 Crestfallen and sulky, Stradwick shambled after him. A moment's 
 delay took place ere Hugh could muster sufficient physical 
 strength to tear himself from his brother's side : while Percy 
 was near him, he felt some degree of security ; but Terry put 
 his arm round him, and whispering, " Cheer up, young 'un, 
 flogging's nothing when you're used to it, and I dare say the 
 Doctor will let you off easy — never say die 1 " half led, half 
 carried him to the tribunal of justice. 
 
 " You are the eldest, Norman," observed the Doctor, fixing 
 his stern glance upon him ; " and I will therefore deal first 
 
76 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 with you. Whatever faults you may possess, I have never 
 known you tell me an untruth, and therefore I shall, for the 
 satisfaction of myself and of those around me, ask you one or 
 two questions, which you are at liberty to answer or not, as you 
 may prefer. In the first place, do you admit the truth of the 
 accusation brought against you ? " 
 
 **' Yes, sir," was the quiet self-possessed reply, in a tone 
 neither disrespectful nor penitent. 
 
 " Have you any objection to give me an account of the expe- 
 dition, especially how you passed the evening after you quitted 
 the theatre ? " was the next inquiry. 
 
 Norman paused for a moment, in thought, ere he answered, 
 " My only objection. Doctor Donkiestir, would be the possibility 
 of betraying my companions ; but it appears to me that as you 
 saw and recognised us on our return, and are acquainted with 
 the main facts of the case, the little I shall have to add will 
 tend rather to help than to injure them. For private reasons of 
 my own, I proposed to Biggington to go to the theatre last 
 night, and devised a scheme by which we might accompHsh 
 our purpose ; but the loft window being too small to admit the 
 passage of a man's body, I bribed little Colville to accompany 
 us by a promise of taking him to the play, which he had missed 
 the other morning, forbidding him to tell his brother lest he 
 should prevent him. We slipped out after five o'clock school, 
 Stradwick and Terry accompanying us ; went to the theatre, 
 and supped afterwards at a tavern with some of the actors and 
 actresses ; towards the end of the evening, Biggington insulted 
 and struck me ; I returned the blow, and we fought ; in the 
 last round, a hit I made stunned him, and it was some little 
 time before he recovered sufficiently to walk back ; as soon as 
 he was able to do so, we returned — of the rest, you are your- 
 self aware, sir." 
 
 When Norman had left off speaking, Doctor Donkiestir 
 paused for a moment ere he replied. 
 
 " Your account completely agrees with all the facts I have 
 been able to acquire in regard to this disgraceful affair. You 
 admit the truth of the accusation brought against you, and by 
 your own statement confess that you were the originator of the 
 scheme ; you have also demeaned yourself so far as to quarrel 
 with a youth in a state of partial intoxication, and as it appears 
 to me, availed yourself of his incapable condition to punish him 
 most severely. It has always been a chief object with me, and 
 
TUB FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 77 
 
 one in which I have been in many instances most successful, 
 to induce the elder scholars to set a good example to the 
 younger ones ; up to the present time, I have been vi^ell 
 satisfied with you upon this point ; I am the more surprised and 
 disappointed at your late gross misconduct. My duty is clear. 
 No kind of subordination could be kept up in the school, if I 
 were not to visit such an offence as that of wbich you have been 
 guilty, with the most severe punishment it is in my power to 
 inflict — I have, therefore, resolved to expel you and Biggington. 
 You may now resume your seat, and, when school is over, come 
 to my study, where I shall acquaint you with the arrangements 
 I propose to make for your immediate departure. Stradwick, 
 have you anything to say in your defence ? " 
 
 Stradwick, thus appealed to, remained uneasily shifting 
 from leg to leg, until at last he bleated forth, in a half-crying 
 tone of voice — 
 
 " If you please, sir, I went because Biggington went." 
 As the abject parasite uttered these words, a furtive smile 
 went the round of the school, but the Doctor's face relaxed not 
 a muscle as he said sternly — 
 
 " I have long observed with displeasure the weak and servile 
 manner in which you have imitated the worst points in Big- 
 gington's character ; I, therefore, cannot do better than afford 
 you a practical lesson how, by participating in his vices, you 
 must also share in the punishment they entail. You I shall 
 also expel — sit down. Now, Terry, how came you to be of 
 this party ? Heedless and imprudent I have long known you 
 to be, but disobedient I have never before found you." 
 
 For a moment Terry hung his head, and a tear glistened in 
 his clear, blue eye ; dashing it away, he raised his face to that 
 of the Doctor, as he replied earnestly — 
 
 " It was the fun and excitement of the thing tempted me, 
 sir ; and I never thought about how wrong it was, till it was too 
 late for thinking to be of any use. I am most of all sorry to have 
 disobeyed you and forfeited your good opinion, and, if you will 
 but give me a chance of regaining it, I'll cheerfully bear any 
 punishment you like to inflict." 
 
 The head-master paused ere he answered — 
 *' I will take you at your word ; I shall not expel you, but 
 degrade you to the lower school. On every holiday and half- 
 holiday during this half-year, you will remain in, and employ 
 your time in construing and learning by heart six hundred lines 
 
78 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 of Greek tragedy ; and, lastly, you are forbidden to contend 
 for any of the prizes before the holidays. If it were not against 
 my rule to administer corporal punishment to boys in the fifth 
 and sixth forms, you would scarcely have escaped so easily. 
 Resume your place, sir. Now, Hugh Colville, tell me the 
 truth ; did the elder boys force you to accompany them, or 
 merely induce you to do so by promising to take you to the 
 play ? " 
 
 Poor Hugh I all eyes were turned upon him as, hastily swal- 
 lowing his tears, he replied — 
 
 " Biggington promised me a thrashing if I refused to go; 
 but it wasn't that, sir ; it was the play did it, sir : I did so want 
 to see a play." 
 
 For a moment a faint gleam of pity passed over the Doctor's 
 face, but had vanished ere he resumed — 
 
 " I am sorry that I feel it impossible to look over this, your 
 first offence ; — you are so young a child that I believed and 
 hoped you had scarcely been in a position to exercise your own 
 free will in this instance ; that, in fact, you had been merely a 
 passive instrument in the hands of your elders ; but this does 
 not appear to have been the case — you evidently, being aware 
 of my orders to the contrary, were persuaded to share in this 
 expedition in order to witness a play ; and you studiously con- 
 cealed your intentions from your brother, because he, being 
 older and steadier than yourself, might have interfered to pre- 
 vent you from going, w^hich you well knew that he would 
 disapprove of. I consider this so reprehensible that, in justice, 
 I am bound to punish you for it, and the only punishment Hkely 
 to make much impression on one of your age and character, 
 and to inspire you with a salutary dread of, and respect for, 
 properly constituted authority, is a flogging, which will be 
 administered to you in private, as soon as morning-school 
 breaks up." 
 
 Hugh, who had listened to the Doctor's address as if life or 
 death hung upon his words, clasped his hands together in an 
 agony of supplication as his worst fears became realised ; the 
 head-master, however, who had hurried over the latter part of 
 his speech, as though he had mistrusted in some degree his own 
 resolution, turned hastily away, and began arranging the papers on 
 his desk ; and poor Hugh, finding all hope shut out from him, 
 crept back to his brother's side, and burying his face on Percy's 
 flhoulder, gave way to a burst of passionate but silent weeping. 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 79 
 
 During the Doctor's address to Hugh, Norman, who during 
 the whole of his own examination and sentence had appeared 
 perfectly cool, self-possessed, and almost indifferent, began for 
 the first time to evince symptoms of uneasiness : — when the 
 decree for the flogging was promulgated, he unconsciously bit 
 his lip, and clenched and unclenched his hand convulsively; 
 but when Hugh burst into tears, he rose and said in an eager, 
 excited voice — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Doctor Donkiestir, but I believe, in 
 fact I am certain, this poor child was assured that if the affair 
 came to your knowledge, he should be protected from the effects 
 of your displeasure." 
 
 " By those who, for their own selfish purposes, were leading 
 him into evil, I presume ? " inquired the Doctor. Norman 
 making no reply, he continued :— " Did you tell this little fellow 
 such an untruth — pledging yourself to that which you knew 
 you were unable to perform ? " 
 
 " If I did not actually say so, I allowed it to be said in my 
 presence without contradicting it, which amounts to the same 
 thing, sir," replied Norman, colouring. 
 
 *' I am glad to see that you have sufficient right feeling left 
 to be ashamed of your heartless and unmanly conduct," resumed 
 the head-master ; " and I can devise you no more fitting punish- 
 ment, than to show you by practical experience, how powerless 
 you are to counteract the evil consequences of the wrong you 
 have committed. Your appeal only confirms my decision in 
 regard to little Oolville." 
 
 Norman had hitherto succeeded beyond his expectations in 
 his cleverly-devised scheme. His object had been to secure 
 two points : first, to wreak his revenge on Biggington, by 
 forcing him into a struggle, for which he had been for some 
 wrecks past privately training himself under the auspices of a 
 retired pugihst, who kept a public-house in the neighbourhood ; 
 and, secondly, to be expelled for so doing, by which event he 
 should be enabled to join the regiment to which he had been 
 appointed, and upon which all his hopes and wishes were just 
 now centred, four months sooner than he otherwise could have 
 done. Accordingly, till Hugh Colville, for whom he had taken 
 a decided liking, was sentenced to be flogged, Norman had been 
 inwardly congratulating himself on his success ; but the fact of 
 being unable to protect this child, to whom he had by implica- 
 tion pledged himself, wounded his pride and self-respect to such 
 
80 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 a degree, that, as the Doctor had truly observed, no more 
 effective punishment could have been devised for him. 
 
 In the meantime Percy had been v^^orking himself up in'jo a 
 dreadful state of mind. The reflection that Hugh, his lost 
 father's darling, who had scarcely had a cross word spoken to 
 him in his lifetime, and even since he had been at school (owing 
 to his own watchfulness, and the rough good-nature of their cousin 
 Wilfred Goldsmith), had never received an angry blow — the 
 reflection that Hugh, his pet, everybody's pet, was sentenced to 
 be flogged, was more than he could bear with equanimity. What 
 could be done to save him ? He glanced inquiringly towards 
 Wilfred, but that knowing young gentleman shook his head 
 despondingly — the case was beyond his skill; determined to 
 risk a last appeal, he half rose from his seat, but the Doctor's 
 quick glance detected the movement, and he said in a decided, 
 but not an unkind tone of voice — 
 
 " Sit down, Percy Colville ; I am doing what is best for your 
 brother's future interests, and my decision is irrevocable. I will 
 not hear another word on this subject from anybody," he con- 
 tinued angrily, perceiving that Percy still seemed inclined to 
 remonstrate. 
 
 Ernest Carrington's -desk was so situated that he could not 
 only see each movement of the two Colvilles, but could actually 
 hear every word they spoke to each other; thus he became 
 aware that, at the moment in which the Doctor addressed 
 Percy, Hugh started, and made a manful effort to subdue his 
 tears. 
 
 " Hush, Percy," he said, in a broken whisper, " hush, dear, 
 he will be angry with you. I daresay I can bear it ; it's only 
 the disgrace I'm thinking of, and that somebody may tell mamma 
 of it, and make her unhappy, perhaps." And here, despite his 
 efforts, a sob choked his utterance. 
 
 Ernest caught the import of the whisper, and at the same 
 moment he became aware of a timid and appealing glance from 
 Percy, which Hugh also observing, a new light broke in upon 
 him ; for the first time, — believing equally in Ernest's, -yill and 
 power to assist him, — a hope of deliverance suggested itself to 
 him ; and, with a piteous, expressive little face, in which every 
 passing thought and emotion could be read as in an open book, 
 he ako fixed, his large tearful eyes imploringly upon Ernest's 
 countenance. 
 
 And Ernest? — in his own private mind, he had all along 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 81 
 
 considered the Doctor injudiciously severe in regard to Hugh 
 
 he had duly estimated the strength of the temptation, and the 
 poor child's weakness — he had also perceived the depth and 
 sincerity of Hugh's repentance ; and now his promise to do his 
 best to befriend the orphan boys, and the recollection of the fact 
 that he had been the involuntary instrument of Hugh's detec- 
 tion, recurred to him with a force that was irresistible, and 
 springing from his seat, he said — 
 
 " Doctor Donkiestir, I fear the petition I am about to urge 
 may be opposed to the etiquette of the school, but I ask, as a 
 personal favour, that Hugh Colville may not be flogged." 
 
 The Doctor's brow grew dark, but self-restraint in speech 
 had long since become habitual to him. 
 
 " I believe," he said, " I believe I have clearly signified my 
 wish that no further attempt to influence me in Hugh Oolville's 
 favour should be made." 
 
 '* I am aware of your prohibition, sir," returned Ernest, com- 
 pletely carried away by feeling, " but I have pledged myself to 
 befriend these orphan boys, and I will not fly from my word ; I 
 therefore again ask as a personal favour that Hugh Colville shall 
 be let off." 
 
 The Doctor's lips worked convulsively, but by a great exertion 
 of self-control he a second time restrained himself from any out- 
 ward expression of anger. 
 
 " I grant your request, Mr. Carrington," he said gravely, 
 " your position as second master in this school necessitates my 
 doing so. How far your having urged it proves you to be unfitted 
 for that position, is a question which I have yet to consider. 
 Hugh Colville, you may thank Mr. Carrington for your escape 
 from a well-deserved flogging : I hope the narrowness of this 
 escape may impress you for the future, and that, while under 
 my tuition, you may never again merit so severe and disgrace- 
 ful a punishment. And now let the sixth form come up to me 
 in mathematics." 
 
 And so the scene ended. Ernest had redeemed his word^ 
 and saved Hugh from a flogging, but at what amount of per- 
 sonal sacrifice remained yet to be proved. 
 
82 THE FORTUNES OP THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Sir Thomas Crawley paced up and down liis handsome 
 library, a prey to anxiety I — mnch depended on the turn events 
 might take over which he had no control, but which yet must 
 exercise a great and lasting influence on his future career. A 
 ministerial crisis was at hand, and the party to which Sir Thomas 
 belonged would either be turned out, or would retain their 
 position reinforced by a coalition with some of their opponents, 
 and thus become stronger than they had ever before felt them^ 
 selves. If they w^ent out, Sir Thomas was prepared, cleverly 
 and respectably, to " rat," and come in again with the opposi- 
 tion ; but if they remained in, he was equally prepared to 
 adhere to them with the most unshakable fidelity, and to make 
 himself as generally useful and agreeable as in him lay : either 
 way he trusted to see his services rewarded by a baronetcy, and 
 he was only waiting for this desirable consummation, to make 
 an offer of his bad heart, and dirty hand, to the ugly younger 
 daughter of a very aristocratic, disagreeable, old nobleman. If 
 he succeeded in all this, he told himself he should have reached 
 the height of his ambition, and mentally promised his conscience 
 (for, reader, he had a conscience as well as you and I, though 
 we, in our superior sanctity, regard it as a poor limp, damaged, 
 washed-out piece of goods, and look down upon it accordingly, 
 like two fine old English Pharisees as we are) to give up sneaking 
 and shuffling, which he called tact and policy, and live virtuously 
 ever after, as became a member of the aristocracy — thus fitting 
 himself to proceed, via the family vault, to take possession of 
 some equivalent for the Ashburn estates in another world, in 
 regard to which he was fain to own that his title at present was a 
 little — ^just a very little — doubtful. What a bad man Sir Thomas 
 was, to be sure ! How lucky, dear reader, that you and I are so 
 much better than he I 
 
 But Sir Thomas had two friends in the ministry, Messrs. Tad- 
 pole and Taper (the Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli knows 
 them, and has made notable mention of them in his tale of 
 *' Coningsby "), whose views were exactly in accordance with 
 his own, i.e. — to lake the best possible care of their own inte- 
 rests, and (whenever that purpose could be best insured by 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 83 
 
 their so doing) of each other's also ; and Sir Thomas had that 
 morning received the following note, marked " private and con- 
 fidential," from his friend Tadpole : — 
 
 " Dear Sir Thomas, — I have just learned, from an immis- 
 
 talcahle quarter, that it is Lord 's (naming the Premier for 
 
 the time being) intention to apply to you for your living of 
 
 Ashburn for the nephew of Mr. , the colonial Bishop of 
 
 Boreanigger. The coalition is still quite upon the cards, so it 
 would scarcely be advisable to say ' no ; ' while, if they go out, 
 which is more than probable, to say ' yes ' would be certain to- 
 give offence where you would least wish to do so. I would 
 therefore suggest that, if you have not already filled up the 
 vacancy, it w^ould be most desirable to do so without delay, and 
 you will thus avoid the difficulty — verhum sat. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir Thomas, yours very faithfully^ 
 
 *' A. Tadpole." 
 
 " P.S. You will kindly bear in mind that clerkship in the 
 Woods and Forests ; young Grig, Mrs. Tadpole's nephew, is 
 a very promising lad, and in good hands might do credit to his 
 patron." 
 
 Sir Thomas read and re-read the letter. How fortunate that 
 Tadpole had ferreted out this information I but for that he might 
 have been forced to commit himself irrevocAbly to the wrong 
 side — horrible idea I Yes, Tadpole was right : the living must 
 be disposed of without an hour's delay : who should he give it to ? 
 It must be some one without political influence or connection, 
 lest he should give offence to either party ! At this moment, 
 from one of those strange chances which occasionally appear to 
 determine the whole destiny of a lifetime by the agency of a 
 mere trifle. Sir Thomas knocked some papers off his desk, and 
 as he stooped to pick them up, the card Ernest Oarrington had 
 sent in some weeks before fell from among them. He raised it, 
 and regarding it fixedly, as though he were scrutinizing tho 
 person whose name it bore, muttered — 
 
 " Young Oarrington, he is in the Church — why should not 
 he do ? He might, of course, be had at a minute's notice ; — 
 j8800 a year would be a fortune to him; — besides, there's 
 poHcy in the thing — I find North Park (a farm of some five 
 hundred acres) is in the entail ; if he were to get scent of it, 
 and could obtain access to the papers, he 'might claim it any 
 
84 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 day ; his boyish, chivalrous scruples are sure to wear out ; this 
 would bind him to me by the tie of gratitude : he is just one of 
 those hot-headed, romantic dispositions that are always absurdly 
 grateful. Gad ! I could not have hit on a fitter person ; I'll 
 write to him at once : I've got his direction, somewhere ;" — as 
 he spoke, he began tossing over papers and letters in search of 
 the missing direction. " A very good thought," he continued ; 
 " I could see through that young fellow in a minute ; he may 
 be managed as easy as a child, if you only take advantage of 
 his weak points. I like 'em of what they call an open dispo- 
 sition ; they show you their whole hand at starting ; it's your 
 close, crafty, quiet dogs that are the hardest to deal with. I 
 shall make a point with him that he gets every farthing out of 
 that proud, haughty Mrs. Colville, and her conceited, stuck-up 
 minx of a daughter ; they've looked down upon me, and never 
 liked me, I know : they'll be sorry for it some day." 
 
 Ernest Carrington, when he returned to his rooms after 
 morning school, found two letters on his table. The first he 
 lopened was from Dr. Donkiestir, and ran as follows : — 
 
 " My Dear Sir, — It is with considerable pain that I feel it 
 my duty to urge upon you the propriety of resigning your 
 position, as Mathematical and Classical Master, at the school of 
 which I have the honour to be Principal. As regards talent 
 and acquirements, I have never before had so able an assistant, 
 but there are other qualities necessary in the onerous position 
 of second-master of such a school as that over which I have, 
 since its establishment, presided, which are equally important. 
 In these qualities, the injudicious manner in which you this 
 morning allowed, what I admit to have been an impulse of 
 generous feeling, to hurry you into a breach of scholastic disci- 
 pline, which a more hasty man than myself might have con- 
 strued into a personal insult, proves you to be utterly wanting. 
 It is to avoid the possibility of your again placing both yourself 
 and me in such a false and dijGficult position, that I thus reluc- 
 tantly press upon you the advisability of your immediate resig- 
 nation. When a few more years shall have passed over your 
 head, maturing your judgment, and tempering your impulsive 
 disposition, I can conceive you will prove eminently quaUfied 
 for the responsible, yet interesting office of an instructor to 
 youth. In the meantime, I would advise your looking out for 
 a curacy, or a situation as tutor to some young nobleman about 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE OOLVILLE FAMILY. 85 
 
 to travel. I shall have much pleasure in c:ivinfx you unexcep- 
 tionable testimonials for such a purpose, or in furthering your 
 interest, to the extent of my power, in any other manner you 
 may point out. — Awaiting your reply, 
 ** I remain, dear Sir, 
 
 *' Yours very faithfully, 
 
 *•' John Bannibal Donkiestir, D.D." 
 
 "So that is my reward for my philanthropy, is it?" was 
 Ernest Carrington's mental comment as he finished perusing 
 the Doctor's letter. " Well, I daresay I did wrong to interfere, 
 but I should hate myself if I could have sat by and watched 
 the expression in that boy, Percy Colville's, beautiful face, or 
 listened to that poor little child's heart-broken sobs, and not tried 
 to help them — I'm glad I've saved the little fellow, at all events; 
 no more teaching for me ; I'd sooner go out as a missionary, 
 and try to wash blackamore heathens into piebald Christiana 
 than that. Well, now for a curacy, hard labour, and genteel 
 starvation on jg80 a year ; never mind, I shall be my own 
 master, at all events, and may do some good amongst the poor 
 people : no drudgery can be worse than this horse-in-a-mill life 
 I have been leading of late. A letter from Sir Thomas Crawley I 
 What can he w^ant of me ? I've no more birthrights to sell for 
 a mess of pottage;" and with such hard, but not unnatural, 
 thoughts running in his brain, he broke the seal, and read as 
 follo^v8 : — 
 
 " My DEAR YOUNG KiNSMAN, — Evcr slucc I had the pleasure 
 of making your acquaintance, and learning the very sensible 
 views you hold on all topics, political and religious — views 
 which agree so remarkably with my own — I have been turn- 
 ing in my mind how best I may assist you, and have come 
 to the conclusion that I cannot better discharge my duty as a 
 patron of ecclesiastical preferment, than by offering you my 
 Hving of Ashburn, now vacant. The parish contains from six 
 hundred to six hundred and fifty souls, and the living is worth 
 eight hundred per annum, with a parsonage -house and glebe 
 attached ; you will thus be rendered independent of any pecu- 
 niary difficulties, and able to apply your mind entirely to that 
 deeply interesting subject, the religious and social improvement 
 of the labouring classes. I have only two provisos to make : — 
 one is, that if you approve of the position I offer yon, yoii will 
 
8f) THE FORTUNES OF THE COLYILLE FAM1LY» 
 
 Bignify your acceptance of it by return of post (my reason for 
 this I will explain satisfactorily when we meet) ; the other, that 
 you promise to urge your claim upon the estate of the late in- 
 cumbent for dilapidations in the house and glebe. I am sure 
 you will agree with me, that the Church is bound, in this latitu- 
 dinarian age, to protect her property ; and I can bestow my 
 living upon no one who will not give me a distinct pledge upon 
 this point. 
 
 " I remain, my dear young kinsman, 
 
 *' Your affectionate friend and relative, 
 
 *' Thomas Crawley, K.C.B." 
 
 Poor Ernest I The revulsion of feeling was almost too much 
 for him, and in his contrition for the hard thoughts he had 
 entertained of Sir Thomas Crawley, he dashed off a hasty letter, 
 full of generous feeling and overflowing with gratitude, in which 
 he thankfully accepted the living, and pledged himself to see 
 full justice done to the interests of the Church as embodied .in 
 the Ashburn Rectory dilapidations : he was sorry for it after- 
 wards, when but we must not anticipate 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE ROSEBUD SKETCHES FROM MEMORY. 
 
 Reader ! dear reader ! nay, on the chance of your being a 
 young lady, and, therefore, necessarily charming, we will go the 
 whole length of the adjective, and say at once, dearest reader I 
 (of course, asking your pardon for the liberty, and feehng quite 
 sure you are only too ready to grant it, because you are such 
 an amiable sex) ; — don't you think — (by the way, how very 
 becoming that new plan of plaiting a pig-tail of your back hair, 
 and twisting it round like a coronal over your front hair, is to 
 you — it gives quite a Classical, Grecian, Etruscan, and all that 
 sort of thing, style to your contour) — don't you think, dearest 
 reader, that we have for much too long a time lost sight of, and 
 practically ignored, and altogether cruelly and abominably 
 deserted, and neglected, the Rosebud of Ashburn ? and she all 
 the while, in the self-denial of her nature (a species of self- 
 denial, by the way, which would be very generally practised 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY- 87 
 
 and become exceedingly popnlar, if we were but sufficiently 
 philanthropic to divulge the recipe), has only been growing 
 prettier and more fatally fascinating every day. 
 
 Oh, that dangerous, irresistible little Kosebud ! There she 
 sat, looking as demure as if she wasn't always ready to smash 
 any amount of hearts into the smallest possible pieces, on the 
 shortest notice .imaginable, toiling busily over an absurd little 
 crochet purse, which she was manufacturing literally " by hook 
 and by crook," against Mr. Selby's birthday, when^ she in- 
 tended to present him with it " to keep all his sovereigns in ;" 
 though if he could have kept all his sovereigns in that pretty 
 little folly, the said folly would very soon have had a sinecure, 
 and poor Mr. Selby have been a ruined snob, instead of a 
 prosperous one. 
 
 Now, we do not object to mention in confidence, though we 
 should not wish it repeated, that the Rosebud, albeit a most 
 dutiful and affectionate daughter, had, since the boys went to 
 school, found her life very dull and monotonous, and was getting 
 decidedly " hard up " for excitement ; — pleasurable excitement 
 would, of course, have been her choice, but even a little mild 
 persecution would not have come amiss, in this dearth of variety : 
 she had expected Sir Thomas Crawley would have given away 
 the living, and some horrid interloper have arrived to turn them 
 out of house and home long ere this, but no ; day after day 
 passed by without producing even the ghost of an incident, and 
 the unfortunate and victimised Rosebud was reduced to sit by 
 herself and look pretty, without any one to reap the benefit 
 thereof. What a cruel situation for a vivacious Rosebud I 
 
 Mrs. Colville had been absent nearly an hour, and Emily, who 
 stayed at home to get on with her crochet (for the next day was 
 the eventful birthday, and she was alarmed lest her offering 
 should not be ready in time), had been all by her small and 
 pretty self, and had croched away so hard that she had croched 
 herself into a headache ; — perceiving this to be the case, she 
 laid down her work and feh a thinking, and having nothing 
 agreeable to reflect upon in the present, she began to '' try 
 back," till she had mentally jibbed as far as the day when she, 
 and her friend Caroline, had been frightened by the footpad, and 
 rescued by an interesting young stranger, whom you and I, 
 dearest reader, know to have been Ernest Carrington, although 
 the Rosebud was still in ignorance of that fact. From sheer 
 listlessness, and want of anything better to think about, Emily 
 
88 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 began speculating as to whom her deliverer could possibly have 
 been, and whether, by any odd chance, she should ever meet 
 him again, and if so, whether he would recollect her, or she 
 him, when it occurred to her to try if she could remember his 
 features well enough to sketch them. Emily had rather a talent 
 for taking likenesses, so she provided herself with a pencil and 
 a piece of paper, and drew away till she had produced, what an 
 auctioneer would have termed, a " splendid portrait of a nice 
 young man." Having accomplished this feat, she held up her 
 performance to scrutinise it, drawing back her head and bend- 
 ing her slender neck from side to side, like some graceful bird, 
 till she got the light to fall properly upon her sketch, — " Yes, I 
 think that is very like him," she said, " only it hasn't got quite 
 his expression — there was something so calm and — spiritual, I 
 suppose it would be called, in his look; he was very handsome, 
 certainly ; I wonder who he could be I " Resuming her pencil, 
 she added two or three finishing touches, then appended to it 
 her initials, and the date, with the intention of adding it to a 
 select gallery of portraits of remarkable ball-partners, and other 
 heroes of her imagination, which reposed inviolate within the 
 sacred precincts of her writing-desk ; but, at this moment, the 
 house-door opened and Mrs. Colville entered, so hastily that 
 Emily had only time to thrust her portrait between the leaves 
 of the nearest book (which happened to be a volume of Blair's 
 Sermons), ere her mother had joined her. 
 
 " Mamma, you are tired," she said, as Mrs. Colville, hurriedly 
 drawing off her gloves, seated herself on the sofa ; observing 
 
 her more attentively, she continued, " You look pale, and 
 
 You are not ill ? Has anything happened ?" 
 
 Mrs. Colville smiled faintly. " I am not ill, darling," she 
 said, " but — but — the new rector is appointed, and we must 
 leave this house next week ;" and overcome by the idea of 
 quitting the home where she had passed so many happy years 
 with him who was no more, but whom she had loved, nay, still 
 loved so well (for hers was one of those rare and true affections 
 which only begin on earth), the widow burst into tears. In an 
 instant, Emily flew to her side, quietly removed her bonnet, 
 and then, with the deUcate instinct of a true woman's nature, 
 feeling that her sympathy could best be shown by silent tender- 
 ness, she gently drew her mother's head towards her till it rested 
 on her bosom, and suffered her to weep unrestrained. But 
 Mrs. Colville, although on this occasion the suddenness of the 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 89 
 
 shock had overcome her habitual self-control, was by no means 
 a weak character, and she soon recovered herself. 
 
 " I did not mean to distress you thus, dearest," she said 
 " but the announcement was made to me so abruptly ; Sir 
 Thomas — I do not wish to speak against him — but he is not a 
 man of any delicacy of feeling." 
 
 *' He I" interrupted Emily, " he has no more feeling than the 
 most obdurate old paving-stone that ever refused to be mac- 
 adamised." 
 
 " He has certainly not shown much consideration towards us 
 in our sorrow," returned the widow, '* but I bear him no ill- 
 will : he only exacts his legal rights, and I have no business to 
 blame because nature has not gifted him with delicate percep- 
 tion. But I was going to tell you : Mr. Selby received a note 
 from him this morning, saying — but here it is ; Mr. Selby gave 
 it to me to show you." 
 
 As she spoke, Mrs. Colville placed the note in her daughter's 
 hands. It ran thus : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I have at length found a suitable person on 
 whom to bestow the living of Ashburn. The new incumbent 
 will read himself in on Sunday next. I presume, from the 
 length of time which has elapsed since the late rector's decease, 
 that his family have quitted the parsonage. Should this not be 
 the case, will you apprise Mrs. Colville of my desire that she 
 should do so with as little loss of time as possible. The gentle- 
 man to whom I have given the preferment, holds most strongly 
 the same views as myself, as to the necessity of guarding against 
 the deterioration of Church property, and has, at my sugges- 
 tion, written to Mrs. Colville's solicitor, to announce his intention 
 of claiming, to the utmost farthing, the sum due for dilapida- 
 tions ; which debt I depend upon you to see liquidated. You 
 will oblige me by doing everything in your power to facilitate 
 all arrangements the new rector may wish to make. I leave 
 Ashburn early to-morrow for London ; therefore shall be glad 
 to see you this evening, when I can explain my intentions 
 more fully. 
 
 '* I remain, dear sir, 
 
 " Yours, &c., 
 
 "Thomas Crawley, K.C.B." 
 
 " What a cruel, heartless letter ! " exclaimed Emily ; " and 
 this horrible new rector appears to be as unfeeling as his patron; 
 
9© THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 but of course Sir Thomas has picked out some dreadful old 
 creature like himself ; he had better have given the living to 
 dear, tiresome Mr. Slowkopf than to this unpleasant man. But 
 mamma, dearest, what is to become of us?" 
 
 " Mr. Selby advises my taking the cottage on the common," 
 was the reply : " it will just hold us and the boys, and I do not 
 wish to quit this neighbourhood, at least till Percy is old enough 
 to leave school." 
 
 *' Well, the plan has its advantages ; it would break my heart to 
 leave dear CaroHne, certainly," rejoined the Rosebud, musing ; " the 
 worst feature in the case is this dreadful new rector — I've taken a 
 thorough aversion to him already — it is so unpleasant to dislike 
 one's clergyman I I know he will be horrible, I've a presenti- 
 ment about him, and my presentiments always come true." 
 
 And so the Rosebud chatted on, partly to make up for her 
 long silence, and partly to divert her mother from the sad 
 thoughts which she could see were still depressing her, till 
 Sarah coming to lay the cloth for their frugal meal, she tripped 
 off to get ready for dinner, quite forgetting a certain portrait 
 she had sketched ; and Mrs. Colville, being of a neat and 
 orderly disposition, perceiving a stray volume of Blair's Ser- 
 mons lying about, put it, and all it contained, away in its proper 
 place in the book-shelves. 
 
 Saturday came, and with it the new rector ; he w\as to stay 
 at Mr. Selby's till the rectory was ready for him. Despite her 
 prejudices and presentiments, the Rosebud was decidedly carious 
 to see him, and actually made a pretence to gather some flowers 
 for the drawing-room (although they were to leave on Monday), 
 in hopes that, hidden behind the great laurel, she might catch 
 a ghmpse of him in the act of arriving, Caroline having told 
 her by what train he was to' travel. But unfortunately, after 
 waiting a quarter of an hour, she had just gone into the house 
 for the garden-scissors, when the railway fly drove past, and 
 her utmost endeavours only enabled her to catch the retreating 
 outline of — a black leather portmanteau. Before she w^nt in, 
 however, Mr. Slowkopf, who in his heavy way was always 
 extremely gallant towards the Rosebud, made his appearance, 
 clad in his best suit of black (which was inferior to any other 
 clergyman's worst), on his way to dine clicz Selby, and be 
 introduced to his new rector ; and hearing from the young 
 lady (who looked upon him in the light of a half-childish 
 grandpapa, or thereabouts) that she wished to learn something 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 91 
 
 of the appearance, manners, habits, customs, zoology, pathology^ 
 ethnology, and general statistics, of the illustrious stranger, ho 
 promised to look in for five minutes on his way home (being 
 Saturday night, he should come away very early), and report 
 progress. 
 
 Of course Emily told her mamma of this arrangement, and of 
 course Mrs. Oolville smiled, and called her a silly little goose for 
 not having patience to wait till to-morrow ; adding that, for 
 her own part, she was used to Mr. Slowkopf, and should be 
 sorry to see any one else in his place ; and then with a sigh she 
 quitted the room. 
 
 Ten o'clock came, and M'ith it Mr. Slowkopf, who looked and 
 felt rather peculiar, wdiich might be accounted for by the fact 
 that his usual beverage was spring water, but that, on the 
 evening in question, he had been prevailed upon to drink two 
 or three glasses of wine. Instead of creeping into the most 
 lonely corner of the apartment, and finding something uncom- 
 fortable to sit upon, he advanced boldly into the room, and 
 saying cheerfully, " Well, you see, ladies, here I am," he drew 
 an arm-chair exactly between Mrs. Colville and the fire, and 
 seated himself thereupon, chuckling with the air of a man 
 conscious of a good joke, but completely in the dark as to what 
 might be the nature or subject thereof. 
 
 The Rosebud was so deeply affected (in what manner we 
 leave our readers to guess) by this unaccountable behaviour, 
 that she dared not trust herself to speak; so Mrs. Colville, 
 seeing that the curate appeared likely to chuckle himself to sleep 
 without making any further attempts at conversation, began — 
 
 " Well, JMr. Slowkopf, are your never going to satisfy our 
 curiosity ? " 
 
 Thus abjured, that individual started, looked round in con- 
 fusion, and then in some degree relapsing into his usual manner, 
 only smiling vacantly all the time, he said — 
 
 " Before I can comply with your request, my dear madam, I 
 must inquire to what particular subject the curiosity to which 
 you allude especially applies ?" 
 
 " Oh I Mr. Slowkopf, you're only trying to tease," exclaimed 
 Emily, recovering her voice and her curiosity simultaneously. 
 " Of course about the new rector: what's he like ? come tell 
 us — quick I " 
 
 " He's like," replied the curate, pausing on each syllable, as 
 if conversation were an electric telegraph office, and he had to 
 
92 THE FORTUNES OF THIS COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 pay extra for every additional word he uttered — " he's very like 
 — most other young clergymen." 
 
 " Then he is young ? " continued Emily interrogatively : " is 
 he tall, gentlemanly, handsome ? " 
 
 " He's not, at least as far as I observed — but such things 
 don't make much impression on me" ("I wonder what does /" 
 was Emily's sotto voce comment) — " but I should say, he's not 
 what would be generally called — hard-featured. I only hope," 
 he continued solemnly — " I only hope that he may turn out 
 sound : there was something I didn't like about that Hock." 
 
 " Indeed I " returned Emily, looking very grave, with the 
 exception of her eyes, which were laughing wickedly, " inci- 
 pient spavin, perhaps." 
 
 For a moment Mr. Slowkopf gazed at her in sheer amaze- 
 ment ; then a faint consciousness of her meaning gradually 
 dawned upon him, and he replied — 
 
 " Similarity of sound has not unnaturally misled you in regard 
 to the import of my observation, Miss Emily : the Hock to 
 which I alluded was not, as you conceive, the elbow -joint of a 
 horse's hind-leg, but a choice sample of Rhenish wine, hospit- 
 ably produced by Mr. Selby for our gratification ; in regard to 
 which Mr. Carrington was pleased to observe that it was not 
 the only good thing that came from Germany — a remark which 
 I conceived might refer to the German school of theology, 
 whence, by logical progression, I was led to doubt the soundness 
 of the new rector's doctrinal views." 
 
 And having delivered himself of this ponderous explanation, 
 Mr. Slowkopf rose up as suddenly as if he had been propelled 
 by a spring, after the fashion of that much-enduring public 
 character Jack-in -a-box, and abruptly taking leave of the two 
 ladies, broke his shins over a chair, and was gone. 
 
 " Why, mamma dear, what has come to the creature ? " ex- 
 claimed Emily : '* is he going entirely to take leave of the few 
 genses wherewith nature has so scantily endowed him ? " 
 
 " You're too pert to him, my love," was the reply ; " he's a 
 very excellent young man ; and always drinking water at home, 
 is naturally more elated by a glass or two of wine, than a less 
 abstemious person would be." 
 
 " Oh ! that is the secret, is it — the wretch ; I shall send him 
 some teetotal tracts to-morrow. I've got * A Voice from the 
 Pump,* and ' Cold Comfort for chilly Christians,' still left : they'll 
 suit his case charminarlv." 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. yd 
 
 And 80 saying, the incorrigible Rosebud tripped off to bed, 
 where, straightway falling asleep, she dreamed, that being in 
 church, and the new rector turning out to be a fine young 
 piebald centaur, she clearly perceived, as he cantered up the 
 pulpit stairs, whisking a most unclerical switch tail, that he was 
 decidedly spavined in the off hind-leg. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AN " ELEGANT EXTRACT " FROM BLAIR's SERMONS. 
 
 An unfortunate necessity existing to compress this our vera- 
 cious history of "the Fortunes of the Oolville Family " within the 
 limits of one small volume, a great many incidents on which we 
 would gladly expatiate can merely be sketched in outline, while 
 we must leave the reader's imagination to fill in the details. 
 
 Amongst these " fancy portraits " must be included the 
 pretty face of our little heroine, characterised by the look of 
 astonishment with which she recognised, in her new spiritual 
 pastor, the handsome hero of the footpad adventure, together 
 with the becoming blush consequent upon the discovery. 
 
 Another leaf of the sketch-book must be devoted to Percy 
 and Hugh's first return for the hoHdays, and their delight in 
 renewing their acquaintance with their kind friend and pro- 
 tector at Tickletown, together with the consequent intimacy 
 which ensued between the cottage and the rectory. 
 
 The new incumbent soon won " golden opinions " from rich 
 and poor. Sir Thomas Crawley, who had wriggled himself 
 into the new ministry, and obtained the appointment of envoy 
 to the court of one of the German potentates — a position which 
 he hoped would secure for him the baronetcy as a retiring pen- 
 sion — had taken up a superstitious notion that his success was 
 a reward for the good action of appointing Ernest Carrington to 
 the living of Ashburn ; and in order still to propitiate the 
 fickle goddess, he continued to heap favours upon his protege, 
 till worthy Mr. Selby, unaccustomed to such freaks of benevo- 
 lence on the part of his patron, began to fear the air of 
 Germany had produced some strange effect upon Sir Thomas's 
 brain. 
 
 Mr. Slowkopf, too, had gradually arrived at the conviction 
 that Mr. Carrington was " a most praiseworthy and remarkable 
 
91 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 yoniig man," and, once assured that he had no lingering affec- 
 tion for modern Teutonic heresies, he yielded himself to the 
 fascinations of his rector's manner and address, and became one 
 of the most devoted of his admirers. 
 
 Faithful to his pledge, Ernest exacted every farthing of the 
 dilapidations to which he had a legal claim ; but then he took 
 at a valuation Mrs. Colville's furniture and live stock (com- 
 prising Samson the pony, an orthodox and superannuated cow, 
 some fine old Protestant cocks and hens, the annual pig, and 
 the perennial yard-dog, which latter individual always barked 
 at the wrong time, would go to church, and howl at the sing- 
 ing-psalms, whenever he could get loose, and cost rather more 
 to feed than did his new master), and, trusting to the widow's 
 ignorance of business matters, contrived to pay a sum for these 
 conveniences which made the dilapidations fall very lightly 
 upon her pocket. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Colville was more clear-sighted than he 
 expected, or whether his kind interference to protect Hugh 
 from punishment, of which she heard an account from Percy, 
 had won her heart, certain it is that the dislike with which the 
 widow was prepared to view her lost husband's successor, soon 
 changed to an almost maternal regard for the young man who 
 so well performed the duties which IMr. Colville's death had left 
 unfulfilled. The only person who appeared insensible to the 
 merits of this general favourite, was the capricious little Rose- 
 bud ; but she, very early in the session, seceded to the opposi- 
 tion benches, and constituted in her own pretty person a 
 formidable minority of one. 
 
 Nearly two years had elapsed since our tale began, and 
 Percy and Hugh were again at home for their Christmas 
 holidays. The party, consisting of Mrs. Colville and Emily, 
 the two boys, their cousin Wilfred — now promoted to tail coats 
 €ind a stool in the paternal counting-house — and the rector and 
 curate, who, having happened to look in, had been asked to stay 
 to tea, were gathered round the fire in the snug little drawing- 
 room in the cottage. There had been a pause in the conversa- 
 tion, of which Mr. Slowkopf availed himself to address the 
 Rosebud. 
 
 " It is a singular and remarkable fact, Miss Emily," he 
 began in his usual deUberate manner : " it is a most singular 
 and remarkable fact, that, intimate as I have long had the 
 privilege of being in this family, I never, until this morning, 
 
THK FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 95 
 
 when jMaster Hugli obligingly gave mo an ncconntof the trans- 
 action, was aware of your having been alarmed by a footpad, 
 and providentially rescued by the benevolent interference of 
 our excellent rector here ;" and as he spoke he indicated Ernest 
 by a flap of his larboard fin, with about as much grace as a seal 
 might have displayed under similar circumstances. 
 
 ** Ay, what was that ?" inquired Wilfred Goldsmith, eagerly. 
 *' Tell us about it, Shortshanks " (an elegant Tickletonian 
 sobriquet for Hugh) : " I like to hear of shindies." 
 
 Thus appealed to, Hugh, nothing loth, proceeded to give a 
 full, true, and particular account of the adventure ; which, as 
 Ernest was aware that he must have derived his information 
 originally from the Rosebud herself, he listened to with a quiet 
 smile, — more particularly when he heard himself described as 
 a tall and graceful young man, of singularly prepossessing 
 appearance. 
 
 " Well, it was a plucky thing well done, and I give you 
 credit for it, Mr. Carrington," was Wilfred's comment, as Hugh 
 concluded. 
 
 " Really I'm quite overpowered," returned Ernest, with an 
 affectation of extreme humility ; *' my poor exertions were a 
 great deal too humble to deserve an eulogium from Mr. Wilfred 
 Goldsmith." Wilfred, who since we last heard of him had 
 altered only by becoming in every respect " rather more so," 
 winced slightly, for he knew that Ernest was laughing at him : 
 — lest any one else should make the same discovery, he has- 
 tened to divert attention by attacking his fair relative. 
 
 " You must have been finely astonished, Cousin Emily," he 
 said, " when you recognised the interesting knight-errant 
 peeping over the pulpit-cushion." 
 
 "Did you know him again directly, Emmy?" inquired 
 Hugh. 
 
 " Of course she did," rejoined Wilfred. " Do you think she 
 did not dream of the features of her gallant deliverer twice a 
 week regularly for the next half year, at least ?" 
 
 "Indeed, I did nothing of the kind, you absurd boy!" 
 exclaimed the Rosebud, eagerly. " As well as I remember, I 
 did happen to recognise Mr. Carrington, but I really wonder 
 that I should have done so ; for I was so dreadfully frightened 
 on the first occasion, that I could think of nothing but the 
 horrible man who had attempted to take my money ;" and as 
 the proud Puss uttered this slightly apocryphal statement, she 
 
96 THE FORTUNES OF THE OOLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 gave her head a little pettish toss, which meant a great deal, 
 and expressed its meaning unmistakably — at least so thought 
 Ernest Carrington ; and the grave expression of his face became 
 graver than ever. 
 
 ** Talking of falling among thieves," began Mr. Slowkopf, 
 addressing Ernest, " reminds me of the last time I met you." 
 
 " Complimentary, very," muttered Wilfred, sotto voce. 
 
 " We were then discussing the subject of white lies, as they 
 are called," resumed Mr. Slowkopf; "now I have since recol- 
 lected a passage in one of the sermons of that learned and 
 excellent divine, Blair, which affords a curious commentary on 
 what we are saying. I cannot remember his words, but you'll 
 find it in the fourth sermon in the second volume." 
 
 " We have Blair's Sermons," remarked Mrs. Colville ; " they 
 are on the book -shelves by you, Mr. Carrington, if you wish to 
 refer to the passage." 
 
 "The second volume, I think you said, Slowkopf?" inquired 
 Ernest, taking down the book as he spoke. Receiving an 
 affirmative grunt, the young clergyman turned his chair, so 
 that the firelight fell strongly on the book, leaving his face in 
 shadow, w^hich circumstance prevented the fact from transpiring, 
 that scarcely had he opened the volume when he gave a sudden 
 start, then coloured violently, and then examined the page 
 before him most carefully and minutely. Having completed 
 his investigation, he turned over two or three leaves, and, in 
 his usual voice and manner, read aloud the paragraph to which 
 the curate had referred. 
 
 In the meantime, Hugh, by dint of coaxing, had inveigled 
 his mother into providing the materials for a bowl of snapdragon, 
 wherein, to his great delight, Mr. Slowkopf was induced 
 solemnly, heavily, and perseveringly, to burn his reverend fingers 
 in fishing out almonds and raisins, which he invariably dropped, 
 for Hugh to pick up and eat. Just when the fun was at its 
 highest, and even Mrs. Colville joining heartily in the chorus of 
 laughter, Ernest approached the Rosebud, with the volume 
 still in his hand, and said quietly — 
 
 " Pray, Miss Colville, do you ever study Blair's Sermons?" 
 
 "Oh, I have read some of them," was the reply ; " but why 
 do you ask ? — are you afraid I shall find you out if you appro- 
 priate the worthy man's ideas ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, he appears to have appropriated some- 
 thing of mine," was the answer. 
 
THI-: FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 97 
 
 " Indeed ! and what might that be ?" returned the Rosebud, 
 wliolly unconscious of the dangerous ground upon which she 
 was treading. 
 
 "Only, as Mr. Slowkopf judiciously observed, a very singular 
 comnientary on the subject we were discussing — white lies I" 
 was the reply ; and as he spoke, Ernest opened the volume he 
 held in his hand and disclosed to the eyes of the horrified Rose- 
 bud, a certain pencil-sketch, with its tell-tale date and initials, 
 which possibly the reader may not have forgotten as entirely 
 as the tair artist had done. 
 
 In an instant a crimson blush suffused her face and neck, and 
 turning away her head, she struggled successfully against a 
 strong inclination to burst into tears; recovering herself, she 
 said hastily, and in a tone which indicated a mixture of wounded 
 feeling and of anger — 
 
 *' I consider you have insulted me, Mr. Carrington ; it is 
 most unkind — unworthy of you !" 
 
 What Ernest might have replied to this especially unpleasant 
 address, can never be known ; for at that moment, Mr. Slow- 
 kopf, in an agony of digital combustion, overturned the bowl 
 of snapdragon, and, during the confusion which ensued, Emily 
 contrived to leave the drawing-room unobserved. 
 
 For some reason or other, Ernest did not sleep very well 
 that night ; and the first thing next morning he wrote a note 
 explanatory and apologetic, to the Rosebud, and having 
 despatched it, sat down to finish his sermon, but got no farther 
 than " Dearly beloved," till the messenger returned. The 
 answer contained his epistle unopened, and the following 
 note : — 
 
 ** Miss Colville presents her compliments to Mr. Carrington, 
 and begs to say, that as any discussion of the occurrence of 
 yesterday evening must be equally useless and painful, she 
 has thought it most advisable to return his note unread. Miss 
 Colville trusts Mr. Carrington will not allow this silly affair to 
 influence his manner towards Miss Colville or the boys, as such 
 an interruption to an intimacy which is so agreeable and bene- 
 ficial to them, would prove a source of deep and additional 
 annoyance to her." 
 
 Ernest was very sorry for what he had done, but he saw this 
 was not the fitting time to endeavour to repair the breach ; so, 
 
 B 
 
98 THE FORTUNHS OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 being a sensible yonng man, he let the Rosebud have her own 
 wilful way ; and when the boys returned to school, informed 
 Mrs. Colvillo he was about to prepare a volume of sermons for 
 publication, which would occupy all his leisure hours; and that 
 she must not think he meant to cut her, if his visits assumed 
 the angelic property of being '' few and far between ;" — as he 
 said this, he observed the Rosebud's eyes fixed upon him with 
 a peculiar expression in them — could it be regret ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CONTAINS MUCH DOCTOr's STUFF, AND OTHER RUBBISH. 
 
 Ernest was true to his word — all that spring and summer he 
 worked at his sermons and his parish, like an ecclesiastical 
 galley-slave, till the volume was finished, and all the people 
 had become so good, that if it had not been for christenings,, 
 weddings, and funerals, they would scarcely have required 
 the services of a clergyman at all. Indeed, carrying out the 
 doctrine of self-denial logically, and to its fullest extent, we 
 doubt whether a rectory might not be regarded as a super- 
 fluous luxury, a kind of canonical pomp and vanity, and there- 
 fore a stumbling-block to be removed from the spiritual highway 
 of that super-excellent community. 
 
 But waiting sermons, and instilling pure and heavenly prm- 
 ciples into the decidedly earthly. minds of small shopkeepers and 
 needy agricultural labourers, albeit a high and sacred calling, 
 considered abstractedly and as a whole, is yet, taken in detail, a 
 very trying vocation to a man possessing, in no common degree, 
 a taste for intellectual pursuits, and a strong appreciation of 
 refined society. Thus it came to pass that one fine morning (it 
 was the 12th of August) Ernest, having written a report of a 
 district meeting for the propagation of the Gospel in parts so 
 very foreign that the propagators themselves would have been 
 puzzled to find them on the map, leaned back in his chair and 
 wondered how sundry college frielids of his were getting on 
 among the grouse, when a note in the Rosebud's handwriting 
 was brought to him. With sparkling eyes and a slight accession 
 of colour to his pale cheeks, he read as follows : — 
 
 ** Dear Mr. Carrington, — Mamma is very ill — how ill I do 
 not know — and fear to learn. Mr. Pillanbill (do vou consider 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 90 
 
 liirn clever ?) tells me not to be alarmed, which frightens me 
 terribly. May I hope you will come to us — poor mamma is 
 able and anxious to see you, and you will tell me whether any- 
 thing else can or ought to be done. Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Emily Colville." 
 
 Within ten minutes after the note had reached him Ernest 
 was at the cottage. Emily received him wdth a blush and a 
 smile. " How kind and good of you to come so quickly I " she 
 said. Tears trembled in her eyes. Ernest had never seen her 
 look so pretty. 
 
 " How good of 7/ou to send for me I " he replied : " I hope," 
 he continued — " I hope it proves that I am forgiven ? " 
 
 Emily hung her head — " If you please, we will never refer to 
 that again," she said, entreatingly ; " I was very proud and 
 foolish, and behaved very ill; but you are wdse enough to for- 
 give, an^ kind enough to forget : is it not so ? " 
 
 Err ost took her hand and pressed it warmly, nor was it 
 immediately withdrawn. 
 
 Mrs. Colville was seriously ill ; and having sat with her for 
 some time, the rector obtained her permission to inquire whether 
 Mr. Pillanbill would object to meet Dr. Twiggit, and learn if 
 they agreed in their view of the case, just to satisfy Miss Col- 
 ville's natural anxietj^ 
 
 Mr. Pillanbill graciously consented. Dr. Twiggit resided ten 
 miles off, and had too good a practice near home to make it 
 worth his while to poach upon his (P.'s) manor for the sake of 
 a single outlying patient with a limited purse. So Dr. Twiggit 
 was summoned, and came ; he w-as a little man, with a large 
 hooked nose and an ornithological cast of countenance, as of a 
 shrew^i fowl. Having strutted and clapped his wings, and, si:) 
 to speak, crowed over the apothecary and the Rosebud, and 
 looked as if he would have liked uncommonly to fight Ernest for 
 a handful of barley, he entered the sick-room, where first, w-ith 
 two little bright bead-like eyes, he looked clean through poor 
 Mrs. Colville into the mattress and feather-bed; next, he stretched 
 out a claw to feel her pulse ; then he pecked at her to make 
 her put out her tongue ; then he shook his feathers and crowed 
 o\ev her ; and then he chased Pillanbill round and out of the 
 room for the consultation, which ran thus: — 
 Twiggit. — " Clear case I " 
 Pillanhill. — " No mistake I " 
 
100 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 Twiggii. — " Hepatico-cerebreosistosis, first stage." 
 
 PiUanbill.—" Quite so." 
 
 Twiggit. — " What have you thrown in ?" 
 
 Piilanbill hands prescription. Hydrarg: — mysterious cipher, 
 looking like a 3 with two heads — Rhei: pulvo : — another cipher, 
 worse than the first, &c., &c. 
 
 Twiggit reads — " Hum I yes, ha I good I " (returns prescrip- 
 tion), " can't be better — ar — I think that is all to-day, ar — 
 needn't send for me unless any symptoms of spiflicatio appear, 
 and then it will be too late ; keep the feet warm, head cool, 
 nourishing slops, bland puddings — but you know — good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 So saying, the talented M.D., who was in himself a modern 
 instance of the mythical relation existing between Esculapius 
 and the cock, strutted out to his carriage a richer man by five 
 guineas than he had been when he quitted that vehicle. 
 
 Mrs. Colville's was a very severe illness, and at one time her 
 state was most critical; but, thanks to a patient and resigned 
 spirit, and an excellent constitution, after three weeks of intense 
 anxiety to those who watched over her, she began to show 
 symptoms of amendment. From the day on which Ernest had 
 received the Rosebud's summons, to the happy moment when 
 Doctors Twiggit and Piilanbill took their leave, he had shown 
 the unceasing affection of a son towards Mrs. Colville, and of 
 a brother towards Emily. Hour after hour had he attended 
 the sick woman's bedside, reading to her or conversing with her 
 on those all-important subjects that, at such seasons, become 
 invested with a deep and solemn interest which in our happier 
 moments they too often fail to excite in our weak and fallen 
 natures. And as Emily sat by, and heard the words of the 
 inspired volume, rendered yet more beautiful and impressive 
 by the correct taste, true feeling, and rich mellow voice of the 
 reader; or listened, as, with a wisdom beyond his years — a wisdom 
 not of this world — Ernest explained away difficulties, and threw 
 the clear light of a strong and vigorous understanding on the 
 great truths of our Holy Religion, what wonder if some of the 
 reverence and affection, which such teaching must excite in 
 every pure and gentle bosom, grew to cling around the teacher? 
 Or what wonder, either, that when Ernest saw the scornful, 
 capricious, half-childlike little coquette, whose sparkling beauty 
 had charmed his fancy, change, the instant sorrow laid its 
 chastening touch upon her brow, into the thoughtful, tender 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 101 
 
 devoted woman, — the ministering angel beside the couch of 
 sickness, whose gentle, never-failing tact and quiet power of 
 steadfast, patient endurance, man's stronger, more energetic 
 nature, may envy, but can never attain to ; — what wonder if, 
 where he had before admired, he now grew to love ? 
 
 It is a good thing to love I So much mawkish sentimen- 
 tahty and bombastic nonsense, so many white-muslined tears 
 and boarding-school sentimentalities, have been heaped around 
 its counterfeit, that healthy minds not unnaturally scoff at the 
 passion — until they feel it I and thus has one of the highest 
 emotions of which our nature is capable, been brought into 
 undeserved disrepute. A deep, true, earnest, unselfish affec- 
 tion, such as an honest man (" the noblest work of God ") is 
 capable of feeHng for a woman worthy to cr.U it forth, raises, 
 purifies, and spirituaHses his whole being, enlarges his sympa- 
 thies, and (by affording a new motive for exertion) stimulates 
 his faculties, and thus causes him to do the work he may lay his 
 hand to, better than he would have executed it without such an 
 incentive. The Apostle tells us, " If a man say, I love God, 
 and hateth his brother, he is a har;" and a great truth is 
 embodied in the text; — a nature capable of forming a deep, 
 unselfish attachment to one of God's creatures, raises its possessisr 
 in the scale of creation, and enables him to adore his ]\Iaker and 
 love his fellows with a zealous earnestness and reality, of wliich 
 a self-engrossed character is incapable — therefore, as we began 
 by saying — it is a good thing to love I 
 
 As Mrs. Colville's recovery progressed, it was Ernest Car- 
 rington who drew her about in her garden -chair, and as she 
 grew yet stronger, it was on his arm she leaned when, with 
 feeble steps, she began once again to resume her daily walks ; 
 and as, with grateful heart, Emily watched the colour slowly 
 returning to her mother's pale cheeks, she almost felt as if it was 
 to Ernest that she owed her beloved parent's restoration. 
 
 One morning, about a month after Mr. Pillanbill had finally 
 taken leave, and when every vestige of his first syllable had 
 been swallowed, and his last syllable (which was a very long 
 one) had been paid, Ernest, whilst waiting until Mrs. Colville 
 was ready for her accustomed walk, had a letter with a foreign 
 postmark put into his hand. Emily, who watched him while 
 he read it, saw him start and change colour. 
 
 ** Is anything the matter ? " she inquired, as he refolded tho 
 "vetter. 
 
102 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 " Yes — no — that is, I think you cannot any longer be anxioua 
 about Mrs. Colville: her health, thank God, is perfectly restored." 
 
 '' Oh yes, I trust so," was the reply, " but why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Because I must leave you for a time ; and if you felt ner- 
 vous or uncomfortable about your mother, we could arrange for 
 Percy to return a week or two before the holidays — what do 
 you say ? — he might be a comfort to you ?" 
 
 As Ernest spoke, he stooped to pick up the envelope of the 
 letter, and thus failed to observe that Emily started and turned 
 pale when he said he must leave her. The letter was from Sir 
 Thomas Crawley's valet ; his master was very ill — dangerously 
 ill, he was afraid ; he had been unwell for some time, and had 
 gone to Baden for change of air: but instead of recovering, he 
 had grown worse every day, until finally, after a long interview 
 with his medical advisers, he desired Hemmings to w^rite to 
 Mr. Selby and Mr. Carrington, begging them to come out to 
 him without delay, and bring with them some clever English 
 physician. When Mrs. Colville appeared and learned this in- 
 telligence, she fully agreed with Ernest that no time should be 
 lost in setting off; and after a few minutes' conversation on the 
 subject, the rector rose to take his leave, saying that he should 
 probably start the next morning. 
 
 " Mamma has persuaded me to go for an hour or two to 
 the Selbys this evening ; Caroline would take no refusal, and 
 Miss Plainfille is coming to sit with mamma. Shall I see you 
 there ? " asked the Rosebud, quietly. 
 
 " Well then, farewell, dear Mrs. Colville," exclaimed Ernest 
 warmly, having answered Emily's question in the affirmative ; 
 ''I leave you in very good hands, and expect to find you 
 stronger than ever when I return." 
 
 The evening at the Selbys was a very pleasant one, both to 
 Emily and to Ernest, only instead of two hours, it appeared to 
 last about ten minutes. 
 
 " Mr. Carrington, I'm afraid I must be rude enough to ask 
 you to step into my office and look at the arrangements I have 
 made for our journey to-morrow," observed Mr. Selby, late in 
 the evening. 
 
 '•' Certainly, I will follow you in one moment," was the repl3\ 
 
 There was a small apartment opening out of the drawing- 
 room, fitted up as a boudoir for the benefit of Caroline Selby. 
 In this snuggery the two young ladies had been looking over 
 some water-colour sketches, but Caroline Selby had just been 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY 103 
 
 called away, and the Rosebud was left by herself. At that 
 instant Ernest joined her. 
 
 " Etnily," he said, and his voice was low and tremulous — 
 " Emily, I have come to bid you good-bye." 
 
 " Must y'ou go already?" was the rejoinder. 
 
 " Indeed, I fear so," returned Ernest. There was. a pause, 
 and then he resumed, in a voice which trembled with emotion, 
 ** Emily, we have been very happy of late." 
 
 " Oh, yes I " she murmured, almost unconsciously. 
 
 " And you," he continued — " you have been very kind and 
 gentle. Emily, you will not forget me — will not grow cold 
 towards me again ? " 
 
 She made no reply, but her silence was more eloquent than 
 words. At that moment Mr. Selby's footstep sounded on the 
 stairs. 
 
 ** I must go," Ernest resumed : " Emily, dear Emily I good- 
 bye ; — God bless you I" He took her soft, warm little hand in 
 his own ; she allowed him to retain it unresistingly : he pressed 
 it, and his heart beat quickly when he felt the pressure faintly 
 but unmistakably returned. With a sudden impulse he raised 
 the little hand, still imprisoned in his, to his lips, kissed it, and 
 tore himself away. As he paused to close the door, a slight 
 sound caught his ear : could it be a sob ? 
 
 How long it might have been after his departure ere the 
 noise of approaching voices roused Emily from the mental 
 abstraction into which she had fallen, that young lady herself 
 never knew — it might have been one minute, it might have 
 been ten. When she did awake to a sense of outward things, 
 the following speech from the lips of Mrs. Selby, a good-natured, 
 vulgar woman, arrested her attention : — 
 
 " And so, ma'am, if Sir Thomas Crawley dies, which my 
 husband fears is only too probable, Mr. Carrington is as likely 
 to be his heir as anybody I can think of." 
 
 " And then he'll go and marry that pert stuck-up Emily 
 Colville, I suppose " (the speaker was Mrs. Pillanbill, who 
 owned three awful daughters, unattached) ; " that girl's played 
 her cards well, and no mistake. It w^as easy to see she set her 
 cap at him from the first — probably calculated on his being Sir 
 Thomas's heir all along. Oh, she's a deep one, trust her I " 
 
 And as the speakers passed on, their words became inaudible 
 in the distance ; but Emily had heard too much for her peace of 
 mind. All night long she lay awake weeping — for she resolved, 
 
104 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 if Ernest should be Sir Thomas's heir, and asked her to become 
 his wife, she must and would refuse him, if the resolution broke 
 her heart. 
 
 Oh, Rosebud I Rosebud I beware of pride — the sin that 
 peopled hell ! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SETTLES THREE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 Sir Thomas Crawley had sneaked and shuffled through life, 
 and, by doing so with a degree of talent which if exerted in a 
 righteous cause might have gained him the love and respect of 
 good men, had obtained the world's prizes — rank and riches. 
 But tact and cleverness, rank and riches, were equally useless 
 to him now, for he had met with an opponent whom he could 
 neither bribe, nor cheat, nor intimidate, nor cajole. Face to 
 face with death, all his worldly wisdom failed him. Dying I he 
 could not believe it — so much yet remained for him to do. If 
 he could but live for two months longer he should be a baronet 
 — for two years, and he might have married the proud peer's 
 daughter, and transmitted the rank and honours he had won 
 to a long line of descendants. Then, indeed, then, when he 
 had accomplished his desire, then the idea of death might not 
 have appeared so monstrous, so impossible. But even then he 
 should have required a httle time to prepare for death. Poor, 
 self-deceived fool I as if every hour you have lived, every word 
 you have spoken — ay, and every thought you have thought, were 
 not preparing you for death and for eternity ! It is not what 
 you have achieved that will help you now ; it is what you have 
 been — what you are ! The meek and lowly of heart will com- 
 pose the aristocracy of Heaven ; and the lame, and the halt, 
 and the blind, who have borne their cross patiently, shall be its 
 mighty ones : he who best has loved God and his neighbour — 
 he whose life has been one unconscious preparation for death 
 — he shall reap the reward ; — else is Heaven but a mockery, 
 and death, the "long dark day of nothingness," the sceptic's 
 idea of death, extinction, annihilation, is the only reality. 
 
 Sir Thomas Crawley was dying ; he knew it before Ernest 
 Carrington brought the English physician ; he knew it when the 
 physician's eye first met his own; he knew it when Mr. Selby 
 urged him to sign his will. But he could not, he would not 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 105 
 
 believe it. He was weak, he said ; Germany did not agree with 
 him; he had worked too hard, and required rest and society: 
 that was his reason for summoning Mr. Carrington. Had Seiby 
 brought the papers he required ? — old Sir Ralph Carrington'e 
 will? — good! and his own will? — good! Let that be destroyed 
 now, before his eyes — good ! — he should make a fresh one when 
 he reached Ashburn Priory. But he did not do so, for the 
 very good reason that men in their coffins cannot make wills, 
 and Sir Thomas reached Ashburn a corpse, and took up his 
 abode in his family vault, handsomely bound in mahogany and 
 black velvet, ornamented with a real silver plate, whereupon 
 were engraved a goodly list of virtues, of which nobody had 
 suspected him when living, but of which the undertaker always 
 kept a large ready-made supply on hand, for the benefit of such 
 of his customers as were rich enough to afford them. Nothing 
 was said about his vices, perhaps because the silver plate was 
 not half long enough to contain them. 
 
 Dear reader, shall you like to have a silver plate ? For 
 myself, a little one of Britannia metal, with "Peccavi" engraved 
 upon it, will suit me well enough ; but then I am only a poor 
 author, and if any of my works should happen to survive me in 
 morocco covers, I shall care little what sort of boards the hand 
 that traced them lies bound in. 
 
 During the time Ernest was in Germany, the Rosebud was 
 decidedly out of spirits, restless, and anxious ; and when the 
 news of Sir Thomas Crawley's death arrived, she became so 
 nervous and dejected, that Mrs. Colville grew quite uneas^ 
 about her. 
 
 One fine morning Mrs. Selby paid them a visit, evidently full 
 of news. It soon came out, — she had heard from Mr. Selby ; 
 he and Mr. Carrington would be home the next day ; and — 
 would Mrs. Colville believe it ? — poor dear Sir Thomas had 
 died without signing his last will and testament; so all the 
 property would go, under a former one, to his heir, Mr. Peter 
 Crawley — a very fine young man, in a large way of business 
 in Manchester, though of course he'd give up all that sort of 
 thing now. She, Mrs. Selby, was only sorry on one account ; 
 she had never been able to get it out of Mr. Selby, he was so 
 ridiculously close, but she was almost certain Sir Thomas had 
 left jg20,0b0 to Mr. Carrington in his last will, and he would 
 have spent the money so well, it certainly was a thousand pities ; 
 but Mr. Peter Crawley would benefit, and he was such a 
 
lOG THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 very fine young man ; a fortunate family the Crawleys were, 
 certainly. 
 
 That day at dinner, Mrs. Colville remarked her daughter's 
 appetite was returning, and that she began to look like herself 
 again ; which she attributed to a certain quinine mixture where- 
 with the Rosebud had been victimised, and which she canonised 
 accordingly. 
 
 Ernest and Mr. Selby arrived when due, and the legend of 
 Mr. Peter Crawley's heirship remained uncontradicted — nay, 
 was confirmed, by that very fine young man's arrival, in high 
 health and spirits, to enact the part of chief mourner. Ernest 
 w^as much occupied by parish affairs, and by the arrangements 
 for the approaching funeral (in regard to which Mr. Selby 
 appeared resolved to consult him mucii more tiian he wished, 
 or Mr. Peter Crawley seemed to relish) ; but all his leisure 
 moments he spent at the cottage, and had no reason to complain 
 o<f the reception he met with from either mother or daughter. 
 
 And so, in due course of time, the day for the funeral arrived. 
 Now, it is an acknowledged fact that funerals and weddings are 
 the two dullest and most sombre occasions on which human 
 creatures assemble themselves together, and are therefore equally 
 insipid to describe; only a funeral labours under the additional 
 disadvantage, that it is against every rule of good taste and right 
 feeling to poke fun at it. We feel, therefore, that we have 
 '^ our public" with us, when, without entering into detail, we 
 beg them to consider Sir Thomas Crawley handsomely and ap- 
 propriately interred, with the necessary amount of black crape, 
 crocodile tears, and funereal fo}'.pery. 
 
 After the ceremony was over, Mr. Selby ate an excellent 
 luncheon at the expense of the estate, to provi'^.'^ against the 
 possible contingency of requiring the performance repeated on 
 his own account, after a verdict of " died of inanition," and then 
 prepared to read the will — only, after searching high and low, 
 and in every intermediate altitude, no \\\\\ was forthcoming; 
 60 the next best thing was to inform a small and select coterie 
 of ravening wolves, and daughters of the horse-leech, there met 
 together in bombazine and black sheep's-clothing [alias broad- 
 cloth), and styling themselves relations of the dear departed 
 (which in more senses than one, they certainly were), all that 
 he (Selby) knew about the matter. This was — that since Iiis 
 accession to the Manor of Ashburn, Sir Thomas Crawley had 
 made two wills : — the first bequeathing the bulk of the property 
 
THE FORTUNES OE THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 107 
 
 to Mr. Peter Crawley, he had duly signed, sealed, and delivered ; 
 the second he had never completed. That, when Sir Thomas, 
 in his last illness, summoned Mr. Selby to Baden, he had desired 
 him to bring with him three documents, viz., old Sir Ralph 
 Carrington's will, under which he had originally inherited the 
 property ; his own completed will ; and the draught of the more 
 recent one, then incomplete. That Sir Thomas had carefully 
 perused every clause of Sir Ralph's will ; then, begging Mr. 
 Selby to take especial care of it, he desired him to destroy both 
 the others in his presence ; adding that they neither of them 
 carried out his present intentions, and that, on his return to the 
 Priory, he should give instructions for a fresh one. That he 
 (Mr. Selby), declining to destroy the wills without witnesses of 
 his doing so, by Sir Thomas Crawley's express desire, the valet 
 and the English physician were summoned, and in their presence 
 he burned the wills. The property must, therefore, be disposed 
 of according to the will of the late Sir Ralph Carrington. 
 
 We will save the reader (and ourselves) the trouble of wading 
 through the mire of that most senseless abuse of the Queen's 
 English, and her subjects' common sense, yclept "legal phrase- 
 ology," which ought to be rendered illegal without delay ; and 
 proceed at once to state that, in the event of plain Thomas 
 Crawley (not then be-knighted) dying intestate and without 
 issue, the property was to revert to the eldest son of Reginald 
 Carrington, &c. &c., which Reginald, as the reader may pro- 
 bably conjecture, was the " cut off" son of Sir Hugh, and the 
 father of the present rector of Ashburn. 
 
 Ernest Carrington, therefore, the ci-devant mathematical 
 and classical master of Dr. Donkiestir's school at Tickletown, 
 was now lord of the manor of Ashburn, patron of his own 
 living, and owner of Ashburn Priory, besides, if he chose to 
 revive the dormant title, r bavonet also. 
 
 On hearing this anno incoment, that fine young man, Mr. 
 Peter Crawley, said a naughty word, and then tried to look as 
 if somebody else had done it, frowning portentously at the 
 oldest ravening wolf, who, with the rest of the pack, appeared 
 eager to turn and rend somebody, and were only restrained 
 from an outbreak of ferocity by the tightness of their (black) 
 sheep's clothing ; while the Misses Horse-leech, despite their 
 bombazine and flounces, cast sanguinary glances on Mr. Selby, 
 and would probably there and then have fixed upon him and 
 exhausted his vital fluid, albeit his personal appearance was 
 
108 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 Bcarcely suggestive of an agreeable esculent, but for the presence 
 of the bystanders. 
 
 The Rosebud heard the news before she slept tha* night — 
 slept, did we say ? — poor little self-tortured victim io a delusion 
 of the arch-enemy — if agonised sobs, threatening to part soul 
 and body ; if pale cheeks, throbbing bosom, streaming eyes, 
 and burning brow% be signs of sleep, then indeed w^as the 
 expression rightly chosen. Ernest also, either by some strange 
 vibration of the sympathetic chain which unites those who 
 truly love — (my dear strong-minded old gentleman, albeit you 
 are the " father of a family," and a fair specimen of the ancient 
 Turk of private life into the bargain, your saying " Pish I folly ! 
 German rubbish I " does not affect me in the slightest degree — 
 probably because the sympathetic liid^ which so much offends 
 you, does not, unite our spirits, which will, I fear, always more 
 or less effervesce rather than mingle, by being brought in 
 contact with one another) — Ernest also, either from some 
 sympathetic influence, or from the natural impetuosity of his 
 disposition, was so restless and excited that night, that he 
 determined the next day should decide whether he was to be 
 more happy, or more miserable, than anybody had ever beer 
 before — except, perhaps, the few other ardent young men who 
 have " lived and loved," and got into desperate states of mind 
 about it, since the days when Noah went a-yachting. 
 
 Accordingly, being aware that Mrs. Colville had usually 
 breakfasted in her own room since her illness, and seldom made 
 her appearance in the drawing-room till about twelve o'clock, 
 Ernest (as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and written two 
 or three business letters, which were fertile in mistakes and 
 erasures, seeing that his hand had written them while his mind 
 was " far away ") walked down to the cottage, let himself in, 
 and without announcement made his way into the drawing- 
 room, as he had often done before, where, opening the door, 
 he found, as he had fondly hoped to do, the Rosebud " blooming 
 alone;" only that she was not blooming at all, but looking 
 especially pale and w\ished out, by reason of the tempestuous 
 night she had passed. Not but that the storm of feeling which 
 had swept over her maiden soul, and left its traces behind, had 
 added a depth and (if we may use the term) pathos to her 
 beauty, which it wanted previously. She turned, if possible, 
 still more pale as he entered; then, by a strong exercise of 
 self-control, she strove, with tolerable success, to receive him iu 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 109 
 
 her usual manner. After a few commonplace inquiries and 
 responses had passed between them, Emily, by a great effort, 
 felicitated him on his accession of fortune. He smiled mourn- 
 fully. 
 
 " Do not congratulate me, Emily," he said : " it is a vast and 
 fearful responsibility. My career would have been a simpler 
 and happier one without it ; but it is God's will to call me to a 
 more prominent position, and I must not shrink from the cares 
 and duties it will impose upon me." He paused, then with a 
 forced smile, which most ineffectually concealed his agitation, 
 continued, *' I should make but a poor advocate, I fear ; for here 
 am I setting forth all the evils and difficulties of my^ new posi- 
 tion, when my object in coming here — an object in the 
 attainment of which the whole happiness of my existence is 
 centered— is to ask you to share it." He then in a few simple, 
 truthful, and therefore eloquent words, told her of his deep 
 affection for her, and of his earnest desire to do what mortal 
 might, to guard her from, or to mitigate, all the sorrows which 
 more or less fall to the lot of each of us, confident that, in 
 striving to provide for her happiness, he should insure his own. 
 
 Emily heard him to the end without interruption, and, save 
 that she grew paler, and that her features assumed a more 
 fixed and immovable expression, she evinced no sign of being 
 in the sUghtest degree affected by his appeal. When he had 
 concluded, she thanked him for the compliment he had paid her, 
 but informed him that, although she should always regard him 
 in the light of a dear and valued friend, and hoped he would 
 not deprive her of a privilege she so highly appreciated, yet 
 that she could never become anything more to him than a 
 friend — in fact, she decidedly and unequivocally refused him. 
 
 Ernest was thunderstricken I He was no coxcomb, but 
 neither was he devoid of penetration ; and he knew her so well 
 —had traced, as he believed, so clearly the rise and progress of 
 her affection for him — an affection ripened, and, as it were, 
 sanctified, by their joint attendance beside her mother's sick 
 bed — that, although from a slight tendency to waywardness 
 which he was aware lurked in her disposition, he anticipated 
 some Uttle difficulty in obtaining her consent to their union, 
 yet the idea that his offer should be met with a calm and 
 deliberate refusal, had never occurred to him even as a possi- 
 bility. After a minute's pause, he exclaimed — 
 
 " I am grieved, — pained beyond expression ! — nay," he con- 
 
110 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 tinned, gaining courage from the strength of hia convictions, 
 " I will even dare to add, surprised. Emily, I cannot bring 
 myself to believe that my offer has come upon you unexpect- 
 edly ; you must have been aware of my affection for you ? " 
 Receiving no answer, he continued in a sterner tone, " I am 
 then to understand that, perceiving my attachment, without 
 returning it, you have led me on merely to gratify your heart- 
 less vanity, till., in my weak trustfulness, I have placed it in 
 your power to inflict this blow upon me— ^a blow^, the effects of 
 which years will fail to counteract. It is not my pride that is 
 wounded : the little pride I ever possessed has been pretty well 
 taken out of me by the drudgery of life ere this; but that 
 such deep, unselfish love, such entire boundless trust, should 
 have been thus bitterly deceived, thus heartlessly rejected, and 
 by one wdio seemed all truth, innocence, and gentleness — Oh I it 
 is unnatural, incredible ! " He sprang from his chair, and 
 began pacing the room with rapid strides, then continued, 
 " But I will overcome it ; it is unworthy to be thus affected — to 
 feel thus for one capable of such deception. No I cost me what 
 it may, I will crush 1 " 
 
 Gently, my dear sir, gently : you ma}^ crush exactly what 
 you please of your own — your outraged affections, your rejected 
 heart, or that very nice new hat which you purchased in 
 your way through London — though that would be the most 
 wantonly extravagant act of the three ; but you mustn't crush 
 our Rosebud, albeit she is such a heartless little tigress. Ay I 
 you may well stop and look at her I You ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself, Mr. Carrington I so you ought I And you a clergy- 
 man, too I 
 
 Stop and look at her I Why, what was there to see in that 
 calm, expressionless face, that cold stoical exterior '? — only that 
 the said stoicism had turned out a dead failure, broken down with 
 its would-be professor at the critical moment, and there she was 
 crying her woman's tender heart out, through her woman's 
 beautiful eyes, m.ore like Niobe than Plato, by long odds. 
 
 When Ernest perceived this, he experienced what dear 
 
 Mrs. would call, in her very affecting third-volume style, 
 
 " a tremendous revulsion of feeling," under the influence of 
 which he seated himself beside the weeping Rosebud, and taking 
 her poor, cold, little hand, said — 
 
 " Emily, dearest Emily, what is the meaning of all this V 
 Why ! you are making yourself as miserable as you hard 
 
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. Ill 
 
 made me I Come, treat me as a friend — a brother : confide Ja 
 me. You must have some reason for what you are doing. Tell 
 me" — and here, despite his best efforts, his voice faltered — " tjll 
 me — your happiness is ever my first consideration, and, even 
 though it involve the ruin of my dearest hopes, I will strive to 
 secure it — do you love another ? " 
 
 She did not speak ; in fact, she could not just at that moment, 
 by reason of the swollen state of the globus-hijstericus inter- 
 fering with the action of the larynx — to write technically — or 
 because of a choking sensation in the throat, if any reader 
 prefers the colloquial style ; but she had very expressive eyes, 
 and they said " no " just as plainly, or rather as prettily, as he:* 
 lips could have done. 
 
 Ernest felt better ; if she did not love anybody else, she must 
 in time love him. Such affection as his must produce a re- 
 turn — he knew, he felt — but you sec the line of argument, dear 
 reader. Well, then, what was the hitch V Ernest pondered ; 
 at last, a bright idea occurred to him. The change in Emily 
 had taken place since the previous day. Yes, that was it I So 
 he half muttered aloud, half thought to himself, " Some absurd, 
 romantic, generous scruple about this confounded " (I am afraid 
 he said confounded) " fortune." He then continued aloud, 
 rather in the tone in which he talked to the very little children 
 in the Sunday-school, — 
 
 " Now listen to me, dear Emily. The happiness of my life, 
 and, as I cannot but hope " (charitable hope I), " of yours 
 also, is at stake. I once again tell you that I love you, as I 
 have never loved before — as I shall never love again ; that I 
 love you with the one, deep, enduring passion of my hfetime. 
 And I ask you — I adjure you — for both our sakes, to tell me, as 
 truly as the fact will appear on that solemn day when the 
 secrets of al) hearts shall be known, do you return my affection ? 
 — Emily, dearest, do you love me ? " 
 
 Well, of course she could not say " No," for that would have 
 been false ; she must say something, for, Sunday-school manner 
 and all, Ernest had become rather awful at last, so there was 
 nothing left for her but to say *' Yes,"- -which she did accor- 
 dingly. That, in fact, settled the question ; for, naturally, 
 Ernest decided if she loved him, she must and should marry 
 him ; and then he ehcited from her that it was the fortune, upon 
 which he observed — 
 
 " Very well : that he had hoped and intended to send Percy 
 
1 12 THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 to college, and to buy Hugh a commission, and to build a 
 church at Satanville, and to despatch a bran-new missionary 
 to Sambobaraboo, and to erect some very uncomfortable model 
 cottages for the poor people, and to double Mr. SlowkopPs 
 salary ; but that if Emily persisted in refusing him because of 
 the fortune, he would that very afternoon make it over by a deed 
 of gift to that fine young man Mr. Peter Crawley, and marry 
 her on the jgSOO per annum which he received as Rector." 
 
 And so, as it was quite clear that he meant what he said, and 
 was prepared to act up to it, the poor Rosebud was obliged 
 to give in, and consent to accept him fortune and all. 
 
 Thus the interview ended as happily as it had begun miser- 
 ably ; and if Ernest didn't steal a kiss ere he took leave, it must 
 have been because he was a clergyman, and had the fear of the 
 bishop before his eyes ; — though if the bishop had been a good- 
 natured one, he w^ould have winked at such an offence — certainly 
 an arc^-bishop would have done so ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVI., AND LAST. 
 
 THE MORAL DRAW^N VERY MILD! 
 
 Once again it was Christmas-day. At Ashburn Priory the 
 
 plum-pndding was a " great fact ; " Hugh Colville said so, and 
 
 he ought to have known, for he ate enough, not to say too much, 
 
 of it to test its merits — at least, if there be any truth in the 
 
 old proverb, that " the proof of the pudding is in the eating." 
 
 But there were other good things at Ashburn Priory beside 
 
 plum-pudling. Love and Joy and Peace dwelt there, and pure 
 
 Religion shed her mild light upon that happy household. The 
 
 cloud whicli had hung over the fortunes of the Colville family 
 
 had passed away, and the silver lining alone remained to testify 
 
 that, although 
 
 " In every life some rain must fall, 
 Some days be dark and dreary,' 
 
 yet that rain falls only to fertilise the ground, and enable it to 
 bring forth fruit and flowers ; and the metaphor holds good in 
 the case before us. The sorrow which had fallen upon the 
 Colville family had been a chastening sorrow, and its effects were 
 to be recognised in a goodly crop of virtues. 
 
THE FORTUNES OP THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 113 
 
 The proud and sensitive disposition of Percy had been 
 strengthened and fitted for intercourse with the every-day world, 
 by the rough teaching of the commercial-school, and he was 
 about to enter on his Oxford career, a wiser and a better man 
 than a more refined mode of education would have rendered 
 him. 
 
 Hugh's volatile and impetuous disposition had been also 
 favourably acted upon, by the misfortune which caused him to 
 be placed under Doctor Donkiestir's firm and judicious rule ; 
 and he had learned one essential requisite for a soldier's pro- 
 fession, on which, since he had been to spend a day with Norman 
 (now a captain in the — th Lancers) at the Flatville Barracks, 
 he had set his heart, viz.. obedience. 
 
 Mrs. Colville was almost perfect when we were first introduced 
 to her ; but the loss of one she had loved so well had taught 
 her to place her affections still more firmly on " things above." 
 
 As for the Rosebud— bless her I — all that the cloud had done 
 for her was to make her the most charming little wife that ever 
 has been, or ever will be ; and if Ernest Oarrington had not 
 thought 80, and doated upon her accordingly, we would, even at 
 this eleventh hour of our tale, have procured her a divorce, 
 and married her to a duke. But if we had been compelled to 
 take so decided a step, we should have been sorely puzzled 
 how to dispose of an autocratic and imperative baby, with 
 a loud soprano voice, a decidedly dangerous temper, and a 
 general tipsiness of appearance, which had established itself 
 at the Priory, and was said by everybody to be the image of its 
 parents — a statement which, unlike the plum-pudding of im- 
 mortal memory, was not a great fact, but to speak mildly, aja. 
 enormous — 'tother thing ! 
 
 If any one cares to know what became of Mr. Slowkopf, we 
 beg to state that after Emily's marriage, he grew day by day- 
 more and more heavy and dejected, till at last he — died of a 
 broken heart ? — by no means — married Caroline Selby, on the 
 principle of the Persian saying : that if she wasn't the Rose 
 (bud), she had dwelt near the Rose (bud). Moreover, they are 
 very happy together, and live at the Rectory ; Ernest having, 
 on Mr. Slow^kopf s marriage, resigned the living in his favour, 
 although he still generally preaches once every Sunday in Ash- 
 burn Church, and once at the new chapel-of-ease at Satanville ; 
 for, in Ernest, riches had wrought no change, save, that by 
 enabling him to extend his charities, his sphere of usefulness 
 
 I 
 
114: THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY. 
 
 was enlarged. His darling wish is now fulfilled : he is free to 
 devote his whole time and talents to the welfare of others ; and 
 his position, as both lord of the manor and spiritual pastor, 
 affords him opportunities for carrying out his schemes for the 
 amelioration, moral and physical, of the labouring classes, with a 
 degree of success which few philanthropists are so fortunate as 
 to obtain. 
 
 Eeader, our tale is told. Should it assist you to while away 
 some rainy morning of life, and at the same time lead you to 
 remember that, above the clouds which lour so heavily, the blue 
 heaven lies in its deep tranquilUty, and the glorious sun still 
 shines brightly, able, when it shall be God's good pleasure, to 
 dispel the darkness that oppresses you, and again shed its light 
 and warmth into your spirit — the end for which this sketch has 
 been traced will be answered. 
 
THE 
 
 MYSTEEIES OF ESDGEAVE COUET; 
 
 A STEANGE EPISODE IIS^ THE LIFE OF EDWARD CHICHESTER, 
 GENTLEMAN. 
 
 BY FRANK E. SMEDLEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I DO not by any means consider myself particularly nervous — 
 in fact, I rather pride myself upon being the reverse ; but a 
 man must be utterly devoid of feeling, and possess a defective 
 organisation, not to have jumped under the circumstances. 
 
 But I beg your pardon, dear Reader — really, I am very 
 forgetful! — I see now, you're not in a position to form any 
 opinion about the matter, because — I can't think how I could 
 be so forgetful I — because I have not yet told you what the 
 circumstances were ! Well, that's soon remedied. It was 
 exactly this day two months — that is (it's as well to be correct, 
 you know)^ it was on Tuesday, the 16th of May last, that I 
 was walking down Piccadilly, about four o'clock in the after- 
 noon, buried in thought. I could tell you what I was thinking 
 about, and I will too; for that was rather a curious coincidence, 
 considering — Well, never mind what, you'll find out the coin- 
 cidence if you will but have patience. I was thinking what a 
 very singular thing it was that all my friends and acquaintances 
 seemed to have taken it into their heads that some imperative 
 necessity existed for me to be married; in consequence of 
 which idea they were incessantly preparing matrimonial pitfalls 
 for me, so that I absolutely led the life of a hunted animal 
 amongst them. I could not poke my nose into a ball-room but 
 some marriageable female was there, ready to snap it off for 
 
116 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 me. At dinner-parties I was sure to be seated next a girl who 
 "would make siich a wife;" while the country houses of my 
 friends were each, in turn, converted into a monster man -trap, 
 baited with an heiress, for the special purpose of effecting my 
 capture. 
 
 Not that I had any insuperable objection to matrimony : 1 
 knew that some time or other every man had to die, and most 
 men had to be married — nor did I expect to be exempted from 
 the common lot; but, just aw i should have disappro\ed of 
 being called upon to die all in a hurry for the amusement of 
 society, so did I dislike the idea of being married in haste, with 
 the prospect of repenting at leisure, merely because my friends 
 chose to consider that I wanted a wife. I was pondering all 
 this in my mind, and reflecting on the advisability of making a 
 tour in Turkey, where the women are as sedulously kept out of 
 one's way, as in England they are thrust into it, when suddenly 
 — without the slightest warning — somebody gave me a violent 
 slap on the back ! 
 
 And now, having afforded you all the necessary data to go 
 upon, I ask you once again, must not a man have been utterly 
 a hardened character, not to have jumped under the circum- 
 stances ? At all events I know I did, for I sprang clean off 
 the pavement into the horse road — when I say clean, I use a 
 figure of speech, for the road had been watered — with blacking 
 I should imagine, to judge from the effect produced on a pair 
 of white duck trousers, in which my evil genius had seen fit to 
 clothe me for the occasion. 
 
 I'm naturally one of the best tempered men in the world, but 
 I confess it was in anything but an amiable frame of mind, 
 that, standing on an isolated paving stone in the midst of the 
 black sea before alluded to, I glanced from my no longer spot- 
 less trousers, to the face of my assailant, which, to the discredit 
 of human nature, was, I am sorry to say, convulsed by a hearty 
 laugh. It was a countenance with which I was well acquainted, 
 being, in fact, none other than that of my old friend and school- 
 fellow, Harry Stapylton ; accordingly, seeing that I had not 
 been insulted, but only victimised, I executed that intricate 
 evolution commonly termed a hop, skip, and jump, and suc- 
 ceeded in reaching the trottoir without adding to the injury 
 already sustained by my unfortunate white trousers. As I 
 accomplished this feat, Stapylton seized me by the hand, and 
 shaking it heartily, exclaimed, still laughing — 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 117 
 
 *' Why, Ned, old fellow I did I make you jump?" 
 
 Now, I'm aware that it's a weakness, that the thing is in 
 itself of no consequence, and that it is extremely foolish of 
 me to care about it, but I honestly confess I don't like to be 
 addressed as "Ned;" it was all very well when one was a 
 boy, and wore a jacket without a tail, to be called by a name 
 without a second syllable, but such a mere stump of an apella- 
 tion (if I may be allowed the expression) seems to me deroga- 
 tory to the dignity of manhood. The members of my own 
 family were aware of this little peculiarity, and at home I was 
 always Edward at full length ; so that now there was scarcely 
 any one who called me Ned, except Harry Stapylton. It was 
 not then in the most cordial tone of voice that I repHed — 
 
 *' That's a question, Mr. Stapylton, to which the answer is 
 80 self-evident" (and I involuntarily glanced at my ducks), 
 " that I may save myself the trouble of replying to it." 
 
 " Phew I" whistled Harry, " what's the matter now, Mr. Chi- 
 chester ? is it the damaged ducks? Never mind, man, they're 
 warranted to wash, and laundresses are a hard-working genera- 
 tion and deserve patronage ; so never look black about a splash 
 or two — more particularly when I've some good news for you.** 
 
 There's an indescribable something about Harry Stapylton 
 which renders it impossible to continue angry with him for fiv« 
 minutes together, so linking my arm in his (for it appeared we 
 were walking in the same direction) I replied — 
 
 " Good news, eh ? let's have it by all means." 
 
 " Most excellent news," returned my companion, " and you'll 
 say BO too. Master Ned " (Ned again I), " when you hear it : 
 I've found you a wife with a clear two thousand a year in the 
 Three per Cents ! what do you say to that, my boy ? " 
 
 " Say," rejoined I testily, " that as you've found her, you 
 had better keep her yourself." 
 
 " Unfortunately," was the reply, " a law against bigamy 
 is in force in this feeble-minded country, or I should be 
 delighted to comply with your suggestion ; if one wife is a good 
 thing, two must be better. But do you really mean to say you 
 did not know I was married?" 
 
 " I should as soon have expected to hear you were hanged," 
 returned I. " When did the catastrophe occur ? and how do 
 you feel after it?" 
 
 " The great event came off some six weeks since, and the 
 results are most satisfactory : Mary is as good a little girl as 
 
118 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 ever wore crinoline, and I'm jollier than I ever was in my life 
 before. I tell you what, Chichester, a fellow does not know 
 what happiness is, till he is married — it's a fact, I can assure 
 you." 
 
 " Now, tell me the truth, Harry," returned I ; *' you've been 
 calling at our house, seen my mother, or one of the girls, men- 
 tioned your marriage, and they've put you up to this ; confe;is 
 ■ — is not this the case ? " 
 
 " Upon my honour, no 1 " was the reply ; *•' the thing is just 
 as I tell you : I married a girl I loved, and finding how- much 
 it has increased my happiness, wish you to follow my example.'' 
 
 Seeing I made a gesture of impatience, he added, — 
 
 '' 'Pon my word, I am quite serious ; you and I have been 
 friends from boyhood, I always liked you, and I do so still, 
 because, although you have a few little oddities about you, 
 you're a right good fellow at heart, and that's the chief thing 
 after all. And now I'll tell you how the idea occurred to 
 me : — Mary was talking to me the other day about an old 
 schoolfellow of hers, who she had asked to come and stay with 
 us, telling me what a sweet girl she was, and lamenting her 
 position. It appears that she is an heiress, without any near 
 relations belonging to her, and is living in desolate grandeur at 
 an old country house, with a superannuated governess and a 
 paid companion ; so Polly expects her to bolt with the first 
 insinuating fortune-hunter who comes in her way, out of sheer 
 ennui. Well, it struck me directly, she might be just the wife 
 for you ; so I examined Mary about her particularly, and she 
 says she's right in every point — good principles, good temper, 
 good looks, in fact, a regular Phoenix ; and the long and the 
 short of it is, she's coming to stay with us next week at Red- 
 grave, and we want you to run down and meet her. What do 
 you say ?" 
 
 What could I say ? the thing was an awful bore ; but with- 
 out appearing unfriendly and ill-natured, I could not well 
 refuse. The heiress, I felt sure, would prove a failure ; but I 
 liked Harry, and had a sort of curiosity to be introduced to his 
 little wife, and to observe for myself the practical working of 
 matrimonial felicity ; so, before we parted, I had accepted his 
 invitation, and stood committed to meet the heiress at Redgrave 
 Court that day week. 
 
 And now, perhaps, before I relate how I fared for my temerity, 
 the reader will like to learn a few particulars concerning the 
 
TnE MYSTERIES OP REDGRAVE COURT. 119 
 
 individual, with an episode in whose life he is about to become 
 acquainted. Like most other people, I once possessed a father 
 and mother. My father might have been poetically described 
 as one of the merchant princes of the great metropolis of 
 Europe ; in plain prose he was a large sugar-broker, and sat in 
 a large chair, in a large counting-house, in a narrow street, 
 in the heart of the City, where he made a large fortune, which 
 he very obligingly left behind him for me to spend ; and, as he 
 died when I was about five years old, and my chief recollection 
 of him is, that he boxed my ears soundly for tumbhng over his 
 gouty foot in my childish gambols, it would be affectation on 
 my part to pretend to any very deep feeling, in regard to his 
 highly respectable memory. 
 
 My mother and three sisters, older than myself, did their best to 
 spoil me — and succeeded, as far as the inherent excellence of the 
 material upon which they had to work would allow ; fortunately, 
 their efforts were in some measure counteracted by a judicious 
 course of bullying which I underwent for two years at Eton, 
 whence I migrated to the abode of a very bland private tutor in 
 a small country village, where I vegetated upon Euclid and bread 
 and butter for three years, returning at nineteen to the maternal 
 apron -string, as conceited a young prig as female fondness 
 could desire. Since that period, six years had elapsed, during 
 which I had been master of one mother, three sisters, four 
 horses, eight servants, .£2,000 per annum, a large rambling 
 mansion in Portland Place, and my own actions ; I had made 
 the grand tour, and several minor ones, and had done all the 
 other necessary things of life — except marrying a wife. And 
 now I was actually going to Redgrave Court to inspect a real 
 live heiress I Book of Fate, wnth the iron clasps, is Benedict 
 written against my name on thine inscrutable pages ? 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Redgrave Court belonged to Sir Geoffrey Stapylton, Harry's 
 uncle. Sir Geoffrey was a thorough specimen of the class of old 
 " gentlemen of England who live at home at ease,"* — which 
 aforesaid ease he appeared to appreciate so intensely, that he 
 had never chosen to run the risk of endangering it by taking to 
 himself a wife; consequently, Harry was heir !c the title and 
 
120 
 
 THE MYST15RIE8 OP REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 property. Being a great favourite with his uncle, and having 
 pleased the old gentleman by marrying into a good county 
 family, Sir Geoffrey had made it his request that the young 
 couple should reside with him ; and Harry, who looked upon 
 the property almost as his own, was so strongly in favour of 
 the arrangement, that his good little wife never for a moment 
 opposed it, although she was particularly afraid of the gruff old 
 baronet. Nor, if report spoke truly, were her fears altogether 
 unreasonable. Sir Geoffrey, naturally of a violent temper and 
 eccentric disposition, had lived so much alone, and been for so 
 many years entirely his own master, that the slightest oppo- 
 sition to any of his caprices was said to irritate him beyond 
 control ; and rumours were afloat that, on such occasions, he 
 would relieve his feelings by flinging decanters at the servants' 
 heads, kicking them down-stairs, and otherwise forcibly demon- 
 strating his intention of proving himself absolute *' monarch of 
 all he surveyed." 
 
 These particulars I gleaned on that hot-bed of scandal, the 
 top of a stage-coach, which vehicle was hurrying me, at the rate 
 of ten miles an hour, towards Redgrave Court and the -desirable 
 heiress — against whom, by-the-bye, I had conceived a greater 
 prejudice than I was usually accustomed to indulge in on any 
 subject. I had fully made up my mind as to the style of 
 woman she would prove to be : she would either be tall, with 
 light hair, grey eyes, pink and white cheeks, a deep voice and 
 a tragedy manner, or she would be short, with black hair and 
 eyes, plump, puddingy cheeks, and a j')llity of demeanour most 
 excruciating to one's feelings. It is a singular fact, that I had 
 never yet met with an heiress who did not belong to one of 
 these classes. As these reflections passed through my mind, 
 for the five-hundredth time since I had formed the engagement, 
 the railway omnibus pulled up at the old-fashioned gates of 
 Redgrave Court, which, in accordance with a whim of Sir 
 Geoffrey's were always kept locked and barred. 
 
 After a very aged woman had spent five minutes in with- 
 drawing bolts and unlocking locks, and an unexpected boy had 
 popped up, like a jack-in-a-box, to carry my carpet-bag, I was 
 admitted, and a walk of nearly a mile up an avenue of magnifi- 
 cent elms, brought me in sight of the house. It was a glorious 
 old edifice, built in the Elizabethan style, round three sides of a 
 quadrangle, the fonrrh side being occupied by the servants' 
 offices. As I reached the porter's lodge, Harry, who had been 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 121 
 
 on the watch for me, sprang forward, and grasping my hand, 
 exclaimed — 
 
 '* Bravo, old fellow, this is famous I I never felt sure of yoa 
 till I saw you coming up the avenue. I was dreadfully afraid 
 you'd be playing me false, and bolting at the last moment. 
 Now, come in. Will you like to dress before you're introduced 
 to the ladies? It's just dinner-time." I signified my assent, 
 and Harry, as soon as we had reached the room destined for 
 my use, continued — " Well, it's all serene, the lovely Julia 
 arrived last night — and a splendid creature she is I" 
 
 "I expected as much," said I; "if there's one thing I hate 
 more than another, it is a splendid creature." 
 
 " Growl away, old Cynic," replied Harry, laughing, " we 
 shall have you 'sighing like furnace' before a week is over; 
 and at her feet in a fortnight, despite your grumbling." 
 
 It was useless to attempt to argue him out of his infatuation, 
 so I merely shook my head in sign of dissent, and inquired of 
 whom the other members of the party might consist. 
 
 " Oh, there is your helle amie, Julia Walsingham, and her 
 companion, Alice Woodford ; young Marston, an artist who is 
 down here sketching ; and Monsieur Gazette, a French advo- 
 cate, who was very civil to me last year when I was in Paris ; 
 then my uncle, my httle woman, yourself, and myself, make up 
 the party." 
 
 ** Ah ! about your uncle, by the way ; it does not do to 
 argue with him, does it ? He's a Httle hasty at times, isn't he ? 
 Just give me a hint, and I shall know how to get.on with him." 
 
 Harry's brow contracted as he replied, " So they've been 
 telling you that confounded nonsense, have they? Billy Haimes, 
 the 'bus driver, lets his tongue run too fast. I shall have to 
 speak to him rather seriously one of these days, if he does not 
 take care. My uncle is as fine a specimen of a real old English 
 gentleman as you would wish to set eyes on, and would never 
 dream of treating a guest otherwise than with the utmost atten- 
 tion and courtesy; but the fact is, when he was a younger man, 
 he received a very severe fall in hunting, and pitclied upon his 
 head, and since that time a very little wine affects him, and he 
 is obliged to be extremely careful. I fancy, when I was abroad 
 last year, he exceeded rather one night, and kicked old Wilkins 
 the butler, down -stairs, when he wanted to persuade him to go to 
 bed ; but the whole thing has been very absurdly exaggerated. 
 So put out of your head any nonsense you may have heard, and 
 
122 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 form your opinion of my uncle for yourself." Thus saying, he 
 left me to complete my toilette. 
 
 On entering the drawing-room, I was introduced by Harry 
 to the gentlemen of the party, the ladies not having yet made 
 their appearance. Sir Geoffrey, who shook me warmly by the 
 hand, and expressed himself delighted to make the acquaintance 
 of any old friend of his nephew's, certainly justified, as far as 
 appearance went, the description of a fine old English gentle- 
 man. His age might have been sixty-five or sixty -six ; he was 
 tall, and powerfully built, and, excepting his hair and whiskers, 
 which were as white as snow, showed few signs of age. His 
 manner was particularly urbane and courteous, and, save a 
 strange, restless look in his prominent grey eyes, I could dis- 
 cover no symptoms of the irascibility W'hich was said to have 
 found relief in kicking the unfortunate butler down -stairs. 
 Mr. Marston, the artist, was a quiet, gentlemanly, young man, 
 with a clever, sensibb face. M. Cazotte was rather handsome, 
 with very black moustaches, and very white teeth, and spoke 
 English unusually well, for a foreigner. 
 
 I had scarcely had time to make the foregoing observations, 
 when the door opened, and Miss Julia Walsingham entered, 
 leaning on the arm of a bright-eyed animated little brunette, in 
 whose good-natured smile I read evidence of the *' best little 
 woman in the world," alias Mrs. Harry Stapylton ; — a third 
 young lady, who I rightly imagined to be the companion, fol- 
 lowed. One glance sufficed to show me to which class of 
 heiress the fair Julia belonged, — tall, with flaxen hair, and 
 light blue eyes (I can't bear tall women ; and hght blue eyes 
 are so very unmeaning). She was handsome, — there was no 
 denying it — regular features, good bust, small waist, erect 
 carriage, but there was a something — a want of breed about 
 her : her hands, though well-shaped and white, were large, in 
 proportion to her size ; she had not an aristocratic air — in fact, 
 though there was much to admire, and nothing decidedly to 
 find fault with, I felt at once she was a woman I never could 
 marry. It is true, this was only what I had expected ; yet so 
 inconsistent are we, that I experienced a sensation of disap- 
 pointment at thus finding my expectations verified — all the 
 more so perhaps, because Harry, in describing his ow'n w^ife, 
 had rather underdone the thing than otherwise ; for she was 
 not only the best, but one of the prettiest little women in the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 123 
 
 world. I could have married her ou the spot, if it had been 
 necessary. 
 
 Of course at dinner I found myself seated near IMiss Wal- 
 singham, and, as a matter of course, obliged to talk to her; so, 
 resolved to do my duty thoroughly, and not to allow Harry the 
 chance of accusing me of mere unreasonable prejudice, I exerted 
 myself to draw her out. 'Twas no very difficult matter — up to 
 a certain point she was voluble enough, but beyond that all was 
 a blank — '^ ex nihilo nihil fit'' — where there was nothing in, 
 nothing could be drawn out ; her mind was as insipid as her 
 person. The gentlemen did not sit long after dinner ; and, 
 before we joined the ladies, I proposed to Harry to stroll round 
 the flower-garden ; as soon as we were tete-d-tete, I plunged at 
 once in medias res. 
 
 " Harry, it's no use ; I would not marry her, if she were a 
 princess." 
 
 *' Nonsense I my good fellow, you've scarcely seen her yet ; 
 don't form such hasty judgments." 
 
 " I've seen enough of her ; she is of the regular heiress 
 stamp ; and — in short, nothing should ever induce me to marry 
 that woman. Don't look so aghast!" continued I, laughing 
 at his solemn face ; " I'm not going to start for town to-morrow 
 morning, or do anything desperate ; on the contrary, I shall be 
 happy to stay with you as long as you like to keep me ; but just 
 explain to your wife, who, by the way, is charming (but you 
 always have the luck of it), that there's no use in trying her 
 match-making skill in this instance. I could not marry that 
 long-legged female Croesus, if my life depended on it 1 " 
 
 As I uttered these words, we reached a wider path, and 
 came suddenly upon a lady who was walking therein, and who, 
 unless she might turn out to be provideiitially afflicted with 
 deafness, mast have overheard my last words. 
 
 " Pleasant this I " whispered I to Harry, " who is she ? " 
 
 "Miss Woodford, the companion," was the repjy ; "I don't 
 think you have spoken to her yet. She's a very quiet, ladylike 
 young person." Then addressing her, he added, *' Mr. Chi- 
 chester and I were taking a stroll, by the light of the moon; 
 I'm afraid we have disturbed you, Miss Woodford ? " 
 
 *' By no means," was the rejoinder ; " Miss Walsingham and 
 Mrs. Stapylton were discussing some very confidential affair 
 together" (talking me over, no doubt, thought I); "and, ao 
 
124 THE MYSTEllIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 they did not appear to want me, I strolled out to enjoy the 
 beauty of the evening." 
 
 At this moment, a man's voice from the house shouted, 
 " Harry I Harry I " in somewhat impatient tones, and my com- 
 panion, exclaiming, ** My uncle's calling me ; will you excuse 
 me ? I shall join you again in two minutes," ran off, leaving 
 me tete-d-tete with the heiress's dame de compagnic. 
 
 Now, I always feel the greatest compassion for the whole 
 class of governesses and companions : nine times out of ten they 
 possess infinitely more refinement and cultivation than their 
 employers ; and while their position renders them acutely sen- 
 sitive to every slight, they are often treated with less con- 
 sideration than is accorded to that most irritating blessing, a 
 thoroughly respectable servant. These being my ideas, I 
 immediately endeavoured to set Miss Woodward at ease in my 
 society, by infusing into my manner what I hoped would appear 
 a judicious mixture of respect and cordiality; nor were my 
 efforts thrown away ; her shyness, which at first was painfully 
 apparent, soon wore off, and ere ten minutes had elapsed, we 
 were chatting away as comfortably as if we had been old 
 acquaintances. We strolled onward, in the soft moonlight ; 
 and still Harry did not return ; and still, as I started fresh 
 subjects, my companion proved able and willing to converse 
 sensibly and agreeably upon them. At last the conversation 
 turned upon painting ; and Miss Woodford asked if I had not 
 admired the face and figure of Vashti, in a painting by one of 
 the old masters, which hung over the dining-room chimney- 
 piece, exactly opposite to the place where I had been seated at 
 dinner. 
 
 " There is not a doubt of its being a very fine picture," 
 repHed I ; " the grouping is excellent, and the light and shade 
 most skilfully arranged, but I confess the particular figure to 
 which you allude does not suit my taste ; in the first place, she 
 is so abominably tall, she quite looks down upon the unfortunate 
 Ahasuerus." 
 
 As I spoke my companion turned away her head quickly, 
 but not in time to prevent my discovering that it was to hide a 
 laugh she did so. After a moment's pause she said, in a tone 
 of voice which gave an arch meaning to her words — 
 
 " I am afraid, Mr. Chichester, you do not admire tall women?" 
 
 Now, as she herself was, although higher than Mrs. Harry 
 Stapylton, yet, by no means a tall woman, the " afraid " having 
 
I 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 125 
 
 no personal application, could only refer to Miss Walsingham, 
 it was clear my new friend had overheard my remark regarding 
 the long-legged female Croesus, and had me at her mercy. My 
 resolution was instantly taken — the time (after dinner), the 
 scene (a garden by moonlight), the situation (a tete-d-tete with 
 an agreeable, sensible girl, who could understand one), were all 
 favourable to my purpose, and I determined at once to make a 
 confidant of her ; accordingly I began : — 
 
 " Although our acquaintance has not been a very long one *' 
 (it must now have been nearly a quarter of an hour since Harry 
 had left us), " I feel sure from the very sensible view you seem to 
 take of — of — things in general — that in mentioning the cause, 
 — in fact, I may say the reason — of my being at this moment so 
 unpleasantly situated;" — a little toss of the head, and a slight 
 acceleration of speed, made me aware of the uncomplimentary 
 construction the young lady might put upon my words, and I 
 hastily continued — " No, I assure you I don't mean that — in 
 fact, quite the reverse ; but I was going to say that, as it is 
 evident you must have overheard my remark about that horrible 
 Miss Walsingham " 
 
 "Really, sir I" began my companion, in a tone of remon- 
 strance. 
 
 " Yes, I quite understand," continued I, not heeding her 
 interruption ; *' but I'm certain you can't be fond of her ; with 
 your quickness you must have discovered long ago that — in fact, 
 there is nothing to discover in her — the woman's a perfect 
 nonentity I It seems, however, that my friend Harry's charm- 
 ing little wife was at school with her, and, for the sake of old 
 associations, and out of her natural amiability of disposition, con- 
 tinues to feel a great regard for this giantess; so by way of 
 securing her future happiness, she has generously determined 
 to make her a present of an excellent husband, paying me the 
 compliment of selecting me as the victim. Harry put me up to 
 the whole thing in town last week, and tried to persuade me 
 into it, wanting to bribe me with her consols ; so I agreed to 
 come down and inspect the young lady, because I did not like 
 to vex him ; but I knew how it would be directly I heard she 
 "was an heiress — they're all alike. Dame Nature is sufficiently 
 a woman of the world to be aware that beyond pounds, shillings, 
 and pence, no charms are needed to get husbands for heiresses, 
 so she has reserved all other attractions for the unendowed 
 portion of the sex. Well, the moment I saw your Miss Wal- 
 
126 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 Bingham, I perceived she was not likely to shake my faith in 
 my theory. I plumbed the shallowness of her mind during 
 dinner, and having perfectly satisfied myself on the subject, I 
 walked Harry out just now, to tell him the thing was utterly 
 impossible, and you overheard my concluding sentence. — And 
 now, my dear Miss Woodford," continued I, " having explained 
 the affair to you, I'm sure you will stand my friend, and take 
 every opportunity of abusing me to your — ar — to Miss Wal- 
 singliam, save me from victimisation in tete-d-tetes with her — 
 Oh, there are a hundred little things you can help me in, if you 
 will only be good-natured," — and having at length exhausted 
 my eloquence, I paused, and looked into her bright eyes (I for- 
 got if I mentioned before, that she had beautiful eyes) for a 
 reply ; it came at last. 
 
 *' Really, sir, your frankness has taken me so completely by 
 surprise, that I scarcely know how to answer you ; one thing, 
 however, I may venture to say, I will never betray your 
 secret to Miss Walsingham, more particularly as I have 
 heard that gentlemen can change their minds, as well as 
 ladies." 
 
 " No chance of that, in this instance, my dear Miss Wood- 
 ford," returned I earnestly ; *' when I marry Miss Walsingham, 
 
 I'll give you " 
 
 "What?" she inquired, quickly; adding, in half a childlike 
 tone of voice, " I always wish to avail myself of the most remote 
 chance of getting a present." 
 
 '' A dozen pairs of the best French gloves," was ray reply. 
 '' Mind they fit properly," returned the young lady, extri- 
 cating a pretty litde white hand from the recesses of her thick 
 shawl, aud holding it up coquettishly in the moonlight. 
 
 Simplicity of character is a point on which I have always 
 prided myself; the natural thing, of course, was to seize her 
 hand and press it to my lips, so I did it ; — at the same moment 
 that wretch Harry, who, from his knowledge of the ground, 
 had been able to approach us unperceived, suddenly made his 
 appearance, in an abominable state of laughter, and Miss Wood- 
 ford, uttering a little cry, snatched away her hand, and ran off 
 towards the house as fast as her legs would carry her. 
 
 I leave the reader to imagine all the ironical congratulations 
 to which I had to submit from Harry, on my sudden conversion 
 from woman-hating ; suffice it to say, that I detained him in 
 the garden until he had exhausted his merriment, and promised 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 127 
 
 to behave properly, and we then joined the ladies. After tea, 
 music was proposed, and as Harry was unfortunately aware of 
 my vocalising propensities, I was forced to sing duets with, and 
 turn over leaves for, Miss Walsingham, for two wretched houra. 
 The creature's singing was of a piece witli her other accom- 
 plishments. She had a good contralto voice, and sang in time 
 and in tune, but without a shadow of expression, or a spark of 
 feeling ; however, man is made to endure, and I bore it. 
 
 As the ladies were preparing to retire to their rooms. Miss 
 Woodford approached a table near which I was standing, for 
 the purpose of lighting her candle, an exertion which I oblig- 
 ingly saved her ; she thanked me for my civihty, and then 
 added, demurely — 
 
 " Good-niglit, Mr. Chichester, I hope you have passed a very 
 pleasant evening." 
 
 As she said this, she glanced for a moment at my face, w^ith 
 such an expression of mischievous glee in her dark eyes, that 
 I did, what I had not done about any woman during the last 
 five years, — I dreamed of her half the night. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ten days had elapsed since my arrival at Redgrave, and still 
 my departure was a thing undetermined ; and sooth to say, I 
 was so well pleased with my present quarters, that I was per- 
 fectly willing to let events take their own course, without any 
 interference on my part. 
 
 Then, Mr. Ned Chichester, it appears, in spite of all the fuss 
 you have made about it, you were trying to fall in love with 
 the heiress after all ! Passing over the " Ned " question, dear 
 Reader (though I must observe, parenthetically, that, knowing 
 my feelings on the subject, it would have been better taste to 
 have addressed me as " Edward "), allow me most decidedly and 
 emphatically to inform you that I was not. Indeed, so far from 
 trying to fall in love with anij body, I was endeavouring, and 
 as I then believed successfully, not to fall in love with — well, I 
 suppose I may as well own it at once — with Alice Woodford, 
 the heiress's dame de compagnie. But really she was so sen- 
 sible, so amiable, so clever and fascinating, and right minded, 
 
128 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 and pretty, and altogether so everything that a woman ought 
 to be, and that Miss Walsingham was not, that it was by no 
 means such an easy matter to keep heart-whole in her society 
 as you may imagine ; still, of course, I was not, at my time of life, 
 going to make a fool of myself for a pretty face, though there 
 were such a sweet pair of eyes in it, and a mouth (you can't 
 think what a dear little mouth she had, — I should say it was 
 clear to the meanest capacity what purpose nature had in view 
 when she made such a mouth as that) — no, the idea was too 
 preposterous. I, the ho7i parti for whose benefit half the mothers 
 of England were parading their daughters at " opera, party, 
 and ball," to marry a penniless damsel, who probably never had 
 a grandfather of any kind I Bah I And yet when I came to 
 think of it, what did I want with money ? I was well off, and 
 was neither extravagant nor avaricious — I would not marry a 
 woman I did not like for the sake of money; why, then, 
 sacrifice one I did like, for the want of it ? No, it was the 
 force of habit, and a deficiency of moral courage, which led me 
 to dread the sneers of worldly men whose opinion I all the time 
 despised. I knew this, and felt rather ashamed of myself, and 
 yet I could not make up my mind one way or the other ; so, as 
 thought was disagreeable to me, I strove by every means in my 
 power to banish it, and gave myself up to the fascination of the 
 hour. I am aware this was neither right, wise, nor heroic, but 
 I'm afraid it was intensely natural. 
 
 I had been in great measure reheved from the onus of doing 
 the pohte to Miss Walsingham by M. Cazotte, who was evi- 
 dently smitten by the Juno-like exterior of the heiress, or the 
 " heaux yevx de sa cassette,'' and I had availed myself of his 
 attentions to secure many a delightful half-hour's conversation 
 with Alice Woodford, who, although she never in any way 
 directly encouraged me, at all events appeared to have no dis- 
 taste to my society. Things were still in this state, when, about a 
 fortnight after my departure from London, an expedition was 
 proposed to visit the country town, about ten miles distant, 
 where a flower-show was to be held. The proposition was 
 agreed to, nem. con., and soon aftar one o'clock the vehicles 
 which were to convey the party made their appearance. Both 
 Harry and his uncle were famous whips, and one of their chief 
 amusements was coaching in all its varieties. The conveyance 
 department consisted, on the present occasion, of a drag with a 
 handsome team of bays ; a tandem with a splendid roan in the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 129 
 
 shafts, and a spicy-looking chestnut as lender; and a low 
 phaeton, drawn by two saucy little grey ponies. 
 
 In and about these vehicles did the party, reinforced by the 
 wife and daughter of an adjacent clergyman, dispose themselves 
 according to their several inclinations. Harry drove the four- 
 in-hand, Sir Geoffrey chose the tandem, and persuaded Miss 
 Walsingham to accompany him, a step of which it was evident 
 she repented when M. Cazotte, going into ecstacies about the 
 ''gra-ponies," as he was pleased to call them, volunteered 
 " conduire ces hraves petits chevaux.'' As it was, the clergy- 
 icoman was allotted to him as a companion, and the rest of the 
 company took possession of the drag. The drive, save for the 
 beauty of the scenery, was dull enough, the sun being so power- 
 ful that the ladies all preferred inside places ; for the same 
 reason Harry, who was very careful of his horses, drove so 
 slowly that we were above an hour and a quarter doing the ten 
 miles. The flower-show was much like other flower-shows — 
 rather a bore than otherwise : there was plenty of heat and 
 dust, and gay parasols and muslin -dresses, and variegated 
 bonnets, and many people, great and small, from my Lord A. 
 and his right honourable daughters, to Farmer Z. and his right 
 vulgar ones ; and sesquipedal Grceco-Latin compound names of 
 bran-new annuals, were '' shockingly mangled " by would-be 
 botanical old ladies; and horticultural hearts beat high with 
 gratitude to Heaven for the blessings of colossal strawberries, 
 and gooseberries, suited to mouths as capacious at that of " The 
 Monster Polypheme." In a word, it was a very legitimate and 
 orthodox flower-show. But in this sublunary world all shows 
 come to an end, sooner or later, and the time for returning 
 drew near. I was walking with Miss Wilson, the rectory- 
 young lady, on my arm, Harry and his wife being just before 
 us, when Sir Geoffrey came np hastily, and tapping Harry on 
 the shoulder inquired — 
 
 *' Would you mind going round by Cuffley, on your way 
 home ? Old Wotton's taken seriously ill, and wants to see one 
 of us, I suppose in regard to his son keeping on the farm. I've 
 no objection to the young man having it, I hear very good 
 accounts of him." 
 
 " Then I may promise him the farm, if that is what he 
 wishes?" asked Harry. 
 
 " Certainly. You'd better take the tandem, and one of the 
 grooms, and I'll drive the ladies home," returned his uncle. 
 
130 THE MYSTEHIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 "Very well. You must keep a tight hand on Zantippe, for 
 she's rather fresh, and pulls hardish. You might drive her in 
 the lower hav, if you want to put 'em along at any pace. I'll 
 try and get back by dinner-time ;" so saying, Harry bespoke 
 my vacant arm for his wife, and left us. 
 
 This change of arrangement produced sundry alterations in 
 the order of our going. Cazotte secured Miss \Valsingham for 
 a companion, and drove off whisking his whip about the ears of 
 *' les hraves petiis chevaux;" and squaring his elbows as a French- 
 man alone could do. jMrs. Wilson and her (;laughter were 
 ** timid," and preferred the inside of the drag to the outside. 
 Mary was obliged to accompany her friends. Miss Woodford, 
 looking bored, was about to follow them. I approached her, 
 and urged a change of plan. 
 
 " You'd much better come outside, it is such a lovely even- 
 ing, and the country is looking so pretty." 
 
 " Mr. Chichester is advising me to go outside," said she, 
 appealing to Mary. 
 
 " Yes, certainly, pray do, if you prefer it. You will find it 
 much cooler," was the reply. She still hesitated ; but the 
 horses were fidgety. Sir Geoffrey uttered an exclamation of 
 impatience, and Marston and I, without waiting for her deci- 
 sion, handed her up as a matter of course. The seat at the 
 back of the drag was the most comfortable for a lady, and this 
 we had, therefore, selected. As soon as she was seated, I 
 sprang up also. Marston was about to follow, when Sir Geof- 
 frey shouted — 
 
 *' Marston, here is the box for you." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," was the reply, '' I shall do very well 
 where I am." 
 
 *' Nonsense, man I come along, there are three or four views 
 I particularly want to point out to you, that will make your 
 fortune on canvas in next year's Exhibition." 
 
 Thus appealed to, there was nothing for him but to obey, 
 which, after indulging us with a short pantomimic insight into 
 his feehngs, lie accordingly did. The groom jumped up also in 
 front, and Alice (by the way, it is a very dangerous symptom 
 when one begins to think of a woman by her Christian name) 
 and I were left virtually tete-a-tete. 
 
 It was very interesting and delightful that conversation, as 
 we rolled easily along the smooth road, the cool breeze playing 
 around us refreshingly after the heat of the day, and an ever- 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 131 
 
 changing panorama of wood and hill, tield and river, chequered 
 by the soft lights and shades of evening, seeming to glide by ns 
 as we still passed onward. A very charming conversation it 
 was. I've not the most remote conception what it was about. 
 I don't think I ever knew very clearly ; but I recoUect we went 
 deeper than we had done before, and at last talked ourselves 
 into an eloquent silence ; and then she sat, with her soft eyes 
 fixed upon the blue sky above us, thinking no doubt of heaven, 
 like an angel as she was ; while I remained gazing on her, and 
 thought of nothing higher, or brighter, or purer, than the fair 
 girl beside me. And yet the time and scene were not quite 
 without their hallowing inflaence on me also, for I fought an 
 inward battle with my worldliness — and conquered ; and owning 
 to myself, that the love of such a pure-minded, warm-hearted 
 woman as Alice, was worth more than any pleasures gold could 
 purchase, I resolved no effort on my part should be wanting 
 to secure the only thing which I now felt was essential to my 
 happiness. 
 
 As these thoughts flitted through my brain, I w^as aroused 
 from my day-dream by the clatter of a horse's feet, and imme- 
 diately afterwards perceived a kind of two-wheeled chaise, 
 drawn by a horse, which was evidently a famous trotter, rapidly 
 approaching ; the driver, a fellow in a rough great-coat, who 
 looked like a bailiff or cattle-dealer, leered impudently at my 
 companion as he passed, and then, touching his horse with the 
 whip, rattled by us, startling the bays, and enveloping us in a 
 cloud of dust. " That fellow w-ould be the better for a sound 
 caning, whoever he is," observed I. 
 
 " He has been a bailiff of Sir Geoffrey's, and was discharged 
 for dishonest practices the very day you arrived," returned 
 Alice; "but look! what is he going to do now?" As she 
 spoke the man, holding in his horse so as scarcely to let it pro- 
 ceed beyond a walk, forced us to pass him ; but no sooner had 
 he done so, than, slackening his rein, he again dashed by, 
 causing our team to start and plunge in a manner which 
 banished the warm blood from the fair cheek of my com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Don't be frightened," observed I, " Sir Geoffrey is an 
 excellent whip, and I do not apprehend the slightest danger." 
 I was, however, far from feeling as confident of our safety fis I 
 would fain have had Alice believe ; for our tormentor was 
 again holding in his horse with an intention of repeating his 
 
132 TEE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE CCUHT. 
 
 offensive manoeuvre, when Sir Geoffrey exclaimed, in a voice 
 that quivered with suppressed anger — 
 
 " Either go on with that chaise at once, or Ivcep bcliind ; I 
 won't be passed and re-passed in this way." 
 
 " I suppose I may drive at what pace I lilve ; the road's as 
 free for one gentleman as another." was the reply, accompanied 
 by an insolent laugh. 
 
 To this impertinence Sir Geoffrey made no answer, but 
 waiting until the fellow had allowed us to pass him, threw out 
 his whip-hand, and drawing the lash lightly across the leaders' 
 backs, allowed the spirited horses to increase their pace, with 
 the view of leaving the chaise-cart behind; but our persecutor 
 was not so easily to be got rid of. As I have before observed, 
 his horse was a remarkably fast trotter, and the chaise was 
 lightly built, with very large wheels ; still, for some little time, 
 Sir Geoffrey was able to prevent him from passing us, by keep- 
 ing in the centre of the road, which at that point was not very 
 wide ; this plan, however, was rendered abortive by the inter- 
 vention of a strip of smooth green sward, running parallel with 
 the road, on to which Roberts (for such I afterwards found to 
 be his name) immediately turned, and giving his horse the 
 rein, endeavoured once more to dash by us. For some few 
 yards Sir Geoffrey attempted to race with him, but the risk was 
 too great ; excited by the rattling of the chaise, Zantippe, the 
 near leader, began to plunge violently, her companion broke 
 into a canter, and the wheel horses, snorting and setting up 
 their heads and tails, pulled so strongly that it was evident their 
 driver could scarcely hold them. Indeed, for a minute, it was 
 very doubtful whether or not they could be restrained from 
 running away ; but, fortunately, Sir Geoffrey was an unusually 
 powerful man, and by a strong and continuous effort, he once 
 more got his team under command. 
 
 Apparently satisfied with the annoyance he had caused, or, 
 possibly, afraid of proceeding to extremities, Mr. Roberts con- 
 tented himself by keeping a short distance ahead, and favouring 
 us with his rejected dust. In this order we proceeded until 
 we arrived at a turnpike, which event afforded our tormentor a 
 fresh opportunity for the display of his powers of aggravation. 
 Stopping in the middle of the gateway, so as to preclude the 
 possibihty of anything passing him, he began, in the coolest 
 way imaginable, a conversation with the turnpike man, as to 
 the state of the crops, the market-price of live stock, and the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 133 
 
 like, while he searched, or pretended to search, in his pockets 
 for the tolh Sir Geoffrey, after waiting for a few seconds with 
 exemplary patience, gave some orders to his groom, who 
 jumped down, and going round in turn to all the horses, 
 tightened their curb chains (that of Madame Zantippe in parti- 
 cular), and buckled each rein in the lowest bar. Having 
 resumed his seat, his master, addressiui^ the turnj)ike-keeper, 
 said— •• 
 
 " Why don'i you make that man go on ? it's your duty to 
 see that no one obstructs the public road." 
 
 On hearing these w^ords, Hoberts turned his head, and pre- 
 tending to recognise, for the first time, his late employer, 
 slightly raised his head, saying, " Ah, Sir Geoffrey I sorry to 
 keep you waiting ; but the sixpences always get out of the way 
 just when one wants 'em. Here, Pikey, here's your money. 
 The bays seem fidgety to-day. Sir Geoffrey ; you give 'em too 
 much corn, I expect." 
 
 The impudent leer with which these words were accompanied 
 overcame the small remnant of Sir Geoffrey's i^atience ; and, 
 thundering out an oath, he vociferated — 
 
 " If you stop there another moment, you thieving rascal I 
 I'll get down and horsewhip you with my own hands." 
 
 " Will you like to do it now, or wait till you can catch me ?" 
 was the impertinent reply ; and whipping his horse, the fellow 
 drove off. 
 
 There was a look of furious resolve in Sir Geoffrey's face, a3 
 settling himself firmly in his seat, he gathered up the reins, and 
 started his team, which I did not half like ; fortunately, Miss 
 Woodford did not appear to notice it. As the horses steadied 
 down to their trot, their driver gradually increased their speed, 
 till at last we were bowling along at between ten and eleven 
 miles an hour. This pace soon brought us up with Mr. Roberts, 
 who seemed determined not to yield the mastery of the road 
 without a struggle, and urged his horse to display its fullest 
 powers. Still the distance between us continued to decrease ; 
 the bays were splendid steppers, and had now got into a long, 
 slashing trot, which few horses could have equalled. Roberts, 
 however, knew the ground well, and determined to avail him- 
 self of it. 
 
 After proceeding about a mile at this pace, the chaise keep- 
 ing ahead, we came to a very long and tolerably steep hill ; as 
 we began to descend this, the ex-bailiff, calculating that with a 
 
134: THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 heavy carriage it would be most dangerous to preserve the pre- 
 sent rate of speed, far more to increase it, and trusting to his 
 own skill to drive his light chaise safely down, whipped his horse 
 into a furious gallop; but he had not calculated upon the daring 
 courage, or rather, I should say, the insane recklessness of Sir 
 Geoffrey Stapylton : to my horror, I again saw the snake-like 
 lash of the four-in-hand whip playing round the leaders' ears — 
 Zantippe broke into a gallop, her yoke-fellow followed her 
 example, the wheel-horses could not hold back the carriage, 
 and in another moment we were flying down the slope with 
 the speed of lightning. Instinctively I turned to my com- 
 panion, who up to this moment had behaved admirably ; even 
 now, although her face was pale with terror, she preserved her 
 presence of mind so far as to be aware that the wisest thing was 
 to endeavour to keep her seat, which, from the frightful rock- 
 ing of the coach, was no easy matter, and she accordingly 
 leaned back, grasping the iron rail with convulsive energy. It 
 WMs no time for ceremony ; jilacing my arm round her waist, I 
 drew her to my side, saying — 
 
 " Trust yourself entirely to me ; and if it is in the power of 
 man to save you, I will do so ; at present there is nothing for it 
 but to sit still, and hold on." 
 
 My intention was, in the event of an overturn, to take her in 
 my arms, and, leaping clear of the carriage, endeavour, as far 
 as possible, to break her fall, at whatever risk to myself. She 
 did not attempt to repulse me ; but, on the contrary, clung to 
 my arm, as if even its insufficient protection served to reassure 
 her. The rate at which we were proceeding once more brought 
 us up with the chaise ; and all the efforts of its driver, stimu- 
 lated by the knowledge that the race had now become one for 
 life and death, scarcely sufficed to enable him to keep ahead of 
 us. I was, however, glad to observe that Sir Geoffrey, although, 
 of course, he could not have stopped his horses, yet kept them 
 well together, and evidently had them, in some measure, under 
 control. As we approached the bottom of the hill, I perceived 
 that a stream crossed the road at right angles, over which was 
 thrown a bridge with a low, stone parapet, the ground, of course, 
 rising up to the centre of the arch ; to cross the bridge before 
 us, Roberts was now straining every sinew ; and he punished 
 his horse, which was rapidly becoming exhausted, most cruelly, 
 to attain his object ; but in vain. At the foot of the hill, the 
 taper lash of Sir Geoffrey's whip again played round the now 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF P.EDGRAYE COURT. 135 
 
 reeking sides of the horses ; as we iiearcd the bridge, the leaders 
 were Reck-and-neck \Yith the gig-horse. Now they have 
 passed it ; at the centre of the arch, the hind-wheel of the drag 
 strikes the nave of the chaise-wheel with the force of a batter- 
 ing-ram ; the shafts snap like touch-wood, the horse falls, and 
 the driver is shot over the parapet into the stream below. 
 
 With such rapidity did all this take place, that I had scarcely 
 time to turn my head and ascertain that our late tormentor had 
 sustained no bodily injury beyond a good ducking, which he 
 thoroughly deserved, ere our speed began sensibly to diminish, 
 and it was evident (thanks to an opportune rise in the ground) 
 that Sir Geoffrey had recovered complete control over his horses. 
 On turning to inform my companion (from whose slender waist 
 I had as yet only partially withdrawn my arm) of Roberts's 
 safety, I perceived the tears were coursing each other down her 
 pale cheeks. Now, if there is one thing more than another 
 that I cannot stand, it is to see any woman, for whom I have 
 the slightest regard, cry — it's all over with me then, and I 
 must do the best in my power to comfort her, at all hazards. 
 Accordingly, I took her little, trembling hand in mine, and 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Miss Woodford I — Alice, dearest Alice ! — you're not ill ? " 
 
 She suffered me to retain her hand for a minute, then, disen- 
 gaging herself from my supporting arm, she replied — 
 
 " No, no ; it is only the revulsion of feeling. A moment ago 
 on the brink of eternity, now comparatively safe I Oh, it was 
 very terrible 1 " She paused, then, smiling through her tears, 
 she added, — " You were very kind ; I believe I should have 
 fallen, if you had not supported me. I was fast losing my 
 presence of mind. I really do not know how to thank you 
 properly." 
 
 •' I will tell you," replied I ; '' give me a right to protect you 
 always, as I have done to-day. Ahce," continued I, " this is 
 no sudden resolve, no mere ebullition of feeling, called forth by 
 the excitement of the moment; but the expression of a far 
 deeper sentiment, the declaration of a passionate attachment, 
 which must constitute the joy or sorrow of my future life. 
 Alice, as you sat gazing on yon pure blue vault above us, I 
 looked into my own heart, and read there that I loved you better 
 than any created thing on the face of this fair earth ; and when, 
 during the peril from which God in his mercy preserved us, I 
 believed that another moment might plunge us into eternity, 
 
186 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 my only care ^Yas for you, for I loved you better than myself." 
 Seeing she appeared much affected by my words, I added, " 1 
 would not distress you for the world : if what I have said is 
 displeasing to you, if you feel unable to return my affection, 1 
 
 will leave this place to-morrow — I will " 1 paused abruptly, 
 
 for I saw that my companion, who had been struggling against 
 her emotion, had so far succeeded as to be able to speak, and I 
 waited, with trembling eagerness, the words which were to 
 decide my fate. 
 
 '* You know not to what you are pledging yourself," she 
 began : " you speak from an impulse of pity, called forth by 
 my desolate position. I should be most ungenerous to take 
 advantage of your disinterested kindness of heart." 
 
 " Alice, on my word, it is not so," interrupted I ; " dearest, 
 — I have thought, — I have reflected " 
 
 " Have you reflected what would be the opinion of your 
 mother and sisters, when, instead of the well-born, richly- 
 endowed bride they wish you to possess, you tell them you 
 have engaged yourself to a poor, friendless girl, with nothing 
 to recommend her " 
 
 *' But the fact that she has every perfection a man could 
 dream of in a wife — that she is the only woman I have 
 really loved, the only woman I ever shall love. Alice," I 
 continued, *' I am happily my own master. My mother and 
 sisters are well provided for. I myself possess what you, dear 
 one, with your simple tastes and habits, will deem an ample 
 fortune ; if, therefore, I may hope for the deep joy of believing 
 that you are not altogether indifferent to me — " 
 
 Well, reader, unless you are particuhirly addicted to love- 
 -scenes, I should think you have had about enough of this sort 
 of thing by this time. Love, like a pair of shoes made to order, 
 is (if it fits nicely) very agreeable to the happy couple for whom 
 it is intended (who, to carry on the metaphor, usually find 
 they've put their foot in it, and learn, from the sad realities of 
 smoky chimneys and crying children, where the shoo pinches), 
 but it is an awful bore to every one else. In the present in- 
 stance, the damsel brought forward more scruples, which I 
 combatted successfully, and before we arrived at Redgrave 
 Court, the affair was satisfactorily arranged, and I found myself 
 in the enviable position of accepted lover to Alice Woodford. 
 
 Up to the present point the reader of this " o'er true tale " 
 may, with some justice, have complained of a want of incident 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 137 
 
 therein. Should this have been the case, he may console 
 himself, as from the moment of my offer to Alice Woodford, 
 events followed each other in rapid succession. 
 
 When we reached Eedgrave, Miss Walsingham, M. Cazotte, 
 and " les braves petits chevanx,'' were reported missing. Harry 
 returned about seven o'clock ; still no tidings of the lost sheep. 
 At eight we went to dinner in despair, having despatched 
 mounted grooms in search ; at a quarter to nine one of the 
 messengers returned with a letter for Miss Woodford, on 
 perusing it that young lady beckoned Mary Stapylton out of 
 the room ; next, Harry was sprighted away ; and lastly, to my 
 intense mystification, I was summoned to Mrs. Stapylton's 
 boudoir. Then the murder came out — Miss Walsingham had 
 eloped with Monsieur Cazotte I " Good -luck and joy go with 
 her I " was my mental comment ; but I only said, I was afraid 
 Mrs. Stapylton mast be distressed at the young lady's conduct, 
 as they had been such particular friends ; whereupon that 
 animal, Harry, burst into what seemed to me a very uncalled- 
 for fit of laughter; and Alice hid her blushing face on Mary's 
 shoulder, and that best little woman in the world, hut one, told 
 me, with an April face of smiles and tears — well, reader, have 
 you guessed what? if so, you are quicker than I was, for, like 
 an oaf, even up to the last moment I had never dreamed of 
 such a thing — told how, when Harry spoke of the model 
 husband he had found for her old schoolfellow, the two naughty 
 girls laid their pretty heads together, and devised a plot against 
 the " coming man," which, had he been as much bent on 
 marrying an heiress, as he was prejudiced against it, would 
 have ended in his complete discomfiture. The scheme, then, 
 so cunningly devised was, that Alice Walsingham, heiress of 
 AYalsingham Manor, should, for the time being, change name 
 and station with her dcwie de compagnie, Julia Woodford, by 
 which metamorphoses both ladies had, as has been related, 
 obtained for themselves that desirable thing — a husband ; the 
 real Miss Woodford having availed herself of her temporary 
 elevation to secure the venal affection of M. Cazotte, though 
 the character of her " little deception " was, it must be con- 
 fessed, in more senses than one, the exact opposite to that of 
 her charming patroness. And thus, you see, Alice bid fair to 
 icin her French gloves, and Fate seemed to have decreed that I 
 am to marry an heiress after all. 
 
138 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGtiAVE COURT. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A WEEK liad elapsed since the occurrence of the events related 
 in the last chapter, and I no longer remained an inmate of Red- 
 grave Court, having ran up to town for the purpose of commu- 
 nicating my matrimonial intentions to my mother and sisters, 
 as well as to make certain necessary arrangements preparatory 
 to Alice's introduction to my family. Harry had accompanied 
 me, having business of his uncle's to execute, which obhged 
 him to visit the metropolis. 
 
 There had heen a, grand einbrouiUejnent between the Cazottes; 
 the lady having kept her own counsel till the fickle imp, Cupid, 
 had been bound in the iron fetters of Hymen, was obliged to 
 confess that her landed estates lay chiefly in the immediate 
 vicinity of certain castles in the air (a vague species of property 
 it would clearly have been unwise to build upon), while her 
 expectations were only that thisinformation would put *' Adolphe" 
 into a thundering passion, and in these, we grieve to say, she 
 was not mistaken. But " Adolphe " was a practical man, and 
 did not confine his indignation to mere words ; having escorted 
 the lady on her homeward journey as far as Derby, he availed 
 himself of the fact of her being a very sound sleeper, and bid- 
 ding her farewell after the fashion of his country {Le. taking 
 French leave), he purchased a first-class ticket, and ere the fair 
 Julia awoke to the painful consciousness that she was rather a 
 widow bewitched than otherwise, was far upon his road to Lon- 
 don, The deserted JuUa, however (being blessed b}^ nature 
 with very little delicacy of feeling, in compensation for which 
 deficiency she was gifted with a double portion of impudence), 
 immediately started for Redgrave Court ; went down upon her 
 knees to Alice, shed a very heavy shower of tears, and appealed 
 to her compassion ; which manoeuvre answered perfectly : the 
 fact being, that Alice felt herself somewhat guilty in the matter, 
 as it had been in compliance with her wishes that Miss "Wood- 
 ford had originally assumed the character of heiress. Accord- 
 ingly, wise heads were laid together, and their cogitations 
 resulted in Harry undertaking to discover, and negotiate with, 
 M. Cazotte. On reaching town he had succeeded in tracing 
 the fugitive, and having proposed to him financial arrangements, 
 which brought back all his affection for his " chere et helle Juliet' 
 
TUE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 133 
 
 had sent him down to Redgrave to make liis peace with Madame, 
 and await the drawing up of a certain deed of settlement. 
 
 This matter being happily disposed of, Harry and I had 
 agreed, after dining together on Sunday, to return to Redgrave 
 on the following Tuesday. Whether the said dinner was 
 unusually indigestible I know not, but for that or some other 
 reason, I dreamed, wdien I went to bed that night, a most 
 vivid and horrible dream. — Methought that I was at Redgrave, 
 and the party were assembled in the drawing-room before 
 dinner, when, suddenly, a fearful monster, something like an 
 exaggerated edition of a hyena, with glaring, fiendish eyes, 
 rushed into the room, and seizing one of the party (Marston, I 
 think it was), carried him off bodily. Having, as I imagined, 
 devoured his first victim, the creature returned for another, and 
 no one appearing ambitious of the unenviable distinction, a 
 hurried flight and pursuit took place, which continued through 
 the suite of rooms, and the innumerable passages of the old 
 house. Amongst the rest, Alice and I ran for our lives, and, 
 after witnessing the capture and destruction of two or three of 
 our companions — all the details presented themselves with 
 horrible distinctness to my sleeping fancy — we finally took 
 refuge in the housekeeper's room, a small apartment into which 
 I had once been introduced, to be shown a portrait of Harry, 
 as he appeared in a hat and feathers, at the tender age of four 
 years. Our hiding-place, however, proved no defence against 
 the savage cunning of the monster, for scarcely had we con- 
 gratulated ourselves on our escape, when the window was 
 dashed in, and in another moment Alice was struggling in the 
 creature's reeking jaws ; while, on attempting to advance to 
 her rescue, I found my limbs were paralysed, and that I w^as 
 immovably fixed to the spot. The scene that ensued I will not 
 attempt to describe ; suffice it to say, it was so intensely horrible, 
 that, with a cry of agony, I awoke, to find the perspiiation 
 pouring down my face like rain, and my whole frame trembling 
 with agitation. 
 
 So vivid had been the dream, that at first I could scarcely 
 persuade myself it had not been real, and even on the following 
 morning it haunted me to a degree which was perfectly ridicu- 
 lous. I tried to forget it — that was impossible ; I endeavoured 
 to reason myself out of it, but the attempt proved a failure ; 
 and, as a last resource, I set off to find Harry, and persuade 
 him to start a day sooner than we had intended : of course, he 
 
110 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 thought rae a fool for my pains, and laughed at me accord- 
 ingly ; in fact, I could not but laugh at myself. He was, 
 however, unable to agree to my plan, as he had fixed an impor- 
 tant appointment for the following morning. 
 
 " Well, I daresay you will think me a complete idiot, Harry," 
 was my reply to this announcement, ** but I've worked myself 
 up into such a fidget about this confounded dream, that if you 
 won't consider me very shabby, I shall run down by the last 
 train to-night, and surprise them to-morrow morning by appear- 
 ing at breakfast." 
 
 " I see how it is," returned Harry, laughing, " the poor 
 youth is love-sick, and has hit u»on this particularly unreason- 
 able reason as an excuse for returning to his inamorata twelve 
 hours sooner than he otherwise would do. Go your ways, 
 Master Ned (A^cd, of course), and warm yourself in the sunshine 
 of the fair Alice's smiles. Tell Mary I shall be down to- 
 morrow night ;" — and so we parted. 
 
 I can generally sleep as soundly in a carriage as in a bed, 
 but during my journey that night, I never closed my eyes ; a 
 weight hung upon my spirits — a vague presentiment of coming 
 evil which I could neither banish nor account for, rendered mo 
 anxious and uneasy, audi chid the lagging hours, which seemed 
 as if they v;ould never come to an end, and deemed, in my im- 
 patience, that the train which conveyed me was the slowest 
 coach it had ever been my evil hap to travel by. Although 
 the sun had scarcely appeared above the horizon, it was quite 
 daylight, when at about a quarter before 5 a.m., I was set down 
 at the iron gates of Eedgrave Court. 
 
 " Veil I " exclaimed the driver as I handed him his fare, *' I've 
 drove by these here blessed gates here fifteen year next mid- 
 summer, but this is the first time I've ever seed 'em open at 
 this time in the morning." 
 
 Attracted by his words, I turned to look — 'twas true ; the 
 gates were wide open, and stranger still, the key was remaining 
 in the lock I " What an extraordinary circumstance I " thought 
 I, as I tried in vain to account fur it in any satisfactory man- 
 ner ; it was, however, useless to puzzle my brain about it, no 
 one being at hand to afford a cine to the mystery, as the old 
 woman who usually acted as gate-keeper was accustomed to 
 sleep at the village, a quarter of a mile distant. 
 
 This little incident, unimportant as it may appear, did not 
 tend to allay my anxiety, and I ran, rather than walked, up the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COL'RT. 141 
 
 foTcnne, so great was my impatience to prove my fears ground- 
 less. As I approached the house, tlie whining of a dog 
 became audible, and in another moment a favourite spaniel of 
 Harry's came bounding towards me, and fawned upon me ; as 
 I stooped to caress the animal, my hand encountered something 
 damp and sticky, and, on examining the creature more closely 
 [ perceived, to my horror, that his coat was in places stained, 
 and his paws stained, with blood. Pushing the dog from me, I 
 ran hastily on, and in another minute had reached the porter's 
 lodge, the door of which was usually most carefully barred. To 
 my surprise and alarm, this was also standing wide open. 
 Fearing I knew not what, I entered, but had scarcely done so 
 when I started back aghast, for I perceived traces which evinced 
 clearly whence the animal had contracted its ensanguined 
 stains. This confirmation of my worst fears coming upon me 
 so unexpectedly, made me feel very faint, and I was forced to 
 return into the open air, fo'- a minute, to recover myself. As I 
 threw my eye along the range of buildings, not a living creature 
 was visible, nor was there the slightest indication of the man- 
 sion being inhabited. The fresh air having in some degree 
 restored me, I again entered the porter's lodge, determined to 
 prosecute my search, though I dreaded each moment to en- 
 counter the ghastly evidences of some hideous tragedy. 
 
 On examining the lodge more closely, I perceived the foot- 
 prints of several people, mixed with crimson drops and stains, 
 while ensanguined marks upon the handles and panels of the 
 doors seemed to indicate their having been dashed open by 
 murderous hands. From the larger spots, tiacks of the same 
 nature were discernible in a passage leading towards the ser- 
 vants' offices. Following this horrible guide, I reached the 
 kitchen. Here, although the marks never entirely ceased, they 
 became less frequent; the room appeared untenanted, either by 
 the living or the dead ; there was no fire burning in the grate, 
 but on the table stood what, to my astonishment, I soon made 
 out to be the second course of the yesterday's dinner, untouched, 
 and arranged in the exact order in which it should have been 
 put upon the dining-room table. This struck me as a most 
 inexplicable circumstance, as it indicated that the mysterious 
 fate which seemed to have annihilated the family, must have 
 overtaken them suddenly, and that, moreover, the catastrophe 
 had not occurred during the hours of darkness, but early in the 
 preceding evening. It was clear, however, that the clue io the 
 
14:2 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 mystery could not be ascertained without farther investigation ; 
 and though I am free to confess that the situation was one 
 which inspired me with the most vivid sensation of fear, I 
 determined, come what would, to go through with it, if but for 
 the sake of avoiding self-reproach afterwards. Accordingly, 
 feeling by no means certain that I might not at any moment be 
 attacked by some of the unknown agents in the tragedy which 
 I could scarcely doubt had been enacted, I armed myself with 
 the heavy kitchen jDoker, and proceeded in my search. The 
 ensanguined traces now became more distinct, and led towards 
 the dining-room. As I approached the door of this apartment, 
 the marks of a man's hands, with the fingers spread out, were 
 distinctly traced in crimson stains on the walls of the passage, 
 as if some one had pressed against the wall to save himself 
 from falling. 
 
 The dining-room door stood ajar ; I pushed it open, and 
 entered. The table was laid for dinner, the chairs for the 
 guests stood round it, and the first course had been served ; but 
 the covers were still on the dishes, and the whole was in the 
 most exact order, but untouched. While making these obser- 
 vations, my back had been towards the sideboard ; but on 
 turning to leave the room, such a scene of destruction met my 
 sight, that I instinctively rubbed my eyes to convince myself I 
 was not dreaming once more. The sideboard, and the oil- 
 cloth for some feet round it, were covered by fragments of 
 broken glass and china, with knives, forks, articles of plate, 
 large and small, lying huddled together in the wildest disorder; 
 whilst among, and about, and upon everything, were spots, and 
 stains of gore, which appeared to have fallen from the victims 
 in some desperate and mysterious conflict. Still, strange to 
 say, there appeared no signs, either living or dead, of the 
 actors in the hideous drama. Everything was alike silent and 
 terrible. Having overcome a shuddering sickness which the 
 sight had produced, I hastily left the dining-parlour, and hur- 
 ried through the suite of sitting-rooms. In each and all the 
 same phenomena presented themselves ; silence, unbroken but 
 by the sound of my own footsteps, solitude, and traces of 
 violence. 
 
 Having gone through most of the rooms down-stairs, I de- 
 termined to examine the sleeping apartments. The first room 
 was the one commonly occupied by Harry and his wife. The 
 door stood open ; but I could observe nothing unusual in the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGUAVE COUllT. 143 
 
 apartment, except that the bed had not been slept in. The 
 next room, which had been Ahce's, presented much the same 
 appearance, the bed also being undisturbed. The door of 
 Marston's sleeping apartment liad, liowever, evidently been 
 exposed to some most violent assault; the lower hinge was 
 broken, the upper one bent and strained, and the lock was 
 literally dashed to pieces, the floor being strewed with fragments 
 of iron and splintered wood. On entering, there were ensan- 
 guined stains upon the carpet, the bed was undisturbed, but 
 the window, which might be eight or nine feet from the ground, 
 stood wide open, and on the sill was the red print of a hand, as 
 if some person had leaned on it in order to jump out, while on 
 the soft border beneath, the traces of footsteps were distinctly 
 visible. The adjoining room was that of M. Cazotte. The 
 door was fastened on the inside ; but the lock had been par- 
 tially destroyed, and the two lower panels were dashed in, so 
 that, by stooping down, I could look into the room. Nothing, 
 however, was visible which could throw light on the affair, 
 though I could perceive the bed had not been slept in ; while, 
 from the current of air, I imagined the window to be standing 
 open. 
 
 There now only remained one more chamber to examine, 
 viz., that of Sir Geoffrey Stapylton himself. The door of this 
 apartment remained firmly closed, and the fastenings on the 
 inside resisted any efforts of mine to open them. On applying 
 my ear to the key-hole, however, the heavy, but regular 
 breathing of some person in a deep sleep became distinctly 
 audible. Under these circumstances, I paused for a moment to 
 decide on my next step. The sleeper I had little doubt was 
 Sir Geoffrey. The question then was, should I endeavour to 
 arouse him at once, and demand from him an explanation of 
 these ghastly evidences ; or should I leave him undisturbed, 
 while I made the best of my way down to the village, to obtain 
 assistance, and ascertain if anything could there be learned of 
 the fate of the other inmates of Eedgrave Court? Many 
 reasons induced me to adopt the latter alternative, amongst 
 which, by no means the least influential, was a terrible doubt 
 which, despite Harry's assurances to the contrary, had more 
 than once occurred to my mind, in regard to the baronet's 
 sanity. The fearful expression of his face before the finale of 
 the drag adventure, had impressed itself indelibly on my 
 memory, and there was a half cunning, half ferocious look in 
 
144 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 his cold, grey eyes, ^N-liich seemed to strengthen the supposi- 
 tion. Nay, ^Yas it not even possible that he might be in some 
 ^vay connected with the frightful traces around me ? — Might 
 not some fit of anger have induced a sudden outbreak of irsane 
 fury, in which, perchance The idea was too vaguely hor- 
 rible to realise, but it settled the question ; and merely delaying 
 to glance through the servants' sleeping rooms, all of which 
 were empty, and the beds unslept in, I hastily retraced my 
 steps. The course which I pursued in order to effect my exit, 
 happened to lead me past the housekeeper's room, and an irre- 
 sistible impulse led me to investigate it. 
 
 Accordingly, I pushed opened the door and entered. Scarcely 
 had I done so, when I started back terror-stricken and aghast, 
 for, accustomed as my eyes had now become to objects of 
 dismay, the appearance of the room corresponded so exactly 
 (as far as things inanimate were concerned) with my dream of 
 the preceding night, that I could scarcely believe the evidence 
 of my senses. The reader may remember that in my dream, 
 the creature with the fiendish eyes dashed in through the closed 
 window, and seizing Alice, devoured her in the centre of the 
 apartment. Imagine, then, my dread and amazement, to per- 
 ceive that the window -frame, glass, and evertjtliiug icere lltcrallij 
 
 smashed to pieces, while on the floor were again traces of 
 
 Eut the description is too horrible I There were further marks 
 of violence about the apartment, yet, shocked and sick at heart, 
 I could not stay to examine them. My pulses throbbed, my brain 
 reeled, and had I remained a minute longer I must have fainted. 
 The cool air served once more to restore me, and turning my 
 back upon the scene of horrors, I fled as from a charnel-house. 
 How I contrived to reach the village I know not ; it must have 
 been solely a matter of instinct, mind had nothing to do with 
 it; for at that moment I was utterly incapable of thought. 
 The first thing that recalled me in any measure to myself, was 
 the sight of Marston, who, with his forehead bandaged, and his 
 arm in a sling, was standing at the door of the little inn watch- 
 ing the sunrise. My appearance, I imagined, afforded some 
 clue to my state of mind, for, starting as he saw me, he ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " Good heavens, Chichester, you here ! you have not been 
 up to the house, surely ? " 
 
 I managed to gasp out an affirmative, adding, "■ Tell mo — 
 what of Alice ? " 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 145 
 
 *' She is here, safe and well," was the reply. 
 
 I uttered an exclamation of thankfulness, and sinking on a 
 bench covered my face with my hands, and — I am not ashamed 
 to own it, for since I left off pinafores, it is the only time I have 
 so misconducted myself — cried like a child. The relief was 
 instantaneous, and ere five minutes were over, I was walking 
 up and down with Marston, listening to his explanation of the 
 horrors which had so affected me. It appeared that on the 
 previous day, just before the usual dinner hour, Marston had 
 accidentally entered the parlour in search of a book, when he 
 perceived Sir Geoffrey (who had complained in the earlier part 
 of the morning of feeling ill, and out of spirits), in the act of 
 filling for himself a glass of brandy at the sideboard. Marston, 
 being aware of the necessity which existed for his host to 
 abstain from all exciting liquors, had ventured to remonstrate 
 with him, but to no purpose ; he was obstinately bent upon 
 having his own way, and as a last resource, Marston, pretend- 
 ing to do so by accident, knocked the glass out of his hand. 
 
 It was a dangerous experiment, and, as the event proved, a 
 most unwise one ; for the baronet, irritated beyond control, 
 seized a decanter, and flung it with tremendous force at Mars- 
 ton'a head, who only avoided the blow by the greatest quick- 
 ness. Thus foiled in his attempt. Sir Geoffrey struck Marston 
 a violent blow on the face, which set his nose bleeding, 
 and appeared inclined to follow up the attack so vigorously, 
 that, in self-defence, Marston was obliged to use his fists also. 
 M. Cazotte and the servants, attracted by the noise of the scuffle, 
 hastened to the scene of action, and the combined forces threw 
 themselves upon, and endeavoured to overpower, the baronet. 
 This, however, was no such easy matter. Sir Geoffrey, at ail 
 ti.mes an unusually powerful man, was now animated by the 
 strength of frenzy, and being, moreover, by no means scrupu- 
 lous in his choice of weapons, — flinging a knife at one, a plate 
 or decanter at another, as opportunity offered, — it could be 
 little matter of surprise, that the battle ended by his fairly beat- 
 ing them all out of the room, and elate with victory, pursuing 
 them up and down the passages, and through the suite of 
 apartments. 
 
 In such a conflict as I have described, with fragments of 
 broken china and glass flying in all directions, it may be easily 
 imagined that hands and faces would be cut, and the effusion of 
 blood considerable : and such in fact was the case. At tho 
 
 L 
 
146 THE MYSTERIES OF IlEDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 first onset, the ladies of the family, and the female domestics, 
 with one exception, had sought safety in flight ; the men-ser- 
 vants soon followed their example ; and ]\Iarston and Cazotte, 
 having by that time had quite enough of it, rushed up to their 
 respective bed-rooms, Sir Geoffrey following hard upon their 
 traces. This, however, proved of little avail ; the infuriated 
 madman — for such, at all events at the time, he was — kicked 
 in the lower panels of one door, and smashed the lock and 
 hinges of the other — hostile demonstrations which determined 
 the tenants to escape by their windows, and make the best of 
 their way to eifect a junction with the main body of fugitives. 
 
 The only person now remaining in the house, besides the 
 victorious baronet, was the old house -keeper, a faithful servant 
 of the family, who had known Sir Geoffrey from his youth up, 
 ind having ere now witnessed somewhat similar explosions, 
 entertained no personal fear of her master, and had therefore 
 ensconced herself in her own room, to wait till he should ''come 
 round again," as she termed it. Her anticipations were soon 
 verified. Sir Geoffrey, having satisfied himself that he had 
 made a clear house of it, and that no more enemies remained 
 to contend with, became in a degree tranquillised, and at last 
 entered the housekeeper's room, and asked her to bind up one 
 of his hands, which had been severely cut with the broken 
 glass. In complying with his wishes, she accidentally pressed 
 against the wounded part, and hurt him. The pain brought 
 back all hia scarcely-extinguished anger, and striking her 
 violently across the face with the back of his hand, he set her 
 nose bleeding violently, then seizing the poker, he commenced 
 breaking the furniture, and, by way of an appropriate finale, 
 smashed the window to shivers. Upon seeing this, even the 
 old housekeeper became alarmed for her life, and while his 
 attention was engrossed by the demohtion of the window, made 
 her escape, trotting off as fast as her legs could carry her, 
 having paused, however, in the porter's lodge for a minute or 
 two, to stanch her injured nose. By her advice, it was decided 
 to leave Sir Geoffrey alone in his glory until the morning. 
 She was well acquainted with his habits, and declared that if 
 he were allowed to remain undisturbed, he would most pro- 
 bably betake himself quietly to bed. Accordingly, an express 
 was despatched to inform Harry of all that had occurred. Mars- 
 ton had his wounds bound up, and the whole party took 
 possession of the Httle village inn for the night. And in this 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 14^ 
 
 manner was the fearful and horrible scene, which had shocked 
 my eyes and filled me with the most dire forebodings, accounted 
 for more satisfactorily than I could have deemed possible. 
 
 Little else remains to be told. Harry, who had started for 
 Ixcdgrave the moment he became aware of what had taken 
 place, arrived in time to give directions as to the most advisable 
 course to pursue with regard to his uncle. This was, to set 
 the servants and workmen to clear away all signs of the late 
 fracas, and restore the house to its former state of order. Sir 
 Geoffrey's valet was then desired to call his master, having been 
 previously cautioned to avoid all reference to the occurrences of 
 the preceding evening. The plan answered perfectly. The 
 baronet appeared either entirely to have forgotten his late 
 exploit, or else, aware that it did not exactly redound to his 
 credit, he chose to appear oblivious of it, and for the time the 
 thing passed over. Harry, however, in accordance with his 
 wife's wishes, made my approaching wedding a pretext for re- 
 moving the family to London, and I believe it is not his intention 
 to allow Mary again to reside at Redgrave during his uncle's 
 life. He has also, under pretence of hiring a new butler, con- 
 trived to introduce into the establishment a man accustomed to 
 the care of persons whose eccentricities occasionally assume a 
 dangerous character. 
 
 And now, shortly to return to my more immediate concerns : 
 most of my readers have doubtless partaken of the good cheer 
 provided by that " mighty master " of the art of gastronomy 
 '' Gunter," on the occasion of a wedding breakfast. Let each, 
 then, recall his or her brightest recollections of orange flowers, 
 wdiite satin, and Honiton lace, ad lihitum, no end of kid gloves, 
 inexhaustible ices, and unlimited champagne ; — let him add to 
 the catalogue half-a-dozen pretty bridesmaids, in a very dan- 
 gerous state of pink bonnets and fascination, and twice the 
 number of young gentlemen (mild, nineteenth-century Csesars), 
 got up for the occasion regardless of expense, — prepared to 
 come, see, and conquer, but who are each safe to play Antony 
 to some bridesmaid's Cleopatra, ere the sitting is concluded ; — 
 batteries of smiles, most ably served, that set hearts on fire, 
 which bucketsful of tears, shed because every one is so very 
 happy, are unable to extinguish ; — long impromptu speeches, 
 carefully studied beforehand, and dead failures after all ; — tipsy 
 waiters, white-favoured post-boys, eager horses, one bridegroom 
 in the seventh heaven of confused ecstasy, and the most lovely, 
 
148 THE MYSTERIES OF REDGRAVE COURT. 
 
 and lovable bride that ever existed : — let the reader remember, 
 or imagine, all this, and he will, even then, have arrived at a 
 very insufficient and tame conception of the sayings and doings 
 of that most glorious morning, which beheld me the proud and 
 delighted husband of the once-dreaded heiress, Alice Wal- 
 singham. 
 
 '' And that is all about it, eh. Master Ned ? " 
 " It is so, dear Reader ; except that, perhaps, as a conclud- 
 ing remark, you will allow me to state my very decided opinion, 
 that — under the circumstances — it would have been better taste 
 in you to have called me a married man, Edward I " 
 
 Note by the Author. — The strange incident related in the last chapter 
 -of this tale is founded on fact, and occurred almost exactly as the author 
 ,has described it. If this is not deemed sufficient reason for introducing 
 the unpleasing details without which the facts of the story could not have 
 been related, the author can only apologise for his choice of a subject. 
 The principal actor in the affair was an eccentric Baronet, well remem- 
 bered by many of the inhabitants of B shire, while the gentleman 
 
 from whom the account is derived, and who performed the part assigned 
 . to Edward Chichester in the matter, is still living, to vouch for its truth. 
 
NOIIFOLK AND HBHEFORD. 
 
 BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 The woods were echoing witli the music of hounds, — for many 
 a deep throat was pouring forth tlie fierce but melodious cry of 
 eager pursuit, as the deer started away from the thicket and 
 bounded over the brushwood of the more open part of the 
 forest. AYaving up and down was a sea of gentle hills and 
 dales, with streams flowing through the valleys, and castles 
 perched upon the summits. On the one side, where the coun- 
 try sloped away towards the banks of th^ Wye, a wide extent 
 of wavy lines of every hue, of purple and of yellow, might be 
 seen stretching afar till they were lost in misty nothing ; whilst, 
 on the other hand, over the tall tree-tops rose up the blue heads 
 of some distant mountains. On a spot where this scene, so fair 
 in itself, was rendered doubly beautiful by the effect of the 
 sky, which, though it was full summer, was now partly over- 
 shadowed for a few instants by a broad heavy cloud, stood a 
 young lad of some fourteen or fifteen years of age. He was 
 dressed in a light tunic of green, bordered with a gold lace, 
 with breeches, stockings, and boots of untanned leather. No 
 cloak was upon his shoulders, but under his left arm hung a 
 quiver full of arrows. In his right hand was a bow, taller than 
 himself: and with his foot he kept down the leash which con- 
 fined two tall speed hounds, which stood with arched backs and 
 raised ears gazing along a broad road running through the 
 midst of the forest. In the same direction the boy's eyes were 
 also turned, and the same eager and impetuous look might be 
 seen in the human face and in the faces of the dogs. 
 
 A moment after a large fine deer bounded across the spaco 
 
150 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 where the wood was low, and was crossing the road into the 
 thicker part of the forest on the other side, when, in an instant, 
 an arrow was laid upon the string, the bow raised, the shaft 
 shot, and the noble beast fell over and over, with the missile 
 piercing his side, through and through, just behind the shoulder. 
 Close upon his track came the hounds and a large body of 
 huntsmen ; and the youth ran eagerly forward, exclaiming, 
 with a sort of deprecatory look, "You gave me leave to shoot I " 
 
 " Yes, I did, Walter," replied one of the newcomers, turning 
 towards him ; " but you should be careful : you might have shot 
 man or dog." 
 
 *' Oh, no fear of that, noble lord," replied the boy ; '' I never 
 miss my mark ; " and gazing upon the prostrate carcass of the 
 stag, still quivering with animal life, while the huntsmen flogged 
 the dogs back from it, he said, in a musing tone, to himself, 
 " The old man told me, I should some day shoot the highest 
 beast in all the forests of England ; and I think I have done it, 
 xmd the fattest too." 
 
 " This is the fourth brought down this morning," said the 
 gentleman who had just spoken, turning to another who accom- 
 panied him. " You see, Ralph, that we have venison in 
 Herefordshire as well as in Norfolk." 
 
 ** Ay, truly," replied the other; '' and this is the tallest buck 
 of all. 'Tis a shame to have it slain by a page's hand." 
 
 " Nay, nay," replied the first; "Walter Tyrrel is the best 
 marksman amongst us ; and the Norman bow was never better 
 )han in his hand. Some day he will do good service therewith. 
 Envy him not his stroke, but let the foresters break the deer, 
 for I have had enough of such work, and come along with 
 me. I will show thee a hind which is better worth thine aim 
 than all the harts of the forest." 
 
 " Have with you, my good lord." replied the other. xYnd 
 turning their horses' heads, tliey rodo away, followed by a part 
 of their attendants, but not all. 
 
 It had not been difficult to see that the two gentlemen who 
 had spoken, while the rest maintained silence, were Norman 
 nobles of a very high rank. They had all the distinctive marks 
 of their class and their nature : the long dark hair, hanging in 
 ringlets over their shoulders, — the close shaven face, leaving not 
 the slightest particle of beard that could be removed, — the long 
 tunics, apparently more fitted for a court than a hunting-field, 
 and not only embroidered with gold round the edges, but 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 151 
 
 ornamented in various parts with precious stones, — and, above 
 all, the furred rheno, or gorget, as I believe it may be called, 
 which, rising partly round the neck, descended thence over the 
 chest and shoulders. Both were young men in the early pride 
 of life ; and both were peculiarly handsome, especially the one 
 who had spoken last. He was tall, graceful, powerfully made ; 
 and the features, slightly aquiline, displayed all that peculiar 
 delicacy of outline which marked the Norman race, and often 
 deluded the enemies opposed to it into the dangerous fancy 
 that the spirit would be found as soft and delicate as the 
 countenance. 
 
 As they rode along, at a slow pace, the one called the other 
 Kalph, and the other addressed him again by the name of 
 Roger ; but when any of the attendants spoke to either, it was 
 with lowly reverence, and with the addition of, my Lord the 
 Earl. Sometimes, indeed, though but rarely, the first of the 
 noblemen I have mentioned would call the other '' Norfolk ; " 
 and the other would in turn address his companion as " Here- 
 ford ; " but they seemed upon those intimate and brotherly terms 
 which frequently existed between two knights of the middle 
 ages, extending to an excess of attachment and devotion, which 
 Bcems marvellous, and almost incredible, to our colder and more 
 calculating minds. Whether a real and formal brotherhood 
 of arras existed between them, I know not ; but certainly the 
 attachment of the one to the other was as great as if they had 
 been born of the mother ; and yet, strange to say, Ralph de 
 Guador, Earl of Norfolk, was but little acquainted with the 
 family of Roger Fitz-Osborne, Earl of Hereford, — had never 
 seen his mother, and had only met his father, the celebrated 
 favourite of William the Conqueror, on occasions of courtly 
 ceremony or mihtary parade. Such, however, is often the case, 
 at least in a certain degree, at present. Though the deep and 
 devoted attachment implied by the brotherhood of arms in those 
 days no longer exists, yet how often is it that the young choose 
 their dearest friends from circles far remote from that in which 
 heaven placed them ? how rarely would father and son agree in 
 regard to the choice of associates ? and, alas ! how often has the 
 eon to regret that he did not use the microscope of experience, 
 which he was fond to fancy had deceived a parent's sight. 
 
 These two high lords rode on, chatting gaily as they went ; 
 and after a ride of about half an hour, the towers of a tall castle 
 began to appear upon a hill, at some four or five miles distance. 
 
152 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 Three centuries ago that castle was a picturesque ruin ; now, 
 the very foundations cannot be traced. At the time of which 
 I write it was fresh in its first newness ; no ivy had ventured to 
 cling to its walls, — the lichen and the moss had found no footing 
 on the stone-work, — and the smoke of the cottages below had 
 hardly sliadowed M'ith grey the warm colour of the stone. 
 
 The towers were lost and seen, and seen and lost again, as 
 the party advanced ; now rising into view over the tree-tops as 
 they ascended the hills, — now disappearing amongst the leafy 
 branches as they rode down into the valleys. 
 
 It was at the end of one of the steepest of these descents, 
 that the young Earl of Hereford reined in his horse, and, 
 pointing to a small house, superior to the ordinary tenement of 
 ISaxon thrall or ceorl, or of Norman serf or socman, being built 
 of stone, and not inelegantly ornamented, he said, " There 
 dwells one of our followers, Norfolk ; and, by the glory of the 
 Virgin, I must even pause and get a draught of wine, for I am 
 thirsty with the chase. He will have no bad drink, I promise 
 you, for he is choice in such things; so come, if you are thirsty 
 — if not, ride on, and I will follow you." 
 
 " Nay, let me share the cup," answered his friend ; and 
 turning to the door, they dismounted. 
 
 " Here, come you in hither," said Hereford, opening the door. 
 " Maggy, Maggy, if the old man is out, give me a cup of 
 wine." 
 
 A light step was heard running from an inner chamber, and 
 the next moment a vision of beauty burst upon the sight of the 
 young Earl of Norfolk, that seemed to dazzle his eyes, for he 
 shaded them as if the sun had fallen npon them. The person who 
 appeared before him was a girl of nineteen or twenty years of 
 age, not very tall, though somewhat above the middle height. 
 Every limb was turned in the most exquisite symmetry ; the 
 foot small and delicately shaped, the hand, with the fingers long, 
 rounded, and fair, except where, at the slender tip of each, 
 nature had painted them with the rosy hue of morning. Her 
 dress was plain, and that of the lower sort of people, which dis- 
 played the person to much greater advantage than the long and 
 flowing robes of the court. The neck, and part of the shoulders, 
 were exposed ; but no russet hue from the warm rays of the sun 
 dimmed their ivory whiteness. Her eyes and hair were dark, 
 but yet what could not be called black; and the sparkling 
 brightness of the former was softened by the peculiar form of 
 
NORFOLK AND HERErORD. 153 
 
 the eyelid, and the sweeping fringe of long black lashes as well 
 on the lower as the upper lid. 'J'he rest of the features it is 
 hardly necessary or possible to describe, — suffice it that they 
 were straight and beautiful ; but the month, radiant with 
 smiles, seemed, to the eye of Norfolk at least, as love's own home. 
 
 " Well, my good lord," slie said, addressing Hereford in gay 
 and familiar tones, " so you have concluded your hunting earlier 
 than you tlionght?" 
 
 " Even so, Maggy," answered Hereford, in the same light 
 way. " And did you see the chase, fair lady ?" 
 
 " I watched you for about an hour," answered the fair girl, 
 " but then the wood swallowed you up, and I came down hither." 
 
 " Well, then, bring me a cup of wine, sweet one," answered 
 Hereford, " for we are very thirsty." 
 
 "Am I to be your cup-bearer?" demanded the girl, with a 
 gay toss of the head, glancing her eye at the same time to the 
 handsome countenance of the Eavl of Norfolk. 
 
 " Ay, and for my friend here, too," replied the other; *' and 
 be quick, Meg, for we are parched." 
 
 " Well, well," she answered, running away, laughing, " you 
 are all tyrants." 
 
 In a moment or two she returned w^ith a large cup, and a 
 flagon of wine ; and first, with a graceful bend of the head, she 
 presented the goblet to the Earl of Norfolk. 
 
 " Nay, fair lady, give it to Lord Hereford," he said ; and, 
 \Yith a smile and a blush, which rendered her fair countenance 
 more beautiful than ever, she followed the directions she had 
 received. 
 
 But little conversation followed ; and the two young noble- 
 men remounted their horses and went upon their way. The 
 demeanour of one of the party at least was considerably changed 
 by the brief pause which they had made. Hereford was as gay 
 and lively as ever, and laughed and talked to his companion, 
 without noticing apparently the grave and thoughtful manner 
 which had so suddenly come upon the Earl of Norfolk, who 
 rode on by his side, striving in vain to keep up the light and 
 jesting tone commonly assumed amongst themselves by the 
 conquerors of the Saxon people of England. Now he would 
 reply with a sharp repartee ; now he would join in his friend's 
 laugh ; but almost immediately he fell into thought again, and 
 remained plunged in what seemed very deep, if not very 
 pleasant, meditations. 
 
154: NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 After a time, his altered demeanour seemed to catch the 
 attention of Hereford, who exclaimed in his usual joyous tone, 
 '•< Why, what has come to thee, Norfolk ? Thou art as dull as 
 a crow on a dry day. Have the bright eyes of our fair Maggy 
 struck thee dumb ? " 
 
 *' Not so," replied his friend, " although I will own, Hereford, 
 I think you a very happy man to have such kind looks from 
 such bright eyes." 
 
 Hereford laughed aloud. " Thou art in love. Thou art in 
 love with our fair Mag," he cried. " But I am generous : I will 
 give her to thee, if thou wilt. She is a present for a prince." 
 
 *' But is she not a free woman ? " asked Norfolk. 
 
 " Oh yes, mighty free, as my ears can witness," replied the 
 other earl. '' She takes all liberty, I assure you, if I am over 
 saucy." 
 
 Norfolk fell into thought again, for it seemed to him his 
 friend was jesting ; and no more was said upon the subject till 
 they reached the castle, which they had seen from time to time 
 as they went upon their way. 
 
 Some hours passed in various amusements, during which the 
 Earl of Norfolk gradually shook off his thoughtful mood, and aa 
 the hour of supper approached, appeared light and cheerful as 
 ever. The last meal of the day has in almost all ages, and with 
 almost all people, been the brightest and the merriest. Ever 
 since care came into the world, and labour was the work of 
 daylight, it has necessarily been so. For it the two noblemen 
 prepared with some care ; for Hereford had informed his guest 
 that they were not to sup alone, as they had dined. Friends 
 were expected to join their party, he said, ay, and some bright 
 ladies too. 
 
 Still the beautiful face and the bright eyes which he had 
 seen in the morning haunted Norfolk, even till he entered the 
 lesse-r hall of the castle, where the guests assembled previous to 
 the meal. There were already ten or twelve persons present, 
 with several pages handing silver basins and water in silver 
 ewers, for the guests who had ridden from a distance to wash 
 their hands before supper. At the farther end of the room — 
 which was not one of the most spacious in the castle — Norfolk 
 beheld the young Earl of Hereford with an elderly lady of a 
 stately and dignified mien by his fctide ; but, somewhat nearer, 
 was a figure full (;f grace and beauty, with the face turned 
 partly away, and only a part of the cheek and temple shown. 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 155 
 
 Of faces that please and interest ns, however, we mark more 
 than even we ourselves believe; and small particulars, which 
 we do not recollect having noticed, M'ill often reveal to us the 
 presence of a friend, long before we fully see the well-known 
 countenance. There was something in the soft shading of the 
 eyebrow, where it lost itself in the pure white of the temple, 
 in the graceful line of the damask cheek, and the beautiful 
 symmetry of the neck, which sent a thrill of pleasure through 
 the breast of Norfolk; though he could hardly believe that, in the 
 richly apparelled lady before him, he beheld the gay girl whom 
 he had seen at the vassal's house. He gazed at her eagerly, and 
 then turned his look for an instant to Hereford. The eyes of his 
 friend were fixed upon him w'ith a gay and laughing expression; 
 and the next instant the lady herself turned, and there was no 
 longer any doubt. A smile, light and playful, came upon her face 
 when she beheld the Earl of Norfolk ; but, at that moment, 
 Hereford himself crossed towards them, and taking Norfolk by 
 the hand, led him towards the fair stranger, saying, " Let me 
 present you to my sister. Margaret, who lives during my father's 
 absence with my aunt, the Countess of Breteuil, has kindly come 
 over five miles to grace our supper ;" and he then added, in a 
 lower voice, " in a different guise from that in which she stole 
 away this morning to witness the hunting." 
 
 Right joyous felt the heart of the Earl of Norfolk when he 
 remembered the words of his friend in the morning. " I will 
 give her to thee if thou wilt," he had said ; but then came a 
 little trepidation ; for there was something in that high and 
 lofty brow, something in that bright and sparkling eye, which, 
 though softened and shaded by a look of feminine gentleness, 
 told him that she was not one to be given, altogether without her 
 own consent ; for, even in that age, the convent was almost 
 always a resource against an unwished-for union. He ap- 
 proached, however, though M'ith some agitation ; but the kind 
 smile, and the well-pleased look, gave him back his confidence : 
 and, when she laughed gaily over their meeting in the morning, 
 and his unconsciousness of her rank and station, he soon became 
 again, what he usually appeared, one of the most graceful and 
 distinguished of the Norman barons. 
 
 I will not pause upon the progress of their love, nor detail 
 all the little incidents, full of interest to them, which occurred 
 to strengthen and encourage it during the space of more than 
 oix v.'eeks which Norfolk passed with the Earl of Hereford. 
 
156 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 The Countess of Breteuil looked favourably upon the whole ; 
 for there was no alliance in the land superior to that of Norfolk. 
 Her gates were always open to the earl; and he had more 
 opportunities than were usually afforded before marriage, of 
 knowing and being known, loving and winning love. He 
 thought he had won it too; and Hereford assured him that it 
 was so : but there was something that still restrained him ; 
 and, ere he could permit his friend to write for the consent of 
 his father and the king, he said, " I must hear, from her own 
 lips, that she can be mine with her whole heart." 
 
 It was easily arranged that he should have the opportunity 
 of satisfying himself; and, one bright morning of a warm 
 summer's day, he stood by Margaret's side, in a little tapestried 
 room, where before their eyes, beyond the open windows, 
 spread tlie bright gleaming scenes of nature, and round about 
 hung representations of shady groves, and deer feeding by the 
 side of streams, and hunter-boys peeping forth, with bow in 
 hand and quiver upon shoulder. 
 
 The tapestry made a rustling sound as the Countess of Bre- 
 teuil departed ; and Margaret, as she looked round, and found 
 herself alone with Norfolk, became somewhat pale, and turned 
 her eyes towards the ground. She felt that the moment of 
 destiny had arrived ; that the weal or woe of life was upon the 
 wings of that hour. 
 
 Norfolk lost no time. His words were low, but clear and 
 distinct, full of thrilling passion and devoted love. But Mar- 
 garet still remained pale till he had done. Then she raised her 
 eyes to his face ; and, with strong command over herself, to 
 keep her limbs from trembling, she said, " Norfolk, I know 
 you love me. I have seen it, felt it — and I M'ill not deny that 
 I love you ; but I will not promise you my hand till I know 
 Jiow you love me. I have seen many a scene of wedded life, 
 which rather than endure, I would shut myself in a convent 
 for ever. Tell me then, tell me, if I become your wife, what 
 am I to become ? How are w'e to live together ? " 
 
 Norfolk put his hand to his brow, for a moment puzzled by 
 her question ; but, the next instant, her meaning flashed upon 
 him, and, with a glad smile, he looked up, and took her hand in 
 his. 
 
 " Margaret," he said, " if you do love me, you are mine ; for 
 your nature is most noble, and the an3wer which my heart will 
 give to yours, must satisfy it. If you become my wife, it is 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 157 
 
 not to be the pLaytliing of an hour, a child's toy, cast aside in 
 pvery moment of weariness or caprice ; but it is to be the 
 friend, the companion, the sharer of all my thoughts. It is to 
 be my consolation in adversity, my joy in prosperity, the lead- 
 ing star of all my efforts, the light of all my hopes. This is 
 what you must wish to be, with the man whom you love ; and 
 that is what you shall be, I promise you, as noble, knight, and 
 Christian." 
 
 Promises are very vain things, and Margaret knew it ; but 
 yet, with that answer she was fully satisfied, for it showed her 
 that Norfolk was what she had thought him, and that he was 
 one who could understand her, and could love as she wished to 
 be loved. She felt that he did love her too ; and she resolved 
 tliat he should never have occasion to forget the attachment, 
 which beauty might have first awakened, but higher qualities 
 had confirmed. 
 
 Their mutual promise was given ; and Hereford joyfully 
 heard that his friend and his sister were pledged to each other. 
 Two couriers were at once sent off — the one to London, to ask 
 the consent of the renowned Fitz-Osborne, the lady's father; 
 the other to Normandy, to crave the king's approbation of the 
 marriage ; for in those days, the noble, in his marriage, was as 
 much a thrall as his own serf: and, while waiting for answers, 
 the whole party remained enjoying all the brightest things of 
 life — Love, Friendship, and Hope. 
 
 PART IL 
 
 Oh, fitful Fortune I The return of the first messenger brought 
 confirmation of their expectations. Fitz-Osborne gladly ac- 
 cepted the alhance of the Earl of Norfolk ; and, as he was about 
 to sail at once for Normandy on business that could not be 
 delayed, he furnished his son with full powers to conclude the 
 marriage of Margaret and his friend. 
 
 The messenger who had been despatched to William, how- 
 ever, was longer absent. True, the distance was greater — true, 
 the uncertain seas had to be crossed ; but still the delay was 
 longer than could be well accounted for ; and both Norfolk and 
 Hereford began to ask themselves if William could hesitate. If 
 he should refuse his consent, what then? The very thought 
 well-nigh drove Norfolk mad. To lose his bright and beautiful 
 
168 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 bride, to see her bestowed upon another, would be worse than 
 death, he tliought ; and long and earnest were his consultations 
 with Hereford, as day passed by on day, and yet no answer 
 came. They now began, as man ever does when hope gives 
 place to apprehension, to calculate chances against them which 
 they had previously overlooked. They commented freely on 
 William's character ; they knew it to be cold, calculating, and 
 cruel. They recapitulated to each other his failings and his 
 faults : they asked themselves, what right he had to lord it so 
 sternly over Norman nobles, to whose swords he owed a crown 
 — he, the son of the tanner's daughter, how came he to have at 
 his disposal the race of Fitz-Osborne ? Even his oppression of 
 the Saxons was remembered and spoken of. The two nobles 
 had always pitied them. The famous Waltheof — the greatest 
 man remaining of the Saxon tribes, whose courage, skill, and 
 virtues had raised him so high even in the opmion of the Con- 
 queror, that William had bestowed his niece upon him in 
 marriage — was the intimate friend and companion of both 
 Hereford and Norfolk ; and they now expressed to one another 
 their wonder that a leader so well fitted by his powers of mind, 
 by his popularity with his nation, by his military skill, and his 
 indomitable resolution, should have refrained from again raising 
 the Saxon standard against the Norman duke, and waging a 
 war of extermination upon the oppressors of his people. 
 
 " It is his religious scruples," said Norfolk. " He has pro- 
 found reverence for the sanctity of an oath ; and you must 
 remember that, when forced to surrender York, he swore never 
 again to wage war against the Norman race." 
 
 "Were those the exact terms of his oath?" asked Hereford. 
 " I believe so," replied Norfolk. 
 
 " What would be his conduct, think you, if he saw the Nor- 
 mans divided amongst themselves ? " Hereford inquired. 
 
 '* Ay, that would be a different question," answered Norfolk. 
 ** Heaven grant that the time may be far distant I " 
 
 Men cannot be expected to submit to tyranny," replied the 
 young Earl of Hereford ; and there the conversation dropped : 
 but it was the germ of the most dangerous conspiracy that ever 
 shook the throne of the Norman conqueror. 
 
 Three days more ])assed ; and at length the messenger 
 returned. It was to Hereford the letter was addressed ; and 
 it was brought to him by his favourite page, young Walter 
 Tyrrel. 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 159 
 
 "Stay," he said to the boy, while he opened it; "stay in the 
 room." With an eager look he broke the seals of the packet, 
 and with an angry expression of countenance he read the con- 
 tents. It was a cold refusal to consent to the marriage of Mar- 
 garet and Norfolk; and, going to the door, he called aloud 
 upon his friend's name, who was speedily by his side. 
 
 " There, read that," said Hereford, *' read that ; and then let 
 us consult what is to be done." 
 
 The wrath of the lover may be well conceived; but it was 
 even less than the anger of his young and impetuous friend ; 
 for Norfolk's rage was mingled with grief and a feeling akin to 
 despair, while Hereford's was the fiery offspring of wounded 
 pride. Eash, vehement, and fierce were the words spoken ; 
 and, with a terrible oath, Hereford swore that his sister should 
 still be the bride of his friend, let all the bastards in Normandy 
 say nay. 
 
 " Let us go and see Margaret," he exclaimed. " She will 
 not refuse her consent where she loves. Once married, you 
 cannot be unmarried ; and if William dare to threaten aught 
 against us, he may be taught that to our swords he owes his eleva- 
 tion to the throne, and that upon oar swords depends his pos- 
 session of the crown. He cannot trample upon the Norman 
 nobles as he did upon the Saxon churls; and methinks if 
 Norfolk and Hereford give their banners to the winds in their 
 own defence, thousands both of Normans and Saxons will join 
 them, if they have any desire to preserve even a vestige of their 
 rights and liberties." 
 
 Thus saying, he turned towards the door to seek his sister 
 Margaret, when his eyes rested upon the boy, Walter Tyrrel. 
 "Ha, lad," he said, "I forgot that I had bid thee wait; but 
 thou art trustworthy I know, and would never betray thy 
 lord's secrets." 
 
 " Not to the priest in the confessional, my lord," replied the 
 lad ; and, as he followed the two earls from the room, he mur- 
 mured to himself, " Were I one of them, I would not wait to 
 unfurl my banner till it was in my own defence : I would strike 
 ere I was stricken ; but they know best, I suppose." 
 
 " Well, what news — what news?" cried the old Countess of 
 Breteuil, who was sitting with Margaret when the two young 
 lords entered. " What news from Normandy ? " 
 
 Margaret asked no questions; but her eyes fixed upon the 
 face of her brother, and she read there plainly enough the 
 
100 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 answer wliicli had been received from William. The tale was 
 toon told, and Margaret's warm cheek grew pale. 
 
 " Out upon the unthankful hound I" exclaimed the old coun- 
 ;£ss. ** \Yhat will you now do, my children ? Think not to 
 move him by prayers and entreaties. I know him well. He 
 is as hard as one of the stones of this castle ; harder still — for it 
 you may how and fashion, but him you cannot. AVhat will you 
 do, I say ? " 
 
 "Go forward, as if his consent had never been asked," 
 answered Hereford. 
 
 "But there is one consent we must have," said Norfolk; 
 and, advancing to Margaret, he took her hand and kissed it. 
 " Sweet lady," he said, " if I lose you, I lose more than life ; 
 and therefore, whatever may be the result to myself, I gain 
 more than I can lose if you will be mine : but remember, Mar- 
 garet, ere you answer me in words — for I read the answer 
 already in those dear eyes — that, if you consent to what we 
 propose, you may have to share in dangers, troubles, cares, 
 reverses — many kinds of grief. Have you the heart to bear 
 them?" 
 
 " I will keep my promise, Norfolk," replied Margaret, with 
 a look full of affection. "What you are ready to risk for me, 
 surely I ought to be ready to share with you. Nor will I ever 
 regret, even though a tyrant should cast us into dungeons, and 
 separate us from each other ; I should still know, and feel joy 
 in knowing, that I had kept my promise, and redeemed my 
 word to the man I love." 
 
 " He will have difficulty in caging us," answered her brother. 
 " He may mew a hawk, but not an eagle ; and he shall find 
 that I was not born to strike his prey for him and then have 
 my wings clipped, lest I should soar beyond his call." 
 
 So \\{\a it determined ; but both the young lords knew that 
 their course was perilous, and that the only chance — if indeed 
 there were a chance — of inducing William to bear their dis- 
 obedience patiently, was to show so formidable a front as to 
 render it dangerous to assail them. This was all that was pro- 
 posed at first ; and they bestirred themselves to gather together 
 friends from every side, and to form alliances with the other 
 great nobles of the land — not for the purpose, at least so they 
 expressed themselves, of waging war against the crown, but 
 merely to be ready to guard their own rights if they should bo 
 assailed. It was especially an object to gain the celebrated 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 Waltlieof, the famous defender of York — the last, the most 
 noble, and the wisest of all the Saxon thanes, the only one for 
 whom William had shown any admiration and regard. 
 
 " Leave him to me," said Hereford ; " there is great friend- 
 ship between ns ; and I will bring him over, notwithstanding 
 his marriage with, and devotion to, that base faithless wench, 
 Judith, William's niece. We must take him by surprise, how- 
 ever, nor let him know anything of our design till it be com- 
 plete. He feels the wrongs of his people, although he bears 
 them ; and he will soon be led on to snatch at the first feasible 
 scheme for avenging them." 
 
 '•Were it not better to open his eyes to Judith's conduct?" 
 asked Norfolk. " By so doing we should destroy her influence. 
 And it has often grieved me to see so noble and so good a man 
 thus basely deceived by his false wife." 
 
 " No, no," answered Hereford, with a laugh ; *' he would not 
 believe me. He is a lover, my good friend ; and lovers never 
 believe. But hie thee away to thine own country, and prepare 
 everything for the joyful day. I, and my good aunt, and Mar- 
 garet, will join theo with all speed ; and I will give thee her 
 hand, let who will forbid." 
 
 PART III. 
 
 The chapel of the castle of Inningham or Ixningeham, not far 
 from Newmarket, was crowded with nobles of the land. Ladies 
 and lords from every part of England were present to honour 
 the marriage of Ralph de Guador, Earl of Norfolk, with Mar- 
 garet, the lovely daughter of the house of Hereford. There 
 was but one Saxon present: but tall above the rest, almost 
 gigantic in stature, and with unrivalled dignity of grace and 
 mien, towered W^altheof, the last of the great Saxon chiefs. 
 The words, the irrevocable words were spoken ; the blush with 
 which she had uttered them was still on Margaret's cheek ; the 
 joyful light of love with which Norfolk had pronounced the 
 vow was beaming in his eyes ; and the benediction of the priest 
 was given. He took her by the hand, now his wife, and led 
 ner from the altar to the great hall, where the marriage-feast 
 had been prepared. Lords and ladies sat down together ; and 
 mirth and revelry reigned around. Every deUcacy that France 
 or England could produce was placed upon the board ; and the 
 
162 NORFOLK AND HKREFORD. 
 
 richest wines of Gascony and Poitou flowed in abundance round. 
 After a short time the ladies rose, and left the table, gathering 
 round the bride ; but, with the men who were left, the revel 
 proceeded for many an hour. Some drank deep, and some 
 drank little ; but the stream of conversation flowed more rapidly 
 as the wine circulated. Men's spirits rose ; hopes and expecta- 
 tions that were dim grew bright ; indignation at wrongs and 
 oppression became keen and found a tongue ; difficulties and 
 dangers were forgotten, and obstacles were overlooked ; till, at 
 length, Hereford rising with a jewelled cup in his hand, lifted 
 it on high, and exclaimed, " Death to all tyrants!" 
 
 He drank down the wine, and resumed his seat ; but there 
 was not one man there present who, in the excitement of the 
 moment, did not follow his example, and, "Death to all tyrants!" 
 ran round and round the table. 
 
 Before another cup was filled, Norfolk was gone ; but the 
 words which had been spoken were like a spark to a mass of 
 dry branches. Eagerly and fiercely, abuse was poured upon 
 the absent monarch ; each noble had something to complain 
 of; and, under the influence of wine, each grief was told and 
 exaggerated. Hard words and coarse were applied to the 
 Conqueror ; and determinations were formed in a state of ex- 
 citement, which cooler thoughts would have shown to be rash 
 or impracticable. One only remained silent — Waltheof the 
 Saxon: and to him Hereford's eyes were often turned with 
 doubt and anxiety. It was not alone that the great Saxon 
 noble combined in his own person the earldoms of Huntingdon, 
 Northampton, and Northumberland, but it was because he was 
 universally recognised as the leader and representative of the 
 Saxon people of England. He sat silent; but Hereford remarked 
 that, according to the evil custom of his nation, he drank deep 
 — deeper than any other there present; and w^hen the young 
 earl saw the wine had taken some effect, he pressed the subject 
 on him. 
 
 " ]My lord," said Waltheof aloud, " I owe Wilham, Duke of 
 Normandy, much. He spared my life when I was his prisoner; 
 he has loaded me with honours and benefits, when he knew me 
 to be an enemy ; and he has trusted no other of my race. You 
 cannot expect me to raise my hand against one who has taken 
 these means of converting an adversary into a friend." 
 
 " Well, noble lord," rephed Hereford, " each man must 
 judge for himself; and we Normans hold that two men, as you 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 163 
 
 and I, may be good friends at the festal board one day, though 
 they know they may have to meet in arms the next. Pledge 
 me a loving cup to my sweet sister's health. Here, lords and 
 gentlemen, is to Margaret, Countess of Norfolk. Joy be with 
 her and her noble lord." 
 
 Waltheof filled his golden cup to the brim, and dramed it to 
 the dregs ; but Hereford, more prudently, after having tasted 
 his, set it down by his side ; and then, as he saw the wine 
 working its effect on Waltheof s brain, he plied him hard with 
 many an argument, to prove that it was the duty of a Saxon 
 nobleman to cast all personal considerations aside, and to aim 
 boldly at the deliverance of his countrymen. He represented 
 to him that both the Saxons and the Normans stood as conquerors 
 of England, and that they might very well, when they had 
 freed themselves from the tyranny of William and his favourites, 
 live amicably together as a united people, dividing the lands by 
 fair and equal portions amongst them. He represented in strong 
 and glowing language all the evils which William had inflicted 
 upon the Saxon race, and all the wrongs he had done them. 
 His grinding oppression, his overwhelming taxation, his bar- 
 barous spoilation of a peaceful and submissive people, he dwelt 
 upon : he represented that he had excited rebellions merely for 
 the purpose of suppressing them, aud making them a pretext 
 for confiscation, if not extermination. He painted a terrible 
 picture too of the cruelties which the Conqueror had perpe- 
 trated, of the executions, the massacres, the mutilations which 
 he had commanded, till Waltheof s blood began to boil at this 
 recapitulation of the wrongs of his people ; and he, too, uttered 
 rash and ill-considered words, which seemed to pledge him to 
 the conspiracy. 
 
 At length, the young earl rose, saying, " Now, noble lords, 
 we are all agreed that this can be borne no longer. Let each 
 man hasten to make his preparation against danger ; and, when 
 the time comes, each shall hear from me where we will meet in 
 arms. From that moment, we must throw from us every con- 
 sideration but one, — that of how we may best secure the liber- 
 ties and the rights of all." 
 
 The party broke up ; and each man wended homeward on 
 his way with vague and ill-defined visions of greatness, and 
 freedom, and revenge. Even Waltheof pondered, with a sort 
 of gloomy joy, the hopes of emancipation held out to his 
 people. 
 
164 NORrOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 But such dreams lasted not long with him ; and on the follow- 
 ing morning he woke, languid, heated, dejected, with the 
 consciousness of having given at least a tacit approval to a con- 
 spiracy that was hopeless against a man to whom he was deeply 
 indebted. His heart smote him, and the more because he felt 
 an intimate conviction that no peril on his part could produce 
 any beneficial effect to hia people, but that every forward step, 
 in the course which had been set before him, would only tend 
 to bring down further oppression and persecution on their heads. 
 In this mood he rode forth, dark, gloomy, repentant ; and the 
 more he thought, the more sad his heart became. 
 
 Fair, and false, and faithless, the Countess of Huntingdon 
 was seated in her chamber when her husband returned to his 
 dwelling ; and as soon as he approached her, she employed all 
 her arts, and they were many, to wring from him the secret of 
 the gloom which she very well perceived. At first she did so 
 Bomewiiat timidly, fancying that Waltheof might have dis- 
 covered her infidelity ; but his tenderness soon banished that 
 apprehension, and she went on more boldly. By persuasions, 
 by entreaties, by caresses, even by tears, she succeeded at length 
 in bending him to her will. He told her all ; and then added, 
 " but I repent that I even listened so far ; and I will take care 
 to frustrate this plot against the king, if I can but discover how 
 I may prevent it without incurring the charge of faithlessness. 
 Would to Heaven I could have some good advice I but I can 
 consult no one but thee, dear lady, without betraying my noble 
 friends." 
 
 Judith would give him no counsel. It was not her object to 
 do so ; and Waltheof left her to meditate over his future conduct 
 alone. At nightfall, however, a messenger, bearing a sealed 
 packet, left the dwelling of the Saxon secretly, and stopped not 
 night or day till he had reached Normandy, and presented him- 
 self at the court of the Conqueror. He would give the packet 
 into the hand of none but William himself; and as he did so, 
 he said, " From your niece, the lady Judith, mighty prince." 
 
 William opened it, and read ; and a flush passed across his 
 brow, as if a flame had shone upon it. 
 
 A day or two after, Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, was 
 Beated in his large chair in his own private oratory. Beside 
 him kneeled the noble form of the Earl of Huntingdon ; and the 
 eyes of the prelate rested upon him with an expression of tender 
 pity and affection. 
 
NORFOLK AND HERKt.'ORD. 1G5 
 
 " Yonr secret, my son," he said, " ia safe under the seal of 
 confession ; and, some time soon, I will appoint you such 
 penance as the Church is accustomed to require. But, in the 
 meantime, if you will take the advice of a mere mortal friend, 
 as well as the counsel of a spiritual father, you will, without an 
 instant's delay, hasten hence to Normandy, cast yourself at the 
 king's feet, and entreat him to pardon your fault, making atone- 
 ment by a full confession of the whole. 
 
 Waltheof rose from his knees ; and giving the prelate his hand, 
 he said, " Father, I will obey you to the letter. I feel that 
 it is the only atonement I can make ; and if it lead me to the 
 block, I will make it." 
 
 Within five days from that time he was at the feet of William; 
 and the whole tale was told. The monarch showed neither 
 surprise nor anger, but raised the earl with his own hand, and 
 said, " My lord, you have done well. I will take instant order 
 that this empty plot of some idle boys shall be frustrated. 
 In the meantime, you must, I fear, remain in some sort a pri- 
 soner, though in no very strict confinement. William of 
 Morteville, we give him into your ward. Be answerable for 
 him with your head." 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Under the shade of an old oak, on whose wide and rugged 
 arms, which in their young freshness had probably stretched 
 over the mysterious rites of the Druids, still grew their holy 
 mistletoe, were seated Ralph de Guador and his fair Margaret. 
 His arm was round her waist ; her hand was clasped in his ; her 
 head leaned upon his shoulder ; all sterner thoughts were laid 
 aside ; it was the hour of tenderness and love. They thought 
 not of strife and battle ; they thought not of difficulty and 
 danger ; they only thought that in spite of all they were each 
 other's, and that nought but death could dissolve the bond 
 between them. The honeymoon was half run out ; but yet not 
 a drop of its sweetness seemed exhausted. Nought of bitter 
 had risen up in the fountain of their love ; and Margaret felt 
 that she was more happy than even the dear voice of hope had 
 promised. 
 
 From the foot of the oak descended a gentle hill; and from 
 
166 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 the foot of tlie liill stretched away a glade, beyond which, and a 
 low copse that cut it at the end of about half a mile, were seen 
 rising the tall towers of Framlingham. 
 
 What Ralph de Giiador said, and what Margaret answered, 
 matters not much here. The words of love — of happy love — 
 vary them how you will, are almost always common-place. All 
 precious things are simple. The diamond is all of one nature. 
 
 But presently a figure was seen to emerge from behind the 
 coppice, and ride rapidly up the glade. " Who can that be ? " 
 said Margaret. *' It is none of our own people ; " and she dwelt 
 with pleasure on the words, " our own." 
 
 " It seems a boy or a dwarf," said her husband ; and then as 
 the horseman came nearer, he exclaimed, "young Walter 
 Tyrrel, on my life ! news from your noble brother, dearest Mar- 
 garet. God send that they be good I " 
 
 A slight flush crossed his cheek as he spoke ; for the Earl of 
 Norfolk recollected the perils in which he and his friends stood, 
 and thought with some feeling of shame that, lying in the 
 silken lap of love, he had forgotten the sterner business of the 
 hour, or at best had not given it that attention which it needed. 
 
 " My noble lord," sai-^ young Walter Tyrrel, springing to 
 the ground and approaching, " I am sent by my great master, 
 the Earl of Hereford, to warn you that Waltheof, the Saxon 
 Earl of Huntingdon and Northumberland, has gone to carry 
 his own head to King William, who will doubtless take the 
 offering ; and my noble lord further says that no time is to be 
 lost, but preparation must be made immediately. He does en- 
 treat you, therefore, to raise all the force you can, and to provide 
 your castles for a war. He will advance upon Shrewsbury, if 
 you will come in the same direction as soon as your levies are 
 in the field. You can meet, he thinks, midway between this 
 and Herefordshire, perhaps near Coventry. But he begs you 
 particularly to secure and fortify one of your ports for the 
 auxiharies to land, for whom he has sent to Denmark." 
 
 The boy delivered his message with graceful freedom ; and 
 Norfolk, starting up from the ground, exclaimed, " I have been 
 remiss. I have been very much remiss. But I will make up 
 for lost time ; and now I will show what deeds I can do for 
 your love, my lady dear. Back to the castle, Walter, as fast as 
 your horse can go, and bid them have twelve horses saddled, 
 twelve messengers ready to depart instantly." 
 
 The- bov sprang on his horse's back, and darted away hke an 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 167 
 
 arrow from a bow. Norfolk drew Margaret's arm through his 
 own, and led her on towards Framlingham, saying, " Days so 
 bright, dear girl, are in our cloudy climate ever followed by a 
 storm ; and now, perchance, when you find the tempest howling 
 around us, you may regret you listened to Norfolk's suit, and 
 wedded him against a tyrant's will." 
 
 " Never, my knight," answered Margaret. " If I know my 
 own nature, I was born to be the bride of such as thee. With 
 my own hands I will buckle on thy spurs ; I will hang the shield 
 about thy neck, dear Kalph ; I will send thee to the battle with 
 a tear and a prayer ; but I will not set me idly down and weep 
 when thou art gone. Thy spirit shall be with Margaret in 
 thine absence ; and I'll move thy rich earldom from end to end 
 to strengthen thy power against the tyrant's force. I'll ask 
 mothers for their sons, wives for their husbands, to swell the 
 ranks of my noble lord, and diligently and busily will I 
 prepare, that, in case of reverse, you may have strength to fall 
 back upon. Oh, that I could don the hauberk, too, and ride to 
 the field by the side of him I love I But what woman can do, 
 will I do ; and thou shalt never in thy Hfe have cause to regret 
 that thou didst peril all for the love of Margaret of Breteuil." 
 
 The instant they reached the castle, twelve letters were 
 written and despatched by the messengers. Each contained 
 but six words, " To arms at Framlingham, for Norfolk;" and 
 by the end of the second day, a gallant force of many hundred 
 spears, and a large band of archers, were ready at the castle 
 for the march. During those two days numerous other mes- 
 sengers had been despatched to more distant places. The 
 letters which they bore contained more detailed directions and 
 commands to the vavasors and tenants of the earl. His line of 
 march was pointed out, the halting places named ; and to all, 
 strict charge was given to make no delay, but to join him on 
 the march. 
 
 Messengers, however, arrived as well as departed ; but the 
 news they brought was anything but pleasant to the ear. Odo, 
 Bishop of Bayeux, the Conqueror's brother, and Regent of the 
 kingdom, so the tidings ran, was already in the field with a 
 large force ; while the Bishop of Worcester, the Abbot of 
 Avesham, and the Sheriff of Worcestershire, at the head of a 
 powerful army, were marching to oppose the Earl of Hereford, 
 wherever he might attempt to cross the Severn. 
 
 This intelligence took Norfolk by surprise ; for the treacher- 
 
168 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 0U8 diligence of Judith, anxious to destroy her husband, wa.-? 
 not known for many an after year; and no one could divine 
 how the Regent and the other officers of the crown could be 
 BO suddenly prepared to oppose the insurrection. 
 
 Nothing daunted, however, the bridegroom parted from his 
 bride, and, at the head of about five thousand men, commenced 
 his march. Margaret, for her part, would add no weight to 
 the pain which pressed upon his heart. She was calm, though 
 grave ; and though, at the last embrace, a glittering drop swam 
 for a moment in her eyes, she would not suffer it to run over, 
 but crushed it between the long eyelashes as it trembled on the 
 lids. With streaming banners, and trumpets sounding, the 
 young earl marched on ; and from time to time his scouts 
 brought back intelligence of what was passing in the country 
 around. They thought the news was joyful when they carried 
 the tidings that no force was in sight, and the country pro- 
 foundly quiet. Nor did the countenance of Norfolk undeceive 
 them, though the tale was not that which he wished to hear. 
 He had expected that risings would take place in every part 
 of England, that the Saxon people would start up and make 
 some effort to break their chains, that the lesser Norman barons 
 would take the first opportunity of resisting, armed, a haughty 
 rule which galled their proud spirits. He knew not how 
 tamely a nation can bear oppression to a certain point. All 
 was still. 
 
 At length, on the morning of the fourth day's march, a scout 
 came in, in breathless haste, to tell, that just three miles in 
 advance, a large body of men, which he calculated at ten 
 thousand, was coming rapidly forward. 
 
 " Then we will fight them," said Norfolk boldly. *' Our 
 good cause more than doubles our numbers ;" and he marched 
 on. But ere he had gone half a mile, news was brought that a 
 considerable force was seen upon his right; and from the left, 
 too, tidings came of large bodies of light horse scouring the 
 flat country on the side of Cambridge. 
 
 The prospect was not pleasant, certainly. To fall back 
 seemed impossible ; and yet the odds were somewhat fearful. 
 Norfolk thought of Margaret ; but that thought did not sink 
 his heart, or oppress his energies. " I will do great deeds for 
 her love," he said ; " then, if I live or die, she will love me 
 still;" and, advancing a little, till he reached a slightly rising 
 ground which he had seen before him, he took possession of the 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 169 
 
 Bumniit, and made the best preparations he could ap^aiust the 
 attack of a superior force. Calling the inferior barons and 
 leaders around him, in a few brief words he told them that they 
 must now each man prepare to do his best, and make valour 
 supply the place of numbers. 
 
 *' We have seen battles won," he said, " against much greater 
 disparity than is here. Remember, where there is the more 
 risk there is the more glory, and that one battle gained in 
 such circumstances is more than ten victories with u superior 
 force." 
 
 His final dispositions were hardly complete when he saw 
 the lines of the light troops begin to appear, the Genetaires of 
 a Norman army ; and then, with banner and flag and pennon 
 displayed, came on the overwhelming force of the Kegent. The 
 hearts^ of some of Norfolk's followers sank when they saw the 
 long array of spears, and the green masses of the bowmen, 
 deploying in line, and far overlapping the wings of their own 
 Httle force on either side. Still they did not attempt to fly, 
 and bore the first brunt of the battle bravely ; but, at length, 
 after a fierce and fiery struggle of at least an hour's duration, 
 a body of the Regent's horse contrived to break through a 
 thick hedge which defended Norfolk's archers on the left, and 
 poured suddenly in amongst them. A panic seized the men , 
 and, recoiling in broken masses on their own cavalry, they first 
 carried confusion into the other ranks, and then fled amain, 
 communicating their own terror as they went. In vain Nor- 
 folk strove to rally them on, to restore order amongst his 
 cavalry. In vain he exposed himself to every danger. In vain 
 he gathered together a body of two hundred of his stoutest 
 men-at-arms, and endeavoured to stem the progress of the 
 enemy, while others attempted to restore order in the rear. 
 The disarrefcy and terror were too great and too general to be 
 remedied ; and the only choice left for him was to remain 
 and become a captive, or to make an energetic effort for 
 escape. Three words explained his meaning to those around 
 him ; and marking out a part of the enemy's line, which 
 seemed the weakest, on the left, the small body of about two 
 hundred men, with levelled lances, made a furious dash at that 
 point, broke through the opposing force, and issued forth into 
 the fields and meadows. Orders for pursuit were given at 
 once ; and for twenty miles the chase was followed ; but, by 
 that time, the pursuers had become few in number; and 
 
170 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 Norfolk, wheeling bis small force, met them in full career, and 
 drove them back with loss. 
 
 From time to time be was rejoined by a fiig-itive from his 
 own force ; and from them he learned, that they had been 
 turned from the direct way to Framlingham by the appearance 
 of some large parties of the royal troops between them and the 
 castle ; and it became instantly necessary to decide what was to 
 be done, as the whole forces of the earl were directing their 
 flight towards Framlingham. 
 
 " I will cut my way through, or perish," said the young earl, 
 thinking of Margaret ; but one of the barons who came from 
 the borders of Norfolk and Suffolk, judging rightly the cause 
 of his lord's desire to force his way into Framlingham, suggested 
 another course. 
 
 " To Norwich, to Norwich, my lord," he said. " There were 
 several thousands collected in the neighbourhood, well-nigh 
 ready to march when I came away. I could not wait for them ; 
 but you will find them all in arms. Others from the field we 
 have unfortunately lost will come in every hour, while the 
 enemy's force will diminish ; and I will stake my life that, 
 within four-and-twenty hours, you will be able to march to the 
 rehef of Framlingham, should it be attacked. At present you 
 would but lose your own life and your lady too. What can two 
 hundred men do against a host ? " 
 
 The counsel seemed wise. Indeed, it pointed out the only 
 course w^iich promised success. It was attended, how^ever, with 
 a result which Norfolk himself did not anticipate. He rode all 
 night ; and, early on the following morning, Norwich, then 
 comparatively a small town, with the battlements of the castle 
 rising on the hill above, was before his eyes. He looked up, 
 and saw that the walls were covered with men ; and that banners 
 were displayed which he knew^ right well. The gates, too, were 
 thronged with people, some going in, some coming out, and all 
 in arms. 
 
 " Ay, this looks w^ell," he said ; and onward he spurred his 
 jaded horse till it was under the gateway of the barbican. Then 
 — oh, w-hat joy and peace to his heart I There, on the draw- 
 bridge beyond, stood Margaret herself, no longer surrounded by 
 women, but in the midst of armed men and captains. 
 
 She sprang to meet him, with all a woman's love in her bright 
 eyes. " Welcome, welcome, my dear lord I " she cried. " I sent 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. ITI 
 
 out men to warn you to keep from Framlinghara, at the first 
 news of your disaster, which reached me from an uncertain 
 source at midnight. Have they met with you ? But that 
 matters not. You are here, and safe from this bloody fray. 
 And now forgive your Margaret for playing the earl in your 
 absence. I learned that there were many more assembled here, 
 not knowing when to march or where ; and I came hither with 
 all speed with the small guard you left me. Doubting that you 
 might be outnumbered in the field, and finding, the castle unpre- 
 pared for resistance, I have gathered together stores, and 
 ammunitions, and men ; and Norwich Castle can stand out a 
 siege as long as Troy, or at least till my dear brother Hereford 
 comes to relieve it. You forgive me, do you not, for taking 
 such command upon me ? " 
 
 " And thank thee deeply, dearest," answered Norfolk, 
 embracing her tenderly. " Here, in my good castle of Norwich, 
 methinks I can w^ell set the tyrant at defiance till the people of 
 the land wake from their long trance." 
 
 *' Let us come in," said Margaret, gravely. " You are hungry, 
 and must have food ; you are weary, and must have rest. See 
 to these good lords and nobles, seneschal. The earl will break 
 his fast in his lady's bower." 
 
 Her look was firm and confident ; her heart seemed resolved 
 and high ; but when she was alone with him she loved, she cast 
 herself upon his breast and wept. 
 
 " Nay, Margaret," he said, pressing her in his steel-covered 
 arms, " do not grieve, dear girl. Norfolk has lost a battle, but 
 no honour. Fighting against four times his number, he has 
 failed ; but what man could do, he has done." 
 
 " 'Tis not for that I grieve," said Margaret ; " but I have 
 news to tell that strike at the root of hope. The instant that 
 the tidings of this disaster came, terror spread amongst the 
 cowards here assembled. Five hundred have left the castle since 
 midnight. Others are taking their resolution more slowly ; but 
 they are dropping off one by one." 
 
 " We shall still have enough of brave men left," answered 
 the earl. " I brought two hundred with me who will hold out 
 to the last. There must be more of the same nature in the 
 castle ^ and with them will I keep these walls till the forces of 
 Hereford " 
 
 Margaret shook her head with a melancholy look. " Here- 
 
172 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 ford has no forces," she said. " They are all dispersed. — Hush ! 
 they are bringing in the meal." 
 
 It was a very melancholy one ; but Norfolk's resohition was 
 soon taken. Shortly after noon, he assembled the whole forces 
 within the place, in the great court of the castle ; and, standing 
 on the steps of the donjon, he addressed them in a loud clear 
 voice : — 
 
 " My friends and fellow-soldiers," he said, " reverses have 
 befallen our arms — reverses produced by the fears of a small 
 number amongst us spreading confusion and disarray amongst 
 the rest. In a few hours the troops of the Regent will be 
 beneath these walls. I would not have any one stay who may 
 bring doubt and hesitation into our councils. Let every man 
 who fears to remain, take his departure at once; but there are 
 those who, like myself, have no chance of pardon or peace from 
 that oppressive lord whom our swords helped to raise to the 
 throne, and who now repays us with ingratitude and wrong. 
 Their only chance is to remain within these walls, and, by a 
 gallant defence, to gain terms of peace from our enemy. He is 
 unjust and tyrannical ; but he will not break a sworn capitulation 
 with brave men. Nevertheless, I ask no one to remain. Let 
 €very one go, and go at once, who pleases." 
 
 The defection was terrible. Within two hours, each man 
 had shown himself in his true colours ; and between three and 
 four hundred were all that remained to defend the castle against 
 the forces of the Regent. Nor were those forces long in 
 appearing ; for, just as the sun was setting in his glory, dark 
 lines of lances and armed men appeared against the glowing 
 sky, and ere the next morning dawned, the castle was invested. 
 
 Margaret and Norfolk stood on the battlements of the keep, 
 and gazed around them. It was a sight to make the heart 
 sink indeed. There lay, on one side, the fair town of Norwich, 
 spread out beneath their feet on the banks of the Yare ; and 
 there, hemming them in, appeared the camp of Odo of Bayeux, 
 with the army drawn up in front of the tents, ready to advance 
 to the assault. Margaret's heart did sink ; but it was with fears 
 for him she loved. 
 
 Before the attack commenced, however, a herald came forward 
 from the bishop's tent, and summoned the place to surrender 
 proclaiming aloud that Odo, Regent of the Realm, was ready 
 to grant good terms to every one but the traitor Earl of Norfolk. 
 
 The reply was to warn the herald back, lest he should be shot 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 173 
 
 at from the walls, for endeavouring to seduce the vassals from 
 their duty to their lord. 
 
 Then the attack commenced ; and wild and terrible was the 
 scene. Large blocks of stone were hurled with tremendous 
 force against the walls, the flights of arrows darkened the 
 sky ; ladders were raised ; and the instruments of siege, as in 
 that day practised, were pushed closer and closer to the ditch. 
 
 Margaret sat alone and prayed, while Norfolk, incessant in 
 exertion, and in the front of every danger, animated his men to 
 fight, and succeeded in repelling every effort of the enemy. 
 Night fell : and no progress had been made against the castle. 
 The troops of the llegent withdrew to their camp ; but again, 
 as the sun set, a herald appeared, and offered once more good 
 terms to all who would submit, except Ralph de Guador, the 
 arch traitor. 
 
 Norfolk, at that moment, stood upon one of the towers of the 
 barbican ; and, raising his voice, he demanded, " What does the 
 bishop offer to Ralph de Guador himself, if he should surrender 
 the castle into his hands ? " 
 
 " Death, on the edge of the ditch, by the headsman's axe I " 
 repHed the herald, and withdrew. 
 
 PART V- 
 
 Another day's hard fighting had passed over, and still the 
 enemy had made no progress. The strong walls resisted every 
 effort. The garrison repelled every assault. The troops of 
 the Bishop of Bayeux had retired to their tents; and those 
 soldiers of Norfolk, who during the day of strife had reposed on 
 the nn assailed side of the castle, now manned the parts which 
 had been so gallantly defended for those twelve long hours of 
 daylight. 
 
 Wearied and exhausted, with his casque thrown aside, and 
 the hood of chain-mail cast back, Norfolk lay upon the floor of 
 Margaret's small cabinet, with his head resting on her knee, 
 and her fair fingers twined fondly in the curls of his deep black 
 hair. She bent her head over him ; and, though the tears 
 glistened in her eyes, yet she spoke words of hope and comfort. 
 
 " Those who grasp too earnestly at happiness, dear Ralph," 
 ehe said, " must ever undergo a period of ruth. The eager 
 
174: ^'ORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 "bargainers with destiny ever purchase dear the good they 
 covet; but still, when the price is paid, they have it: and 
 methinks much more will not be exacted at our hands. God is 
 merciful ; and even out of the dark evils which have befallen us, 
 I feel as if there was a light springing up." 
 
 *' Alas, alas," answered Norfolk with a sigh, " all is darkness 
 to me ! I have brought sorrow and destruction on you, my 
 beloved, and that through your love for me. Hark ! there are 
 heavy steps in the gallery. What may that mean ? " and he 
 raised himself upon his elbow. 
 
 The next instant there was a tap at the door ; and Norfolk 
 exclaimed, " Come in." 
 
 The door opened ; and, to his surprise, he beheld Brian Fitz- 
 Hugh, one of his principal leaders and friends, followed by eight 
 or ten of the most faithful of his captains. 
 
 A sensation of dread that he was about to be forsaken by 
 those whom he most trusted, passed through his breast, and 
 that of Margaret too ; and, raising himself at once, he stood 
 with his arms crossed upon his breast, gazing in surprise at his 
 unexpected visitors. The lady bent her beautiful face upon 
 her hands, but uttered no w^ord ; and after a momentary silence 
 Fitz-Hugh addressed the earl in a firm but somewhat melan- 
 choly tone. 
 
 " My lord," he said, " my noble lord, we cannot hold out this 
 castle long. The men are becoming exhausted with fatigue ; 
 and though perhaps we may resist for three days longer, yet, 
 by the end of the third, these walls will be in possession of the 
 enemy. I have taken counsel with your best friends, here pre- 
 sent ; each man is ready to die for you ^" 
 
 " And I am ready to die for them, if it be necessary," an- 
 swered Norfolk. " Remember, Brian, my noble friend, it was 
 you yourself who bade the herald back ; it was you yourself who 
 swore last night that you would not purchase pardon and 
 oblivion by the necessary sacrifice of your friend. I told you 
 then I was ready ; I tell you I am so now. Speak boldly, and 
 speak truly, your wishes." 
 
 " I will drive no such bargain, noble lord," replied Fitz- 
 Hugh ; " 'tis not for that we come." 
 
 ''Then for what — for what?" cried Margaret stretching 
 forth her hands towards him imploringly. 
 
 ** But for this, dear lady," said Fitz-Hugh, " to tell this noble 
 lord that he must flv. When he is gone, we can deal more 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 175 
 
 freely with this proud Regent. We can embrace the proffered 
 mercy, and insure our lives, though we may be bitterly mulcted 
 in our estates." 
 
 " But fly I" exclaimed the earl ; '' how can I fly ?" 
 " More easily than you think," replied Fitz-Hugh. " Last 
 night I foresaw this ; and I determined to see what could be 
 done, and to prove whether a single man could not pass un- 
 observed from the castle, and return. Thus I was enabled to 
 make sure of the possibility of success, to arrange completely 
 for your flight, and to gain intelligence of the enemy's disposi- 
 tions this night. The lad Tyrrel, who was sent here a day or 
 two ago from the Earl of Hereford, undertook the office, went 
 down to the mouth of the Yare, arranged for a small vessel to 
 carry you away, and returned unperceived ere daybreak this 
 morning. An hour after midnight a small boat with one rower 
 will be brought as near the castle as possible. The seneschal 
 has shown me the way by which you can issue forth, as you, 
 my lord, well know, within but a very short distance of the 
 river's bank. The enemy's line touches the river two bow- 
 shots above ; but the bank is unguarded, because they know 
 that no boats are there, and because their captain in the town 
 keeps any from passing by day. The night is dark; and 
 seated quietly, without the sound of oars, you can drop slowly 
 down with the current till you are past all danger." 
 " But if they should see him ? " cried Margaret. 
 " They have no boats to follow," said Fitz-Hugh ; '' all the 
 rest are at the other end of the town ; and ere they could reach 
 them he would be far enough. But, moreover, we will watch 
 well on the battlements in arms ; and one blast upon his horn, 
 in case of pursuit, shall set Norwich in such a flame, that, on 
 my life, the soldiers to whom the townsfolk have given admis- 
 sion shall have something else to think of than following a 
 single fugitive. Better we all die, even if the worst befall us, 
 than be forced to capitulate and fall by the axe, or be slaughtered 
 here like a badger in his hole." 
 
 " True, true," said the lady. " You are right, Fitz-Hugh." 
 Norfolk mused for a few moments, and then replied, in a 
 thoughtful tone, " I doubt much, my friend, that your plan 
 will not succeed in that particular, without insuring which it 
 were base cowardice in me to leave you. When we are gone, 
 no such terms will be offered. The prey they seek will have 
 escaped their hands; and they will take vengeance on those 
 
176 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 that remain. Moreover, your proposal to capitulate will lead to 
 suspicion. I may be followed to the mouth of the Yare. Ships 
 must wait for winds and tides; and thus you will lose your 
 lives without saving me. Better, far better, that to-morrow at 
 dawn I sound a parley, make the best terms for you that I can, 
 and then yield myself to my fate." 
 
 " Oh, Heaven forbid I " cried Margaret. " No, Ralph, no. 
 You shall go. I am but a woman ; but yet listen to me. We will 
 not let them know that you are gone. For three days you 
 say, my Lord Fitz-Hugh, you can defend this castle. Let us 
 defend it then for two, as if my noble lord were here. I, with my 
 woman's hand, will lead you on, and my life for it, they shall 
 never know that Norfolk is not here." 
 
 " You, Margaret, you I " exclaimed the earl, with a faint 
 smile. " No, dear one, no. You must go with me. You 
 must not risk the peril of falling into this harsh prelate's 
 hands." 
 
 " Forgive me if I disobey," said Margaret firmly, but ten- 
 derly. " Remember, Norfolk, the words that were spoken 
 between us when you asked my hand. Show that you hold me 
 as you promised then you would, not as a pretty painted toy, 
 but as your friend indeed ; and let Margaret do her duty, as 
 her heart tells her that duty should be done. You must go 
 alone, my beloved husband ; and, as for danger, I fear none. 
 We will conceal your absence, and defend the place till you are 
 safe away ; and we wull then make terms as best we may. 
 What I think you he would slay me ? Oh, if he dared, he 
 would light up a flame in Norman hearts that soon would 
 scorch stern William on his throne. But it is in vain. There 
 is no man on earth dare hurt a lady for compassing her hus- 
 band's safety. Say I not right, my Lord Fitz-Hugh, that he 
 must go alone ? " 
 
 " He must indeed, dear lady," replied the baron ; " else 'tis 
 no use that he should go at all. The boat will but hold two 
 men ; for 'tis a mere cockle-shell, a painted toy, that skims 
 along the water like a bird, and will not bear much weight. 
 Besides, the more, the greater danger. I thank you, lady, for 
 speaking plainly that which I had no voice to say. It was 
 resolved beforehand that he must go alone. If he will stay, let 
 him not try to make a composition with the enemy ; for we will 
 hear of none when he is sacrificed, and are resolved to die 
 within these walls. If the foe break in, w^e shall all perish — he, 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 177 
 
 and you, and all of iis. His only way to save us is to fly, and 
 fly alone." 
 
 " Then it must be so," answered Norfolk, sadly ; " but remem- 
 ber, Brian, to you I trust the only treasure left me. For pity's 
 sake resist not long. Measure your strength ; and, oh, talve 
 every heed that you capitulate in time. Heaven, and Heaven's 
 Lord I the thought would drive me mad, if I could deem you 
 Avould be rash enough to let the place fall by assault, when you 
 have the power to get good terms." 
 
 " Fpar not, fear not, my lord," replied Fitz-Hugh ; " this lady 
 shall Hoon rejoin you in safety. Of that I pledge my word. 
 Else we will fight to the death, or slay ourselves — and her." 
 
 It was a rude speech ; but it was a generous one, according 
 to the notions of the day; and Margaret thanked him in her 
 heart for words which might have seemed to others as a 
 threat.* 
 
 Hours passed rapidly for Norfolk and his bride ; for theirs 
 was one of those cases with which '* time runs active." Oh, 
 how rapidly they flew till the moment of parting came. Then 
 the earl, disrobed of his armour and lightly clad, with nought 
 but his good sword and dagger by his side, passed down the 
 low-browed passage which led to the most secret and least 
 known sallyport of the castle. No one accompanied him but 
 his seneschal; and the good soldier turned the key in the lock, 
 drew quietly back the bolts, and went out first himself to listen. 
 All was quiet in the town and camp ; but above on the castle 
 w-alls was the tramp of men, and the sentinels calling to each 
 other to ascertain that sleep oppressed not any of the watchers 
 on the battlements of the beleaguered place. In a moment 
 after, he returned, and, with tender reverence, kissed his young 
 lord's hand. 
 
 Norfolk passed forth from his stronghold solitary and alone f 
 and the door closed behind him almost without sound. 
 
 He was alone in body, but another heart went with him. 
 Quietly, near the gate leading to the town, more than one body 
 of the little garrison had been assembled in arms. Their 
 leaders were on the two towers above, which looked towards 
 the water. ]\largaret was in a watch turret alone ; for she 
 would have none to witness her emotions. She strained her 
 eyes upon the darkness, to catch one look of him she loved ; 
 yet she thanked Heaven that she could see nought through the 
 * See a curious incident of a very similar nature in Joinville. 
 
178 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 black veil of night. She bent her ear to catch a sound of his 
 progress; yet her heart beat gladly when no sound reached 
 her ear. 
 
 " He must have reached the water," she thought. '"'Hark I 
 Was it a whisper of the wind, or the ripple of a boat?" 
 
 She could not tell ; but she still watched and listened. Still 
 all was silent. Oh, blessed silence ! Had there been a voice, 
 a call, a trumpet-sound, her heart had burst at that moment 
 with its intense emotions. All was still for well-nigh an hour ; 
 and then Margaret heard distinctly the march of the party who 
 relieved the sentinels in the town, and the challenge of the 
 watch. " He is safe I Thank God, he is safe I" she said ; 
 and, descending from the turret, she sought her sohtary cham- 
 ber, and wept bitterly. 
 
 PAET VI. 
 
 There were no tears in Margaret's eyes when, the next day, by 
 the rising of the sun, she appeared upon the walls amongst her 
 husband's soldiers. High soul and courageous energy were on 
 her face ; and ere she left the battlements the arrows of the 
 enemy were falling round her. Neither then was she long 
 away ; for many a time throughout the day she returned, when- 
 ever she thought the spirits of the troops might wax faint ; and, 
 covering her silk attire with a plain hauberk, she passed round 
 apparentli/ as fearless as the oldest soldier there. With smiles, 
 and praises, and thanks, and words of high encouragement, she 
 animated all hearts ; and not a man but would have died for 
 that sweet lady with a right good will. Proudly, eagerly, they 
 fought, and laboured under her eye. The bow-string twanged 
 with deadlier aim, the mangonel was sprung with more terrible 
 effect when she was present. She mastered all her woman's 
 fears, though she felt them ; and even when an arrow glanced 
 upon her hauberk she started not, nor drew aside. 
 
 An old soldier, standing by, saw the shaft fly, and the firm, 
 unblanched look; and, catching the hand of the dauntless girl, 
 he kissed it, exclaiming, " God bless thee, noble lady, take care 
 of your precious life ', Were ill to happen to you, all our hearts 
 would die." 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 179 
 
 The enemy near the walls beheld the old man's actions ; and 
 one of William's officers, standing by the Bishop of Bayeux, 
 remarked, " There must be the earl himself. The man kisses 
 his hand. With such affection round him as that, we shall not 
 easily win the place." 
 
 " Pour me a plump of arrows on that spot," said Odo. '' I 
 do not think it is the earl. He is taller by the head than 
 that stripling hauberk bearer. Yet 'tis no harm to give him a 
 shaft or two." 
 
 But, unconscious, Margaret moved away, and, passing through 
 one of the towers, escaped the fate intended for her. Night 
 fell, and still the banner of Norfolk waved upon the walls of the 
 castle ; but sooth to say its defenders had hardly strength to 
 wing a shaft, or hurl back a ladder, by the time that the sun set. 
 
 Yet Margaret passed one half the night in prayer. 
 
 " I would, indeed, essay them again," said Robert Fitzurse 
 to the bishop, as they sat in Odo's tent an hour before sunrise. 
 " We have lost three hundred men already beneath these walls ; 
 and if they are determined to die rather than yield their 
 earl to death, you must mitigate the strictness of your first 
 message." 
 
 " I dare not," said the bishop. " The king's commands are 
 peremptory, not to promise life to Norfolk." 
 
 " Nay, it can be done without that," answered the other ; 
 " when men fight with the courage of despair, hope, be it ever 
 so slight, will soon curdle resolution. Reserve the earl a 
 prisoner for the king's disposal, — nay, even promise to entreat 
 for him." 
 
 The bishop smiled, for he knew his brother well ; but he 
 said, " Be it so," and a herald was called, and despatched once 
 more to the gates. 
 
 He undertook the task with some fear, and showed it : but 
 still he went, and was absent well-nigh an hour. 
 
 " What say the garrison ?" asked the bishop, when at length 
 he returned. 
 
 " It is the Earl of Norfolk speaks, mighty and reverend sir," 
 replied the herald. *' He says, ' Go and tell the brave and 
 noble Bishop of Bayeux, that Norfolk has not yet wiped off his 
 armour the stains received by a fall from the bishop in a wrest- 
 ling match near Cambridge. To-morrow, perchance, hia 
 hauberk will be clean; and then he will do aught that may 
 be, to show his reverence for the king and honour to the bishop.' " 
 
180 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 " So lie Ccan jest I " said Odo. " Well, we will clean his 
 armonr for him. Bid the men advance, and tell them, if they 
 win not the wal s ere night, I shall hold them cowards and 
 recreants." 
 
 His words were without avail. Another day closed, and the 
 banner of Norfolk still waved over the towers of Norwich Castle. 
 
 " I must win this place, or I am disgraced," said the Regent 
 to himself, as he looked over a list on the following morning 
 early ; " so great a desertion during the night speaks ill of the 
 soldiers' hopes. Ho I call the herald hither. Go ask if they 
 accept our terms," he said, when that officer appeared. "Say, 
 'tis the last time they will be proffered; and mark them well: 
 life, liberty, and arms, to all men within the walls, except the 
 Earl of Norfolk. To him, a fair appeal to the king's clemenc}^ 
 which I myself undertake to entreat for him. Stay, I will go 
 with you for a part of the way." 
 
 The herald once more advanced to the gates, while the 
 troops, drawn up in line, ready for the renewed attack, waited 
 anxiously for the result, well knowing from experience that the 
 lives of many hung upon that moment. 
 
 After a brief conversation with some armed men upon the 
 barbican, the herald returned with a more cheerfrJ counten- 
 ance. " They are mighty bold in words, my lord," he said, 
 " yet will they accept the terms, on the addition of one slight 
 condition, which methinks you will easily grant." 
 
 " I will grant no more I " said Odo, fiercely. 
 
 " Then they bid you begin the attack at once," said the 
 herald ; '•' and if you do win, 'twill be a bloody victory. Yet 
 hear the condition, mighty lord." 
 
 " Well, speak it I " answered the Regent. 
 
 " They say," replied the herald, " that you offer life and 
 liberty to every man within the walls except the earl ; but you 
 say nought of the women. They demand the same assurance 
 for the countess and her maids, and that you will not by any 
 means, direct or indirect, endeavour to separate her from her 
 husband." 
 
 ** Granted, granted I " cried the prelate with a laugh, " I do 
 not fight with ladies. Back to your tents and sports, good 
 soldiers ! The place capitulates, and we shall soon march mer- 
 rily back to London." 
 
 " They must have a charter under your hand and seal, my 
 lord," said the herald, " with that condition clear." 
 
KORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 181 
 
 " So be it," said the Eegent ; and, retiring to his tent with a 
 Bcribe, the terms were soon set down at fall, subscribed, and 
 sealed. 
 
 By the tenour of these conditions, the nobles and knights, ever 
 with the exception of Ralph de Guador, Earl of Norfolk, were 
 to march out of Norwich Castle at noon ; and the castle, with 
 all its stores, ammunition, and arms^ except the personal 
 arms and money of the garrison, was to be surrendered to the 
 Regent ; and as the sun neared the meridian, Odo of Bayeux 
 approached the gates, with a large train, to receive possession. 
 
 Exactly at the hour appointed, the gate of the barbican was 
 thrown open ; and in regular order the train issued forth. First 
 came the archers, two by two, in their steel caps and light 
 shirts of mail, and then the horsemen one by one. They w^ere 
 barefaced ; and each paused for an instant before the princely 
 prelate, and turned towards him and his train with an inclina- 
 tion of the head, to let him see that the earl did not pass un- 
 noticed amongst them. When they had proceeded about a 
 hundred yards beyond the bishop, both bodies drew up in array; 
 and then appeared a page, leading a war-horse fully capari- 
 soned. Then came a bevy of terrified girls on horseback, with 
 their veils thrown back and their faces shown ; and, at last, on 
 foot, fully armed, leading the horse of the Countess Margaret, 
 appeared Brian Fitz-Hugh. Margaret's beautiful face was 
 somewhat pale ; and still she wore the light gabardine of chain 
 mail which she assumed after her husband's departure. In her 
 hands she bore the keys of the castle ; and, slowly approaching 
 the bishop, she offered them to him, as he gazed upon her 
 exceeding beauty with admiration and surprise. 
 
 " JMy lord," she said, " I bring you the keys of Norwich 
 Castle, which I have boldly defended for my husband, its lord. 
 I beseech you to pardon me that I have resisted your power 
 thus long, which I have done only out of duty towards him 
 whom I am bound to love and respect." 
 
 " Lady, lady, what is this ? " exclaimed the bishop. " You 
 defend the castle I Where is the lord, your husband ? " 
 
 " I trust at his castle of Dol, in Brittany," replied Margaret; 
 *' but perhaps you know better. I have not seen him for some 
 days." 
 
 " Out upon it — this is treachery ! " exclaimed Odo of Bayeux. 
 **I have a mind to call up the troops, and make every one 
 prisoner." 
 
182 NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 " Nay, for your honour and good faith," answered Margaret, 
 - — the look of high courage coming into her face again, — "'keep 
 your plighted word wnth a w^oman." 
 
 " But it was gained from us treacherously," exclaimed the 
 bishop ; " or, more likely still, you have taken advantage of our 
 easy trust, and passed him forth from the castle since the treaty 
 w^as signed." 
 
 " No, on my honour," answered Margaret. " He has not 
 been within these walls for several days. 'Tis I who have de- 
 fended them. I have commanded. I have shared the soldiers' 
 danger. Had your eyes been sharp, you might have seen me 
 on the battlements ; for I saw you right well. But there is no 
 mistaking Odo of Bayeux," she added ; " me, in my littleness, 
 your eyes might well pass over." 
 
 " I do remember, I do remember," said the bishop thought- 
 fully. " I saw a slight form, like a woman's, on the walls, and 
 a soldier kiss her hand," 
 
 " Well, then," continued Margaret, " as you are noble, gen- 
 tleman, prelate, and Christian prince, keep faith with that 
 w^oman, and own she has done well in using her small power to 
 cover her lord's retreat. You wall find, within those walls, I 
 have kept faith with you. I have left all, and everything, 
 except that which is merely needful for my journey. Arms, 
 stores which would have held out the place for many a week, 
 jewels, and plate, and money, — all are there. So help me Hea- 
 ven, as I W'Ould not in the least violate the convention to which 
 we both have pledged ourselves. Do you keep it too, my lord, 
 and bring no dishonour on your noble name." 
 
 " Well, be it so," replied the bishop. " For my own part, 
 lady, I would fain keep you with me, and show you to the 
 world as a marvel of true love and faithfulness. But I will do 
 no wrong to Fitz-Osborne's daughter ; although, in truth, I 
 fear my good, stern brother wnll look isomewhat askance at me, 
 when he hears I have let Norfolk slip out of my grasp." 
 
 As he spoke, he advanced on foot to the side of her horse, 
 and gallantly kissed her hand. *' Wait yet one moment," he 
 said, " I will mount and escort you past our lines ; and I 
 beseech you, tell your lord, that were I not wedded to the 
 Church, I should envy him his earthly bride." 
 
 The colour mounted into Margaret's cheek; but she merely 
 bowed her head in silence, and then, accompanied by the bishop 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 183 
 
 and his train on horseback, passed on her way till she was two 
 miles from Norwich. 
 
 There Odo took his leave ; and Margaret and her httle band 
 rode forward. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 Some months had passed since the fall of Norwich Castle, when, 
 at the small town of St. Hilaire, on the confines of Brittany and 
 Normandy, a lady sat alone and wept. A few minutes after, a 
 nun entered the room with a beaming face. 
 
 " Weep not, dear lady, weep not," she exclaimed, ** there 
 are better tidings. Your noble lord may yet be save 1." 
 
 ** Indeed I " exclaimed Margaret, starting up, and brushing 
 the tears from her eyes ; ** indeed ! " but then she shook her 
 head, and in a sorrowful tone added, " It is impossible. Has 
 not the tyrant sworn, that he will leave his bones beneath the 
 walls of Dol, or have the blood of my dear husband ? " 
 
 " True, true," said the nun ; " but man strives in vain against 
 God's will. The King of France is marching with a mighty 
 power. The Duke of Brittany is in arms Hkewise. This news 
 is three days old, dear lady ; and ere now " 
 
 " A battle may have been fought, and my poor Norfolk lost ! " 
 replied Margaret sadly. 
 
 " Think not so, think not so," said the nun. " Put your 
 trust in God, and he will deliver you." 
 
 ** I have no other trust," answered Margaret. '' I do beseech 
 you, good sister, send out one of my people to gather news. 
 'Tis strange we are so near, and tidings come so tardily. — 
 Hark ! what is that ? " 
 
 " Horse galloping through the streets I " cried the nun. " 1 
 wnll go up into the tower above the gates and see. — Joy, joy, 
 lady ! " cried the nun, returning after a short absence ; '' Dol is 
 delivered I the siege is raised I Yesterday at noon the King of 
 France appeared ; and William instantly commenced his retreat. 
 The earl, they say, came forth with all his troops, fell on his 
 rear, and took his camp and baggage." 
 
 Margaret clasped her hands, and raised her eyes to heaven. 
 " Now God send us peace at last ! " she said. " If I know 
 Norfolk w^ell, he will be moderate in victory. Now, good 
 
184: NORFOLK AND HEREFORD. 
 
 sister, I will to the chapel, and pray to God to grant me the 
 spirit of peace, although I fear this stern King of England, \Yho 
 by war has risen and thriven, will still keep the sword undrawn. 
 Oh, how many woes there are in ambition I " 
 
 Margaret knelt and prayed; and before the altar she re- 
 2aained more than an hour ; and her whole heart was with her 
 prayers. So much so, that she noticed not the sounds without. 
 Yet there was noise enough in the small town ; for every mo- 
 ment arrived fresh troops from before Dol, though the trumpet 
 sounded not, and the voice of the clarion was still. 
 
 At length she was roused by a ringing step upon the pave- 
 ment of the chapel. It was firm and equal but very slow ; and, 
 turning round, she beheld a noble looking man covered with a 
 steel hauberk, but with his head bare. On his hee^s A\ere 
 gilded spurs, or goads as they ought rather to be called, for tlie 
 place of rowels was supplied by a long sharp point; and his 
 sword, unbuckled, was in his hand, with the cross pressed upon 
 his breast. His air was very grave, and his features were 
 stern and sharp. His eyes were fixed upon her ; and he said, 
 as he approached, " Let me not interrupt your devotions, lady ; 
 I, too, come to pray." 
 
 " May your devotions be blessed," replied Margaret, with a 
 feeling of dread, she knew not well why. 
 
 " How know you what my prayer may be ? " said tlie 
 stranger. 
 
 " Because I would fain believe," replied Margaret, '' that 
 there is not one man on earth so impious as to bring to this 
 holy place, and to offer to the throne of God, a criminal desire 
 or unjust petition." 
 
 " Indeed I " said the stranger, gazing at her, " Have your 
 prayers, too, been so high and holy, that the all-seeing Eye — 
 which pierces through the veil of mortal selfishness, and sees the 
 naked passions of man's heart — can look well pleased into your 
 bosom and grant its utmost desires ? " 
 
 *' I humbly trust so," answered Margaret, overawed by the 
 stern, bold man before her. " My prayers have been for peace 
 — for peace through the Lord of peace. I have prayed that God 
 would so turn the hearts of men and kings, that they should 
 lay aside hate and animosity, pride and vengeance, and, remem- 
 bering that they are brothers, seek that ^Yhich was the essence 
 of good tidings from on High, when angels proclaimed to the 
 shepherds the coming of the King of Glory to bring ijeace.'" 
 
NORFOLK AND HEREFOKD. ISo 
 
 "And did no otlier aspiration mingle with your prayers?" 
 demanded the stranger. " Did you not ask triumph for a 
 husband's arms, the downfall and reverse of tyrants, and ven- 
 geance for loss and wrong ?" 
 
 " No; God forbid," cried Margaret, earnestly, " that I should 
 insult God's glory by such prayers as that I Strange sir, I 
 know not who you are that venture thus to question me ; but 
 all I asked was — peace." 
 
 ** Stay," cried the stranger, as she was turning away. "Your 
 prayer is granted, lady. JMine might have been of a less holy 
 nature, had I not met an angel to show a better way. — Ho I 
 without there. Bring in the treaty they proffer I Give me a 
 pen. Here, on this holy altar, will I sign the peace which I 
 iust now refused ; and God so help me as I keep it well." 
 
 A number of attendants poured into the chapel at his call, 
 and one bore a large parchment, which he spread upon the 
 altar. Another held an ink-glass; and the stranger, bending 
 one knee upon the step, wrote in a bold free hand the one 
 word — 
 
 Then, taking the parchment, he held it towards Margaret, 
 saying, " Take it, lady I Bear it to your husband and his allies, 
 and tell them that your virtues have wrung from William of 
 England that which he had refused even to their successful 
 arms. You were the first cause of war between us — you be 
 the messenger of peace ; for, now that I have seen and known 
 you, I can well believe a man would peril life and fortune, his 
 own repose, and a kingdom's safety, sooner than lose your 
 hand." * 
 
 * The defeat of 'W^ilHam before Dol, and his subsequent treaty of peace 
 ■with the Count of Anjou, the Duke of Brittan}'^, the King of France, and 
 Ealph de Guador, are mentioned by almost all historians. The Earldom 
 of Norfolk was never restored ; but, by this treat)^ lialph was secured in 
 possession of all his continental lordships, and the plunder of William' a 
 camp was estimated at the value of £15,000— an enormous sum in thooo 
 da3'8. 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 BY MISS PAR DOE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a sweet summer night. Earth and air were ahke still, 
 but it was a stillness which did not amount to silence ; for the 
 song of the bird, the sigh of the wind, and the quivering sound 
 of the leaves as they were stirred by the low breeze, came 
 soothingly to the ear, and kept the mind awake to the sym- 
 pathies of nature. Existence is in itself a blessing at such an 
 hour, to all who are capable of appreciating its purer enjoy- 
 ments. Wherever flowers were scattered over the earth, the 
 air was full of perfume; and the long Hues of moonlight which 
 chequered the landscape, lay broad and pale, as though tem- 
 pered in their brightness by the calm solemnity of the scene. 
 
 Nowhere were the flowers sweeter, the landscape fairer, or 
 the night birds more full of music, than around Greville Lodge, 
 at the particular moment of which we are about to write. 
 Without the house, all was calm and beautiful. The picture 
 within was somewhat less tranquil, less spirit-stirring. But the 
 fault did not lie in the locality itself; for nothing could be more 
 hixurious or more elegant in its arrangements than the chamber 
 in which our narrative commences. It was easy to see that 
 wealth and taste had gone hand-in -hand in its adornment, 
 and that neither had been spared. The lofty bed was hung 
 with silken draperies of pale blue damask, and the high bayed 
 window, which was flung widely open to admit the coohng 
 breeze, was similarly sheltered. Sofas and couches, of the most 
 
THE WILL. 187 
 
 fantastic variety of texture and form, were dispersed over the 
 yielding carpet ; bijouterie of every description crowded the 
 dressing-table and mantelpiece of black marble ; and more than 
 one mirror of costly dimensions, panelled into the walls, gave to 
 the room rather the appearance of an apartment prepared for 
 the reception of gnests, than a chamber destined to repose. 
 
 Such as it was, however, all its elaborate luxury was on that 
 summer night subject of self-reproach rather than of enjoyment 
 to the principal occupant ; for upon the bed, whose silken cur- 
 tains were flung back, and whose tasseled ropes were knotted 
 recklessly together, to compress their voluminous folds into a 
 still smaller compass, that no breath of wind might be impeded 
 in its passage to the sufferer, lay stretched the dying form of 
 Charles Greville, the coxcomb, the epicurean, the sybarite, and 
 the sensualist — Charles Greville, once the Beau Nash of the 
 ball-room, the Brummel of the banquet. There were neither 
 sighs nor tears to disturb his last moments ; and yet about his 
 bed stood three fair women — pale, anxious, and terror-stricken, 
 it is true, but displaying none of that beautiful devotion, that 
 graceful self-abnegation, that holy energy, which women of all 
 stations, and of all countries, occasionally exhibit, to an extent 
 which may well put to the blush the colder and more calcu- 
 lating feelings of the other sex ; and which they seldom fail to 
 exert in a marked degree, even where their sympathies are 
 coldly met, and their exertions grudgingly acknowledged. Here, 
 however, it was not so. Mrs. Greville and her daughters sur- 
 rounded the bed of death with one general terror at their hearts, 
 one general question in their minds, '' How are we to exist 
 when he is gone ? " 
 
 Taken in one of its phases, the inquiry would have been 
 pious, dutiful, and full of an overflowing love, which saw earth 
 once more resolved into chaos, by the evanishment of the poor 
 spirit that was even now struggling feebly to retain its hold 
 upon the pain-tossed frame it was so soon to quit ; but this was 
 by no means the sense in which it was made by the fair trio 
 in the death room. Each and all were thinking of the noble 
 income which must expire with the selfish being who had 
 sacrificed their future prospects to his own egotism ; by whom 
 the mother had been first deluded into marriage against the 
 will of her family, who, in consequence, rejected her ; and sub- 
 sequently abandoned, with her infant girls, almost to penury, 
 because her presence, and the knowledge that he was a married 
 
188 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 mail, trammelled her husband in certain circles, and embarrassed 
 him in all. 
 
 For long and weary years the mother and her children had 
 been aliens from their home ; and it is very doubtfal that they 
 would ever again have found themselves domesticated beneath 
 the patrician roof of Mr. Greville, had he not in one of his 
 periodical penances to advance the paltry stipend he allowed 
 his wife — a duty, and about the only one that he entailed upon 
 himself twice a year, because he did not think proper to entrust 
 even his most confidential friends with the retreat of his family, 
 lest the fact of their existence should be thus kept alive, and 
 perhaps obtruded upon him at some unfortunate moment — had 
 he not, we say, upon one of these occasions, despite his long- 
 enduring indifference to everything relating to *' the women of 
 Hertfordshire," been irresistibly struck by the extreme beauty 
 of the two sisters, who, at the respective ages of fifteen and 
 seventeen, might have sat as models — the one for Hebe, the 
 other for Diana. 
 
 As the fact forced itself upon him, tJie Honourable Charles 
 Greville withdrew his eyes from his daughters, and fastened 
 them, with all the cold fastidiousness of a virtuoso, upon his 
 wife. The survey was perfectly satisfactory. Mrs. Greville had 
 never been remarkable for a hyper-degree of refinement, but 
 there was a decided air of fashion about her. The connoisseur 
 under whose particular and scrutinising notice she had now 
 fallen, took in at a glance that, although her dress was made of 
 inferior materials (he couki possibly have accounted readily for 
 the circumstance), it was, nevertheless, remarkably well put 
 together; in short, that she was what, with her fine eyes, her 
 well-preserved teeth, her small hands and feet, her slight and 
 symmetrical figure, her beautiful hair, and her careful toilette, 
 a very showy, creditable, and sufficient person to place at the 
 head of his table, to acknowledge as the mother of his girls, and 
 to address as Mistress Greville in the hearing of his associates. 
 
 So far ail was well. The exterior of the whole party was 
 everything that he could have wished; but the recollection (for 
 the first time painful) of the amount of Mrs. Greville's allowance 
 during her eleven years of exile, forbade all hope that the minds 
 of the young ladies could bear comparison with their faces. 
 He saw at a glance that their fine hair was dressed with almost 
 German skill and precision ; that their pretty feet were chausses 
 with exemplary care ; and that no exertion had been spared to 
 
THE WILL. 189 
 
 make their peculiar attractions tell, by eitlier of the fair sisters; 
 but a shudder of anticipatory disgust came over him as he 
 reflected on the probable consequences of encouraging them to 
 talk! for hitherto he had never heard their voices, save in 
 monosyllabic replies to his arriving and departing courtesies, 
 which, sooth to say, were cold and brief enough. 
 
 Mr. Greville, however, in this instance as in many others, did 
 injustice to the innate cleverness of his wife. He had so long 
 accustomed himself to think only of one person who must be 
 considered at Greville Lodge — the dear self who was the alpha 
 and the omega of his own interests — that he entirely overlooked 
 the existence of that other probable instinct and intellect which 
 might, had it only a chance of asserting itself, be even a match 
 for his own, although perchance by a broader and less refined 
 method of demonstration. How could the unapproachable 
 Charles Greville speculate upon such a contingency ? Poor 
 Mrs. Greville had been struggling upon £150 a year, deserted 
 by her family, and despised by her husband, who, so far from 
 esteeming her an object of pity, frequently asked himself, in a 
 moment of reflection, whether he were not over-indulgent in 
 permitting to her the use of a name which, in a paroxysm of 
 stupid passion, he had bestowed upon her ; and with great 
 readiness permitting himself to be convinced of the fact. It 
 was, however, fortunate for the peace of all parties, that the 
 honourable egotist did not endeavour to act upon this convic- 
 tion ; for the lady, whose wits had been sharpened by poverty, 
 and whose naturally stirring nature was excited to still greater 
 energy by the necessities of her position, soon became aware of 
 the full value of the fragment of aristocracy which adorned her 
 name ; and often did she boast to her girls, when they grew old 
 enough to understand her, that " the Honourable " had been 
 worth more than a hundred a year to them. And she was 
 right. We are a nation of tuft-hunters. Here and there a 
 nose may be curled, or a lip may be raised in scorn of rank ; 
 but this sublime contempt is only affected by the saints and the 
 radicals, and no one quite believes it to be genuine even in 
 them. Deny it who dare, I again boldly assert the fact : we 
 are a nation of tuft-hunters. The folly is bad enough in 
 London, although it must be confessed, that, of late years, what 
 should have proved a most effectual cure has been copiously 
 provided in the persons of about as many foreign title-holders 
 as there are hours in the year : — 
 
190 THE WILL. 
 
 " Strongenoff, and Strokonoff ; 
 Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseniew of modern Greece ; 
 And Tsehitsshakoff, and Rognenoff, and Chokenoff, 
 And others of twelve consonants a piece." 
 
 Not to mention Poles, Prussians, Frenchmen, and Italians, or 
 the family party of North American Indians, who some time 
 since arrived in town to display their ring-nosed aristocracy and 
 scarlet blankets to the admiration of civilised England. 
 
 What, however, is mere folly in London deepens into positive 
 vice in the country. A baronet is a great card in a post town, 
 and an honourable is a standing trump in a village. A knight's 
 widow, or a relict of a town mayor, dubbed during his mayoralty, 
 is not to be despised ; and no party can be complete without 
 these local patricians. The handle to their names is lodging 
 and provision to them. Let their impertinence only equal 
 their necessities, and they are quite secure ; for no one would 
 venture to be the first among the httle people to incur the 
 coolness of " the title." Mrs. Greville had soon become abun- 
 dantly aware of this amiable weakness in the few visitable 
 inhabitants of the pretty, shady, picturesque inland village, 
 in which it had been the will and pleasure of her husband to 
 establish herself and her daughters in a small " cottage of 
 gentiHty," which he had inherited from a godfather ; nay, so 
 cleverly did she turn her advantage to account, that it not only 
 secured to her the Welsh mutton and sherry dinners of her 
 party-giving neighbours, but the cider, poultry, and eggs of 
 the less distinguished parishioners, who, following the lead ot 
 the gentry, were ever ready to sacrifice a trifle in order to 
 secure the passing recognition of the lady of quality. 
 
 To Mrs. Walker, the curate's wife, and Mrs. Parsons, the 
 lawyer's lady, it was a great delight, during their periodical 
 visits to their relatives, to talk of their '' sweet friends, the 
 Honourable Mrs. Grevillo and the two Honourable Miss Gre- 
 villes;" for the worthy gentlewomen had never studied the 
 peerage, and they consequently extended the distinction to 
 the whole family without hesitation or misgiving; and had 
 they ventured to resent sundry little insolences and over- 
 reachings on the part of their dignified acquaintance, they must 
 have forfeited this charming privilege ; a fact of which they 
 wore so well aware, that they did not even venture to admit to 
 their better halves, in the security of a fireside tete-a-tete, that 
 the mistress of Rose Cottage made them occasionally pay a liigh 
 
THE WILL. 191 
 
 price for the honour of their countenance ; nay, they virtuously 
 endeavoured to convict themselves of injustice, for they felt that 
 they could not forego the gratification of " pulling down the 
 pride " of distant aunts, cousins, and nieces, who sometimes, 
 upon the strength of a yearly trip to London, and an introduc- 
 tion to some third-rate milliner, endeavoured to overwhelm 
 them with " the last new fashions," by assuring the triumphant 
 possessors of the finery that they had been most shamefmlly 
 treated, for that the Honourable Arabella Greville had worn 
 one precisely similar two years previously, and that the Honour- 
 able Miss Blanche had declared that she was positive to having 
 seen the same thing upon Lady Somebody Something, a cousin- 
 german of hers, the season before. 
 
 Luxuries like these must be paid for. Poverty had added to 
 Mrs. Greville's natural shrewdness. She was too clever a tac- 
 tician not to make the discovery, and to profit by it ; and thus 
 it was that she condescendingly permitted Arabella to share the 
 singing lesson of the two Miss Walkers, and Blanche to study 
 the harp under the auspices of pretty little Mrs. Peters, the 
 apothecary's bride. Then the five Parsons girls had a French 
 governess, the wife of an emigre who died in the village, and 
 who had imbibed the local passion for the Grevilles, because 
 they reminded her of the hon vieux temps when she was herself 
 Madame la Comtesse de Rihedout, and frequented the Tuileries, 
 before ce coquin de Buonaparte revolutionised the capital of the 
 world, and made a fine art Mont de Piete of the Louvre ; and 
 assuredly, nothing could be much more pleasant than to hear 
 the ci-devant Countess and the helpless Honourable talking 
 together in a tone of condescending regret of the joys and 
 triumphs of high blood and exalted station ; the one wiping 
 away the scattered snuff from her lap with a well-darned 
 moucJioir, edged with cotton lace, and the other ostentatiously 
 spreading forth the scanty folds of her turned sarsenet. But 
 even Madame Ribbedout, as she was familiarly called in the 
 neighbourhood, did not enjoy this honour gratuitously ; for 
 it was soon gently hinted to her that while she was giving her 
 lesson, it would cost her but little more trouble to include the 
 Miss Grevilles, in which case she would be welcome to the tea- 
 table at Rose Cottage whenever she could be spared from the 
 lawyer's school room : and this arrangement, while it greatly 
 benefited Arabella and Blanche, afforded a proud theme of 
 gratification to good Mrs. Parsons, who talked largely of her 
 
192 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 girls being educated with the Hononrable Mis3 Grevillcs, and 
 obtained for their mother the reputation of an exceeding 
 condescension, which she contrived to turn to account in a 
 variety of ways. 
 
 For all this maternal manoeuvring, the husband and fatlier 
 was, of course, by no means prepared ; and thus, when upon 
 venturing to touch very delicately on the subject of the IMiss 
 Grevillcs' educational deficiencies, his lady blandly informed 
 him that Arabella had a superb voice, which required only a 
 little more training to render it almost too perfect for a private 
 room ; that Blanche touched the harp like a tenth muse ; and 
 that both sisters spoke French with an accent known only in 
 the Fauborg St. Germain. The Honourable Charles opened 
 his large drowsy eyes, and turned them in astonished admira- 
 tion on his long-neglected helpmate. How had she contrived 
 all this upon the same income which he paid to his cook ? He 
 quite longed to ask her ; but he remembered his own dignity, 
 and he forebore. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mrs. Greville had gained an immense triumph 
 over the lethargic mind of her husband at the moment in whicli 
 he made the discovery, and she was by no means a woman to 
 lose her vantage-ground. The selfish voluptuary rapidly ran 
 over in thought certain recent twinges of the gout, an in- 
 creasing obesity of girth, and diminution of calf — in short, the 
 ci-devant man of fashion felt a conviction that his reign was 
 almost over — that he must soon abdicate or be dethroned; that 
 he began to require to be nursed, and amused, and cosseted ; 
 that, in short, he might as well make a home, by recalling his 
 wife and children to his house, to be the breakwaters for his 
 temper, and the slaves of his will ; and accordingly he hinted 
 something of the sort to Mrs. Greville, who only sighed, and 
 remarked that she had now become so thoroughly reconciled to 
 a village life, and felt that her dear girls were so safe away 
 from the great world, and all its temptations, that with an 
 additional hundred a year, which the increasing expenses of 
 their daughters now rendered almost imperative, she thought 
 that perhaps, all things considered, they had better remain 
 where they were, at least for a time. 
 
 Mrs. Greville was decidedly a very clever woman. Her heart 
 was almost bursting with alarm lest he should take her at her 
 word ; for long-endured poverty had only tended to make her 
 attach an overweening importance to money. She remembered 
 
THE WILL. 193 
 
 her manifold deprivations, and shifts, and expedients ; and she 
 had also glorious reminiscences of the pomp and profusion of 
 Greville Lodge, with its powdered lacqueys, its well-appointed 
 equipages, and its luxuriant table ; but she had tact enough to 
 feel that any appearance of eagerness on her part to close with 
 the proposal of her narrow-hearted husband, would tend to 
 make him hesitate ; while, on the contrary, her well-assumed 
 air of reluctance only confirmed him in his new resolution. It 
 will be easily understood that when once the well-acted hesita- 
 tion of the lady had given place to a meek and resigned 
 declaration of her determination to act in all things as the will 
 of her husband might dictate, the consequent arrangements 
 were by no means difficult or intricate, although every prepara- 
 tion made by Mrs. Greville was accompanied by the expression 
 of her reluctance to change the tenor of her existence, and her 
 apprehension that she should prove unequal to the cares of a 
 large establishment, after the limited nature of her experience. 
 
 The girls were by no means deceived, however, by the 
 bearing of their mother ; they were accustomed to her pecu- 
 liarly involved system of action ; nor did they lack penetration, 
 even slight as their knowledge of their honourable father had 
 hitherto been, to discover at once that thenceforward the egotist 
 would be as thoroughly " managed" as they had themselves 
 been. They had wit enough, also, to still the beatings of their 
 own hearts, and to assume, under the schooling of their mother, 
 an appearance of placid indifference very foreign to their real 
 sensations. 
 
 All this was wonderfully agreeable to jMr. Greville. He was 
 ohet/ed, and, he believed, at some cost ; for he, worthy man I 
 had so long been accustomed to be clothed in the " purple and 
 fine linen " of the world, and to revel amid the '' fleshpots of 
 Egypt," that it never struck him how great their attraction 
 must necessarily be to those who had hitherto known them only 
 by hearsay ; and that it was little probable that three handsome 
 women, who had for years blushed unseen in a country village, 
 should prefer the roses and clematis of their own small and 
 inconvenient cottage, to the marble floors and velvet draperies 
 of Greville Lodge. 
 
 Great was the pomp of the leave-taking when Mrs. Greville 
 and her daughters were at length about to quit their little nook 
 in Hertfordshire. The Honourable Charles had departed, after 
 having assured himself that his orders would meet no further 
 
194 THE WILL. 
 
 opposition ; and a round of dinners were given to the mother 
 and daughters, which were the more keenly relished by the 
 former, as she felt that to these, at least, no return could be 
 expected. But of all who wept, or appeared to weep their 
 approaching loss, there was no mourner so sincere, and so sad, 
 as the poor Frenchwoman. She could have said in her heart — 
 " Ichabod, thy glory is departed," for she felt that the patrician 
 tea-table at Eose Cottage was no more, and that for her there 
 was no longer any world save that of the school-room ; no 
 memories, save those of regret and humiliation. Nothing could 
 be more a propos than the violent attack of gout under which 
 Mr. Greville was suffering when the fair trio reached their new 
 home ; and nothing could be more characteristic than the man- 
 ner in which their transit was effected. They left the village in 
 the solitary stage-coach by which it was traversed three times 
 a week ; and as the Walkers, the Parsonses, the Joneses, and 
 the Peterses declared, it was quite delightful to see how snug 
 and comfortable they were, with the whole inside to themselves, 
 and picked up at their very door I At a town upon their line 
 of road, they found a post-chaise awaiting them, into which 
 they packed themselves and their slender wardrobes with con- 
 siderable exultation ; but within two stages of their destination, 
 they were met by the roomy, well-hung, thickly-stuffed family 
 coach, fitted up with as many imperials, cap-boxes, carriage- 
 trunks, and sword-cases, as would have sufficed to contain all 
 the contents of Rose Cottage, furniture inclusive. 
 
 Here they were requested by a tall footman, all powder and 
 precision, to halt for the night, in order that they might make 
 a new and more graceful distribution of their luggage, which 
 they accordingly scattered through the multitudinous conve- 
 niences by which their several apartments w^ere encumbered, as 
 widely as possible ; and, on the following morning, to their 
 immense delectation, they found themselves rattling along 
 behind four post-horses, with a couple of servants in the 
 rumble. Arabella looked exultingly at her mother ; and Blanche 
 burst into tears. Poor things I All the three were too much 
 bewildered by this unexpected turn in their fortunes to re- 
 mark the fine and beautiful gradations by which, without one 
 consideration for their comfort, the relative to whom they were 
 now hastening, had saved at once his pocket and his pride. 
 Human nature is a magnificent anomaly ! 
 
 But to recur to Mr. Greville's gout. When the ladies arrived 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 at the lodge, tliey found liim seated in his morning room, in 
 the " deep obscnre " of a purple morocco lounging chair, with 
 his right leg, swathed in flannel, resting upon a regent. Above 
 the fire-place hung a full-length portrait of himself, by Law- 
 rence, in a hunting dress, leaning upon a favourite horse. 
 Beside his chair was suspended a miniature in a chased gold 
 frame, covered with plate glass, of himself, in an evening cos- 
 tume ; there was a marble bust of himself in Koman drapery, 
 standing upon a pedestal of verd antique between the windows ; 
 and in a large panel above the door was an imitation bas-relief 
 of himself in infancy, as "Cupid stealing an apple from a 
 sleeping Nymph." 
 
 Despite his gout, Mr. Greville had every appearance of being 
 " at home " in his own house. 
 
 The reception of the mother and daughters v^as coolly cour- 
 teous ; but the elder lady had not been in the room half an 
 hour before the egotist began to wonder how he had ever done 
 without her. She understood him exactly. She dismissed the 
 worn-out valet who was renewing the cold fomentation, and 
 applied the saturated cloths herself with so light a touch, that 
 the attention of the invalid was irresistibly attracted to the 
 fair and dimpled little hand which passed over his shrinking 
 limb like a breath of air ; and he internally chuckled as he 
 remarked that the solitary ring which adorned it was her mar- 
 riage ring — the badge of her social servitude ! Come w^hat 
 might, he had secured an admirable nurse, who could not " give 
 him warning," as half a score of others had done ; and thus the 
 bargain could not be a bad one ultimately, 
 
 Now, our friend Charles Greville had a little weakness, 
 which is, however, as we are taught to beheve, by no means 
 peculiar to himself, but shared by many other gouty gentlemen. 
 He was inordinately attached to what are called "the good 
 things of this hfe; " and when he should have apphed "patience 
 and w^ater-gruel " he obstinate insisted on substituting turtle 
 and champagne. His " fool of an apothecary," and his " bore 
 of a nurse," had expostulated in vain. Who could possibly 
 know w^hat was good for him better than that idol of his exist- 
 ence — himself I He despised patience ; and as to water-gruel 
 — faugh ! it was the diet of the parish-unions. Turtle was at 
 least the substitute — a poor one, it is true, but still the sub- 
 stitute for something recognised : champagne was a light, 
 laughing, lovable beverage; a liquid fit for gentlemen — it 
 
196 THE WILL. 
 
 could do no harm to those with whose blood it could blend 
 without discrepancy ; ergo, it was the most meet and fitting 
 libation for the Honourable Charles Greville, with confirmed 
 and obstinate gout in his left foot, and certain flying twinges 
 on a voyage of discovery previous to location. Mrs. Greville 
 did not venture on contradiction. Her amiable husband dined, 
 on the very day of her arrival, upon stewed eels, curried game, 
 and lemon-cheesecakes — not one of which the affectionate and 
 excellent lady had ever heard denounced as unwholesome. The 
 gentleman was delighted : he had " for once," he said, " been 
 suffered to take his food in peace ; " and, although he confined 
 his comments to that circumstance, he was possessed of sufficient 
 taste to feel that his table not only looked better, but was more 
 comfortable, with three fine women seated about it, than when 
 his solitary cover was laid at one of its extremities, and his only 
 companions were the supercilious and silent personages who 
 wore his livery. 
 
 It was pleasant to reflect also, that, like everything else by 
 which he was surrounded, the said ladies were his own, whom 
 he was at liberty to snub and twit as he pleased, and who were 
 dependent upon his sovereign will for all that they possessed. 
 The girls played their parts admirably. They did not venture 
 to call him " papa ; " such a reminder constantly dropping into 
 his ears, would have recalled to the memory of the failing 
 voluptuary that another generation had grown up to push him 
 from his stool ; whereas the smiling but punctilious " sir " of 
 his beautiful daughters, and the shrinking diffidence with which 
 they permitted, rather than encouraged, his occasional caresses, 
 flattered his vanity, and threw his thouglits back upon a thou- 
 sand agreeable passages in his past life. Let it not be liglitly 
 inferred, however, that any of his reminiscences brought with 
 them visions of self-sacrifice, even for the fair beings whom it 
 had occasionally been his good pleasure temporarily to idolize. 
 We have record that the Duke de Richelieu ordered his 
 servants to burn one of his carriages, because Mademoiselle de 
 Saint Amaranthe, of whom he was at the moment enamoured, 
 refused to allow him to set her home from a party where they 
 met ; that the Prince de Conti caused a diamond which he 
 had offered to the Comtesse de Blot, and which she declined 
 to accept, to be ground to powder, and then made use of it to 
 dry the ink of the note which he wrote to reproach her with 
 her cruelty ; and that the Fermier-General Bouret fed a cow 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 107 
 
 upon green peas at 150 francs the measure, in order tliat an 
 opera-dancer, to whom he was devoted, and whom tlie facuky 
 had placed upon milk-diet, should have her lactean draught in 
 perfection. Our home-experience, although not quite so exag- 
 gerated, would nevertheless afford us some reasonable illnstva- 
 tions in the same style ; but, after the three foregoing, they are 
 unnecessary. We are merely anxious that our readers should 
 not do the Honourable Charles Greville the injustice to believe 
 that he had ever been guilty of any such enormities. On the 
 contrary, he had carefully eschewed all follies of the sort : he 
 considered them as beneath his dignity ; and, in the present 
 instance, with regard to his daughters, the sentiment as usual 
 began and ended in self. He wondered how he had hitherto 
 contrived to exist without them ; and therefore it was that, ere 
 a month had elapsed, masters were secured at an immense 
 expense, to perfect them in their several accomplishments, and 
 that the toilettes of all the party revealed their Parisian origin. 
 
 The outlay was most judicious. Mrs. Greville in her point- 
 lace cap and dress of rich satin, and the Miss Grevilles in all 
 the elegant prettinesses of the existing fashion, were sufficiently 
 distinguished-looking to satisfy even the fastidious selfishness 
 of their exacting owner ; and when the magnificent voice of 
 Arabella, and the exquisite harping of Blanche, made eloquent 
 music where all had before been silence, Mr. Greville began 
 to reconcile himself to the fact of being not only that object of 
 his former terror — a married man — but even the father of two 
 grown-up daughters. Skilfully, while he was in this suave 
 mood of mind, did the clever lady whom he had just reinstated 
 in her rights, lead him occasionally to glance into the future. 
 She knew full well that the sensual egotist to whom she had 
 hnked her destinies, had, when for the second time he was 
 disappointed in his expectation of an heir, made such a disposi- 
 tion of the family property as to secure luxury to himself 
 during his life, and to leave the unfortunate girls, who were 
 unable to perpetuate his name, to elbow their way through the 
 rough world as they might. But she was also aware that there 
 was a great accumulation of ready money at his banker's, 
 which he had been literally unable to convert into additional 
 personal enjoyment ; a fact which she had ascertained when, 
 during one of his sharp paroxysms of gout, she had acted as 
 his amanuensis. This was the golden egg over which Mrs. 
 Greville brooded dav and night. She had not the slightest 
 
198 THE WILL. 
 
 dependence upon either the justice or the stabiHty of her 
 husband ; nay, for aught that she knew, he might, as she told 
 the girls, turn pious in his last moments, and bequeath this 
 coveted hoard to schools and hospitals — and then, where were 
 they ? The matter was important. Mr. Greville was by no 
 means a man with whom it was safe to trifle. The greatest 
 delicacy and circumspection were requisite, for in mooting the 
 subject, she was hinting at the possibility of his death, and, 
 invalid though he was, he had the greatest possible objection 
 to die at all. The point must, nevertheless, be carried. She 
 had served a bitter apprenticeship to poverty, and had no idea 
 of " setting up " on her own account, if either wit or deter- 
 mination could afford her a better establishment. 
 
 Not a word, however, turn, coil, and twine as she might, 
 could poor Mrs. Greville extort from her husband on this 
 all-important subject. When, newspaper in hand, as she 
 was daily reading aloud to the languid voluptuary, who was 
 too indolent to encounter its mighty columns for himself, 
 she found some case of luxury transformed to want, from which 
 she thought that anything like a parallel might be drawn, in 
 vain did she eloquently sigh over the hard fate of the victims, 
 and paint in glowing colours, broadened and deepened from 
 past experience, the misery of such a fate, the refined habits 
 marred, the fine feelings quenched, the noble aspirations anni- 
 hilated, — at the termination of each tirade, even although it 
 occasionally cost the lady tears as well as words, the Honour- 
 able Charles was either asleep, or feigned to be so ; which, 
 as far as regarded the purpose of his wife, came precisely to 
 the same thing. In vain, when noble bridegrooms were united 
 to rich heiresses, did she pathetically remark upon the all- 
 sufficient power of wealth, and the utter impossibility of well- 
 born young women, be their personal endowments what they 
 might, ''getting-off" in an advantageous manner, and doing 
 credit to themselves or their families by forming high and 
 honourable connections. When she paused for breath, Mr. 
 Greville either yawned or took snuff, or, if in unusual good 
 humour, nodded his head in acquiescent indifference. The 
 lady was very clever ; but she was, on great points, no match 
 for the egotist after all. 
 
 And so time went on ; and Mr. Greville fasted upon Severn 
 salmon, and Ascension turtle, and Strasbourg pate ; and the 
 gout went on also. Now a pang, and now a pause ; now a 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 199 
 
 twinge, and now a truce; until it gradually made good its 
 quarters, and commenced its final attack. From tlie toes it 
 travelled to the anldes, from the ankles to the knees— then came 
 shooting pangs, commencing the patient knew not precisely 
 where, but ending everywhere ; and still the toast and water 
 was rendered " decently palatable " with pale sherry, and the 
 gruel ''flavoured" with cognac, and the barley-water "re- 
 lieved " by Madeira ; the worst feature of the case being, that 
 the Honourable Mr. Greville was not, in the meantime, relieved 
 by anything ; and ultimately even he, obtuse as he was, both 
 by nature and principle, on this particular point, even he began 
 to think it just possible, when he felt beyond all stretch of 
 further self-deception, that the enemy was actually invading 
 the region of the stomach, that he migTit not recover. 
 
 And thus we have travelled back to the luxurious sick-room 
 of which w^e sketched the interior some pages ago. 
 
 Truly, wealth is a fine thing, so long as, with his " purple 
 and fine Hnen," the Dives of the world commands also sound 
 health and wholesome appetite. Then, indeed, he may, in his 
 selfish soul, laugh the sons of misery to scorn, and sicken at 
 the rags and black bread of poverty and toil. He possesses 
 all their riches, but they have none of his ! There is no parallel 
 between them ; no, not one. 
 
 Peace, peace, repining starveling ! who would find added 
 bitterness in thine own scanty lot, from this conviction. Thou 
 art revenged in the sick-room, in the death hour, at the grave's 
 mouth, ay, amply, fully, wondrously convicted of thine error. 
 Sickness to the labourer brings at least respite from toil ; to 
 him even the vapid diet of the hospital is a variety ; death robs 
 him of no worldly vanities. It wrenches asunder, it is true, 
 alike with him and with his tyrant, the holiest bonds of affec- 
 tion, the closest links of humanity ; the freeman and the slave 
 for one hour bear the same agony ; but unlike those of the 
 voluptuary and the sensualist, the poor man's woes end with 
 those natural pangs. He leaves not behind him the objects 
 of his life-long idolatry, that they may pass to other hands — 
 the stately mirrors in which he has so often gazed admiringly 
 upon his own reflection ; the hangings of silk and velvet, which 
 have at one time sheltered him from the sunlight of summer, 
 and at another screened him from the draughts of winter ; the 
 coins of ^old and silver whose very sound and touch were 
 luxury ; the jewels and the raiment which told his tale of 
 
200 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 prosperity and power to all by whom he was approached ; the 
 *' harps, and lutes, and dulciniers " which had made music for 
 his idleness, though they often failed to soothe the evil spirit, 
 and the troubled Saul found no David among his minstrels ; 
 the tables at which he had feasted ; the goblets from which he 
 has drunk ; " the chariots and the horsemen " by which he has 
 been surrounded. The poor man, at the " supreme moment," 
 is spared the struggle of expiring vanity and selfishness. He 
 leaves no worldly wealth behind to be cavilled for by eager 
 relatives, talked of by the idle and the interested, and distri- 
 buted by the law. When he has rendered up " his great 
 account," the books of the world arc closed upon him, and his 
 name is forgotten, save where it was registered in loving hearts 
 and lingering memories — and in the grave I Would the poor 
 man repine, even although he knew too well beforehand that 
 he will be laid there at the close of a pauper funeral ? Nay, 
 nay, he hath no need to do so. Let him leave to the great 
 their grim damp vaults, where shelved and lettered coffins 
 are ranged in ghastly rows ; and relatives who have borne 
 deadly feud, or silent hate, the one towards the other through- 
 out their lives, are piled up side by side in a wanton mockery 
 of kindred and affection, to curdle and decay together, and to 
 make one common feast for the same foul reptiles I Let him 
 leave to the rich their tall and iron -guarded tombs, even 
 although thereon, deep graven into the stone, be set forth the 
 pompous enumeration of the many gifts and virtues, for the 
 first time freely and ungrudgingly admitted by the survivors. 
 Let not the poor envy these. Upon their less assuming graves 
 the summer sun shines down blithely ; the summer breeze 
 wanders lovingly ; the wild blossoms and the wild bee are to 
 be found nestled amid the fresh grass that covers them like a 
 garment; the gentle rains of spring, and the silvery snows 
 of winter, come to them pure from heaven ; and there is nothing 
 of man or of man's vanity, left to separate the creature from its 
 Creator. Let them remember, and find a hallowed and a holy 
 comfort in the conviction, that 
 
 The stately tomb which shrouds the great, 
 
 Leaves to the grassy sod 
 The dearer blessing that its dead 
 
 Are nearer to their God ! 
 
 Mr. Greville was indeed a Dives. He had much from which 
 to part reluctantly in this world ; and thus, as he writhed ii3 
 
THE WILL. 201 
 
 agony upon his bed, his eyes wandered rapidly, and for the 
 first time greedily, over the luxurious appliances of his apart- 
 ment. He had never before felt their value, for he had never 
 before been conscious how very soon they would cease ta 
 minister to his egotism. Everything had been done to lessen 
 the sliock, as well as the suffering, of sickness, to the querulous 
 and exacting invalid. His medicines had been administered in 
 goblets of delicately-tinted Bohemian glass, and his ''slops" 
 in cups of Sevres or Dresden china ; perfumes and essences 
 were scattered in every direction, in every variety of flacon and 
 sachet invented by modern folly; books, pamphlets, caricatures, 
 and journals crowded the sofas ; forced fruits and exotic flowers 
 covered tlie tables ; while washes, dyes, soaps, and powders, 
 and all the thousand puerilites for which we have not time to 
 find a name, but which are essential to the " making up" of a 
 ci-devant jeiine homme, cumbered the ample toilette, as if in 
 mockery of the human pangs which were leaving wrinkle upon 
 wrinkle, and making of life an agony. 
 
 •'Why do you all stand staring about me, as though you 
 expected me to die with every breath that 1 draw ? " vehe- 
 mently and suddenly exclaimed Mr. Greville, as after having 
 completed their survey of the apartment, his eyes wandered 
 over the pale faces of his wife and daughters : " Can you do 
 nothing for me, but look as if I had become an object of terror 
 to you all ? Has not your boasted affection the power to save 
 me from one of these accursed pangs ?" and even as the words 
 were uttered, he set his teeth hard, and clenched the eider-down 
 quilt in his convulsed fingers, while a cold damp started upon 
 his brow, as he cast himself back upon his pillows in a fresh 
 paroxysm of pain. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Greville," said his wife, in the accent of 
 gentle and timid expostulation, which she never attempted e^we 
 when she had some important point to carry, " do not reproach 
 us for our deep and anxious sympathy. Are you iiot every- 
 thing to us ? And yet, now I think of it," continued the lady, 
 as if struck by a sudden conviction, "tlie sight of so many sad 
 faces congregated about you may well affect your spirits. 
 Leave us, my dear girls, until Mr. Greville shall himself sum- 
 mon you. He is too well assured of your devoted affection, 
 for your absence from his side to imply neglect." 
 
 The young ladies, awaiting no second bidding, but inclining 
 their heads silently and gracefully to their dying parent, gUded 
 
202 THE WILL. 
 
 out of the room. Mr. Greville looked after tliem as they dis- 
 appeared, and, for the first time in his life, a sigh, which was 
 not for his own sorrows, rose to his lip?. " What is to become 
 of them ? " he murmured to himself, while the eager ear of his 
 wife caught up his low and tremulous words. " They are hand- 
 some, very handsome ; and if I have, perhaps " Again the 
 
 sharp agony passed over his frame, and warned him that he 
 had to do only with the present ; Mrs. Greville wiped the 
 clammy moisture from his brow with a handkerchief like a cob- 
 web, and a touch as light as a gossamer ; and once more the 
 wretched man subsided into comparative ease. 
 
 *' It is too late now — too late — too late. It is useless to 
 torment myself upon the subject," were his next articulate 
 mutterings ; " they must do the best they can. Marry — ay, 
 some men have a fancy for wives — they had better marry." 
 
 " Alas ! " whispered the lady, in a tone of sentiment admir- 
 ably suited to the occasion, as she affected to suppose that the 
 remarks of the invalid were addressed to herself; " that, my 
 dear sir, is quite impossible, unless you are good enough to 
 make a suitable provision for them ; in which case there could 
 be no doubt of their success ; for with a tolerable fortune, great 
 beauty, and the name of Greville, they would be very desirable 
 matches. But if you leave them penniless there is no hope. 
 They must then content themselves with a life of toil, and 
 mortification, and hardship." And again the embroidered 
 handkerchief was applied to the fine eyes of the speaker. 
 
 " Curse the gout ! " shouted Mr. Greville, furiously, as a con- 
 vulsion of keener pain than he had yet experienced shook his 
 whole frame, and distorted his still handsome features ; " were 
 my limbs given to me only to be made the sport of devils ! — 
 Don't whine to me, madam I " — he pursued still more violently, 
 as soon as he had recovered the power of speech. " Let them 
 work — can their labour entail on them such agony as mine ? 
 Can the poverty to which they have been all their lives accus- 
 tomed bring such mortification as mine, in thus seeing myself 
 chained down to this infernal bed, surrounded by a parcel of 
 puling women ? Can any hardship be equal to living upon slops, 
 and swallowing the filth vomited by the foul shops of chemists, 
 and the surgeries of dirt-compounding apothecaries ? What is 
 the use of talking in such a strain to tne ? Are you not well 
 aware that I sank all my property in a life-annuity ? Do you 
 suppose me to be such an idiot as to have left anything to 
 
THE WILL. 203 
 
 chance in these days of faikires and bankruptcies ? You might 
 as sensibly have suspected me of living upon boiled mutton and 
 Cape Madeira I Spare me your reproaches, however, Mrs. 
 Greville," he pursued, as he perceived that a sudden fire flashed 
 from the eyes of the lady, and that she was about to speak, in 
 perhaps somewhat less a subdued strain than was her wont : " I 
 was assuredly a fool to marry, as I did, for a pretty face, 
 when I was warned against it by every friend I had in the 
 world, all of whom knew that marriage was the ruin of a man 
 of my caste. I see it well enough now, and have done so for 
 years ; but where there is no remedy, it avails nothing to shatter 
 one's nerves with regrets and repinings. I did it, and the thing 
 can't be undone. I have Httle to find fault with since I sum- 
 moned you home — I feel that I should miss you, if you were 
 not here ; and so I have considered it right." 
 
 The lady leant eagerly forward. Her breath came quick 
 and short, and her heart beat rapidly. Mr. Greville had paused 
 to give way to one of those long, convulsive yawns which are 
 so universally the accompaniments of sharp and fitful bodily 
 pain ; and at its close, his own selfish annoyances were once 
 more uppermost. '* It is very extraordinary, Mrs. Greville," 
 he remarked bitterly, " that you can remain so quietly and 
 comfortably seated when you must see that the moonlight is 
 streaming in through that window at your back, upon the foot- 
 curtains of my bed, and producing an effect that besides weary- 
 ing my own eyes, must make me look in those of others like 
 one of the demons in Der Freischutz I " 
 
 Poor Mrs. Greville ! She rose, and excluded the offending 
 moonlight by drawing over a portion of the open casement a 
 fold of the silken curtains. She had never been guilty of a 
 poetic tendency, although during the period of her village resi- 
 dence she had entertained a certain respect for the moon, as it 
 had occasionally enabled her to defer for an hour or two, upon 
 that lady-like pretext, the expense of candles ; but at that moment 
 she would gladly have consigned all its beams to the bottom of 
 a coal-pit 1 It was the first time that Mr. Greville had even 
 been betrayed into a hint concerning the future, — he lived only 
 in the present, — and she was shrewd enough to feel that it 
 would require most able management to bring him back to the 
 subject which he had so abruptly abandoned. The genius of 
 Mrs. Greville was, however, equal to all exigencies ; and she 
 was by no means destitute, as has been already shown, of the 
 
204 THE WILL. 
 
 same impulse of self-consideration which had throughout life 
 distinguished her amiable lord ; although in her case it had 
 assumed a modified and less repulsive character. It was also 
 certain that she could not, as the Honourable Charles had done, 
 rid herself of all domestic anxieties by pensioning off her 
 daughters with an allowance of ^150 a year. Nay — the 
 miserable woman knew not whether, when the painwrung and 
 rapitlly-sinking invalid before her should have ceased to suffer, 
 she might not be left destitute with her two orphan girls ; 
 and it was therefore not surprising that her naturally quick wit 
 was sharpened to its extremest power at such a crisis. Hitherto, 
 since their reunion, not the slightest demonstration of attach- 
 ment had been ventured upon by either party Mr. Greville had 
 once or twice, when she was about to head his table in an un- 
 usually becoming dress, and was looking more than commonly 
 fashionable and distinguished, condescendingly testified his sense 
 of the fact by touching her brow or her hand with his lips, as Sir 
 Charles Grandison may be supposed to have saluted Miss Harriet 
 Byron at the termination of their seven years of courtship ; and 
 Mrs. Greville, who had too much at stake to run the risk of 
 offending by any unwelcome advance orinnovation,hadsometimes 
 bestowed the same favour upon her husband on the receipt of 
 a trifling figured bank-note, or the payment of a heavy bill for 
 millinery ; but beyond such courtesy she had never ventured. 
 
 She remembered the fact at the very critical moment ; and 
 with it came the conviction that she had now exhausted upon 
 the self-centered being before her, every other care, and deference, 
 and attention which it was in her power to exert ; she had 
 been to him, since her return to Greville Lodge, at once a 
 companion, a secretary, and a nurse ; she had never rebelled 
 against his caprices, never disputed his tastes, never controlled 
 his appetites ; and what had she gained beyond present luxury ? 
 Positively nothing. She at once felt that she had but one win- 
 ning card left in her hand, and that the time had indeed come 
 to risk it. So convinced, she did not hesitate for a moment to 
 act upon the conviction ; and although it has taken a long time 
 and many words to tell, Mrs. Greville had thought, and felt, and 
 resolved all this during the few seconds in which she was 
 engaged in shutting out the moonlight ; and accordingly, when 
 her office was completed, instead of returning to her seat, she 
 moved noiselessly to the pillow of the invalid, and pressed her 
 lips against his cheek. 
 
THE WILL. 205 
 
 The intense surprise painted in the eyes of INFr. Greville it 
 would be difficult to describe, but there was no shade of dis- 
 pleasure mingled with the astonishment. It was a novelty for 
 any one to act for themselves, in anything in Avhich he was 
 concerned; and to the hlase man of the world any novelty was 
 welcome. They were alone, too ; for the attendants were 
 snugly established in the ante-room, profiting by the relief 
 afforded by the administrations of their mistress in the sick- 
 room ; and thus there was no one by to remark his weakness in 
 permitting the tenderness of his own wife. The lady saw her 
 advantage at once, and felt that the ice was broken. 
 
 " My beloved Charles I " she murmured, as she laid her small 
 cool hand upon his burning brow ; " why cannot I, by sup- 
 porting a portion of this torture, relieve you of at least a few of 
 those sharp pangs? But you are surely better, just now, love I 
 You are more composed — more tranquil. Is it not so ? " 
 
 Mr. Greville was still half-bewildered, and did not imme- 
 diately reply. 
 
 " Endeavour to rally, Charles," pursued the lady, as she sank 
 down gently to her knees, beside the bed, without removing 
 her hand ; " think how much depends upon your life — your 
 health — the happiness of myself and our dear girls I And they 
 are lovely girls — are they not, Greville ? — girls to be proud of, 
 to be ambitious for, doing credit to their name and to their 
 blood. Both, both beautiful I but Arabella incomparably the 
 most lovely." 
 
 " Sir John Shepperton, when he dined here last month, 
 thought Arabella very like me," said the invalid, fairly off his 
 guard. 
 
 '* Sir John has the eye of a painter as well as a critic," 
 replied Mrs. Greville in the same low quiet murmur ; " he 
 could not fail to be struck with the resemblance. And our fair 
 Blanche is perfect, too, in her peculiar style." 
 
 " ' Bionda testa, occhi axurri, e bruno ciglio,' " whispered out 
 Mr. Greville ; *' a far more common class of beauty, but still 
 beauty, I admit. Enough of them for the moment, however. 
 I feel easier just now, and I would talk of yourself. Not that 
 I have an idea that this attack will prove fatal. Dr. Phillimore 
 'ooked as though he wished me to ask him his opinion, but I 
 am not one to be hood-winked by the professional prejudices 
 and jargon of a physician. I have no idea of paying a man for 
 attempting to frighten me out of the world " (Mr. Greville had 
 
206 THE WILL. 
 
 once more forgotten his wife in himself) ; " and as their absur- 
 dity about this, that, and the other thing driving the gout into 
 my stomach — things, too, to which I have been accustomed all 
 mv life — it's sheer humbug, and, I verily believe, done purely 
 to torment me." 
 
 Mrs. Greville bent down her head upon the thin, white hand 
 which rested on the coverlet, amd this movement brought back 
 the thoughts of the patient to herself. " You have been more 
 rational, Ellen, than any one about me. I owe you that con- 
 fession, and you shall find that I have not been ungrateful. 
 Shepperton volunteered to take all the trouble off my hands, 
 and so I authorised him to purchase an annuity with the money 
 that was lying at my bankers. I can do nothing for the girls ; 
 T have no means ; but you will have £1,400 a year for life." 
 
 Mrs. Greville felt as though she should choke, but tears 
 fortunately came to her relief, and they fell upon the hand of 
 the invalid. " Spare me a scene, Mrs. Greville," he said coldly; 
 " I am too weak to contend with violent emotions; and, more- 
 over, I never had a taste for them ; they are unnecessary and 
 unlady-like." 
 
 " How shall I thank you ?" commenced his companion. 
 " By giving me a tumbler of that claret — the last brought up ; 
 and by doing so without comment or hesitation. Had you 
 been less prompt in complying with my wishes during your 
 domestication here, I should never have racked my head, at 
 such a time, about your annuity." 
 
 The lady obeyed in silence ; and the voluptuary swallowed 
 another accessory to the fatal disease which had now progressed 
 sufficiently towards a vital part, to leave him without pain. 
 The wine gave him a temporary energy, under whose influence 
 he said suddenly, " Open that bureau, Ellen ; the key is on my 
 dressing-table. My cursed Will lies there — there, just in 
 front, ready to be signed ; and I will do it now, when I feel it 
 to be a piece of unnecessary humbug, for I am better than I 
 have been for the last month ; and the thing will be off my 
 mind. Call in four of the servants to witness it, and then Ink- 
 pen will, I suppose, leave me in peace." 
 
 As Mrs. Greville held the precious document in her hand, and 
 prepared, as usual, to obey, without remonstrance, the orders of 
 her husband, happy as she felt in the consciousness of her own 
 future security, the conviction that her children were utterly 
 without provision rendered her desperate. She had long ceased 
 
THE WILL. 207 
 
 to be scrupulous when she had a point to carry ; and a thou- 
 sand wild and impossible fancies swept across her busy brain. 
 Suddenly she started ; her resolve was taken. She placed the 
 Will once more within the bureau ; and gliding to the window, 
 closed it, without noise, and drew the curtain over it, as if to 
 prevent all interruption from without. Then approaching the 
 bed once more, she was about to address her husband, when he 
 exclaimed impatiently, "What is the meaning of this mummery? 
 Are you going to make a scene for a melo-drama out of the 
 signing of a sheet of parchment, which I shall, very probably, 
 destroy the next time I sort my papers ; and only trouble 
 myself about to-night, because I have been worried upon the 
 subject until I am anxious to get rid of it altogether ?" 
 
 ** Bear with me one moment, my dear Charles," said the lady, 
 preserving all her self-possession for the great work which she 
 had in hand, and not suffering the impetuous ill-temper of the 
 invalid to ruffle her for an instant. " I will not try your patience 
 long. You say that I have been useful to you ; that I have 
 been submissive and obedient, and have saved you from the 
 perpetual and annoying contradictions of others. I am glad, 
 most glad, that I have been thus enabled to perform my duty ; 
 for I am as well aware as you can desire me to be that I have 
 done no more. And now will you forgive me, my dear Charles, 
 if I remind you that I have never yet ventured to make a 
 request of you ? You may tell me, and you will be right, that 
 you have, since my return home, left me Httle or nothing to 
 desire. I am fully conscious of that fact also ; but still I do not 
 think that you will refuse the first petition that I have ever 
 made to you, and I am about to risk it now." 
 
 " If it be anything reasonable," said Mr. Greville impatiently, 
 " it is quite possible that I may not ; but pray let us get it 
 over at once, for I am beginning to be weary of all this circum- 
 locution." 
 
 ** I would ask you, then, my dear love," murmured his wife, 
 as she again bent her knee beside his pillow, " I would ask you 
 not to leave your daughters penniless." 
 
 " Mistress Greville," said the invalid, in an accent of sup- 
 pressed rage, gnashing his teeth as he spoke, " is it your plea- 
 sure to mock me on ray sick-bed ? I have already told you, 
 madam, that I have made suitable provision for my widow, and 
 that I can do no more." 
 
 " But, indeed, indeed, you can do more, much more — all you 
 
208 THE WILL. 
 
 please, dear love, if you will only be guided tins once by me. 
 I do not ask you for money, Mr. Greville. You have already 
 provided nobly for me, nor can the girls want while I live ; 
 but, should I die " 
 
 " It is not so easy to send people out of the world as doctors 
 and nurses would fain have us believe," growled the only half 
 appeased patient, curious, in spite of himself, to learn the 
 meaning of a mystery that he could not fathom. " Phillin.ore 
 wanted to kill me off ten days ago ; and here I am, more likely 
 to live than I was five years back, although I have refused to 
 listen to his cursed croaking, or to follow his unpalatable advice. 
 I am better to-night, I am sure I am — and, therefore, if all 
 this rhodomontade is in any way connected with my Will Mrs. 
 Greville, tell me what you have to say at once, for I repeat that 
 it will soon be no better than waste paper ; as, since T have 
 felt so wonderfully better, I have remembered that it contains 
 half-a-dozen things which I shall alter." 
 
 " Then, if so, my love," said the lady, coaxingl}^ " I am sure 
 you will not hesitate to indulge me in my caprice, and I shall 
 explain it without further hesitation. I do not think that I 
 need waste more words upon the subject. I want you simply 
 to make a codicil to that Will, and to leave our dear girls 
 ^30,000 each." 
 
 "You are assuredly deranged, Mrs. Greville I" said the in- 
 valid, as he attempted to raise himself upon his elbow to look at 
 her more closely; but fell back again from excessive weakness. 
 ** You are most assuredly deranged I Have I not told you, 
 till I am weary of repeating the same words, that I have no- 
 thing save my personals to bequeath ? and yet you persist in 
 asking me to give my girls the fortunes of a duke's daughters I" 
 
 " Not to give them fortunes, my dear Mr. Greville, only to 
 append a codicil to your Will. Do you think it seemly or 
 fitting that your daughters should appear to be left portion- 
 less ?" 
 
 " But the money, madam ; where is the money to come from 
 with which you wish the young ladies to be endowed ?" 
 
 " Nay, nay, dear Charles, all this war of words is sheer folly, 
 let me have my way in this whim ; and surely you will do it 
 without further reluctance, when you remember that you have 
 >»ieclared the very Will itself will not, in all probability, be long 
 in existence." 
 
 We will not intrude further on this matrimonial tete-a-tete. 
 
THE WILL. 209 
 
 Let it suffice that Mr. Greville's Will was duly signed and wit- 
 nessed, and before ten o'clock that evening ; and that, mortifi- 
 cation having succeeded to the violent pangs by which he had 
 been previously assailed, the testator, after declaring once ever^ 
 five minutes that he felt better and easier than he had done for 
 months, was a corpse within eight-and-forty hours afterwards. 
 
 Sir John Shepperton, as the most intimate friend and associate 
 of the deceased, was summoned from town at the request of the 
 widow ; and it was with great but silent astonishment, that he 
 found himself enabled to congratulate the Honourable Mrs. 
 Greville on the fact, that her departed husband had compensated 
 nobly for his early neglect of his family, by securing to herself 
 a suitable provision for life, and by bequeathing to his daughters, 
 each the ample portion of £30,000. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was with considerably more pleasure than that afforded by 
 the contemplation of the fortunes of her daughters, that Mrs. 
 Greville found herself, by the will of her deceased husband, the 
 sole proprietrix of all his " personals." This at least was real 
 and tangible ; and as she moved, in all the solemn mockery of 
 woe, through the gorgeous apartments of Greville Lodge, she 
 found great consolation for the fact that she was compelled to 
 vacate the premises within three months of Mr. Greville's death, 
 in the consciousness that although house and grounds had ceased 
 to be her own, the " furniture and effects " could not fail to 
 realise a considerable sum, when consigned to the ivory hammer 
 of the auctioneer ; even without taking into consideration the 
 miscellaneous articles of taste and value which she might deem 
 it expedient to reserve, as certificates of the past, and resources 
 for the future. There was the miniature of the deceased in its 
 chased gold frame — the likeness was undeniable, a little flattered 
 perhaps, but the frame was beautiful. The widow could not 
 necessarily part from so very precious a relic of all that she had 
 lost. The family plate was what Mrs. Greville denominated in 
 \qt own pet phraseology, *'' a capital nest egg ; " the familv 
 coach was essential ; the horses were sold off at once ; and after 
 satisfying herself that her weekly outlay was unnecessarily great 
 at the Lodge, and that by leaving at once she might, to quote 
 
 p 
 
210 THE WILL. 
 
 herself once more, *' kill two birds with one stone," she decided, 
 at the close of her first month of widowhood, upon writing to the 
 proprietor of the house, and at once resigning its possession : 
 upon the plea of her reluctance to prevent his occupancy of the 
 premises, should such be his intention, and her desire that he 
 should have the opportunity (still only supposing that he might 
 be glad to do so) of securing such of the " fittings-up " of the 
 house and offices as he might wish to retain. 
 
 Nothing could possibly have been more civil, proper, and ex- 
 pedient on both sides. Mr. Adams, on the receipt of the lady's 
 letter, hastened to pay his respects, and to tender his thanks in 
 person ; for, being a moneyed man, and about to bring a bride to 
 the Lodge, he was naturally anxious that it should be spared the 
 profanation of a public sale. Mrs. Greville understood his posi- 
 tion at once ; and so did the clever agent who was called in on 
 her side to arrange the valuation of the property : a fact which 
 by no means injured the interests of the lady, who, after remov- 
 ing the thousand and one articles of vertu and nicknackery vv^hich 
 she decided on retaining, found herself in possession of the 
 gross sum of £3,000, realised by the remaining " personals " 
 and the well-stocked cellar of wine. 
 
 The next care was to discharge all the servants save her own 
 maid, the French suivante of her daughter, and the under- 
 butler. Mr. Greville had not burthened his last Will and Testa- 
 ment with any legacies ; even his favourite valet was discharged 
 with a month's wages in perspective : and then Mrs. Greville 
 had, as she remarked to her daughters, '' washed her hands of 
 the whole concern ; " and three days subsequently the family 
 coach was again upon the road, furnished with all its travelling 
 appliances of trunks, boots, and imperials, infinitely better and 
 more closely packed than when it had conveyed the fair trio 
 upon their first journey. 
 
 Great was the internal exultation of the party when their four 
 smoking posters were suddenly checked before the Imperial 
 Hotel at Cheltenham ; and " the Honourable Mrs. Greville," 
 her daughters, Mdlle. Justine, Mrs. Buskbody, and the staid- 
 looking Mr. Jenkins, alighted, amid the obsequious greetings 
 and officious services of half-a-dozen waiters, headed by the 
 bowing host, and his smiling wife. Nothing could be better. 
 The lozenge upon the carriage panels, the deep mourning of 
 the whole party, the trim-looking, pretty little souhrette, and 
 the perfectly respectable middle-aged air of the English servants, 
 
THE WILL. 211 
 
 sufficed at once to convince all present of the excellent position 
 of the widow and lier beautiful daughters ; and ere they had 
 thoroughly settled themselves in the handsome suite of apart- 
 ments selected by the admirable tact of the elder lady, Mrs. 
 Greville had already begun to congratulate herself upon the 
 wisdom of her arrangements. 
 
 They had evidently created " a sensation ; " that was a great 
 object — for first impressions are always important. She had 
 selected Cheltenham in preference to any other husband-pro- 
 mising place, because, although still teeming with very eligible 
 invalids and valetudinary nabobs, she was aware that, as far as 
 regards fashion, Cheltenham had been shelved for some time, 
 and was consequently no whit too gay or dissipated for her 
 recent state of widowhood ; and that the girls would have a fair 
 chance of getting off, without any risk of reflection either upon 
 her prudence, or the glaring unfitness of a frequented watering- 
 place. 
 
 To the young ladies themselves all places were necessarily 
 equally agreeable, if we except only the village in Hertford- 
 shire which had so long been their home ; and of which they 
 retained certain memories by no means consonant to their pre- 
 sent tastes and pretensions. It is true that the widow once 
 more impressed upon them the necessity of prudence and 
 economy — words which during her sojourn at Greville Lodge 
 she had suffered to fall into utter disuse ; but the fair listeners 
 were well aware that even these obnoxious terms no longer 
 bore the same meaning in which they had originally been pre- 
 sented to their attention ; and they consequently only smiled 
 and nodded, and smoothed down their glossy hair, and arranged 
 their mourning collars, and looked pretty and placid. Never- 
 theless, Mrs. Greville was serious. She bad, as she rejoiced 
 to reflect, plenty of ready money for the moment ; but hotels, 
 and marriageable daughters, and second tables, are all expensive 
 things ; and if neither of the girls should marry during the 
 " golden age," she remembered that they must all ultimately 
 fall back upon the fourteen hundred a year — her own fourteen 
 hundred a year ; or — and this reflection was worse than the 
 first — if she herself should see fit to run the risk of matrimony 
 a second time (and who could beheve that the opportunity 
 would be wanting to a fine -looking, well-dowried widow of 
 forty -five ?) the explanations which must inevitably ensue could 
 scarcely fail to ruin her prospects. 
 
212 THE WILL. 
 
 Principle is a plain word, but its decided meaning is by no 
 means so tangible. Mrs. Greville piqued herself, as she said, 
 upon " always acting on principle ; " and such being the case 
 she commenced her operations for the forthcoming campaign, 
 by desiring her daughters, on any and every occasion, to 
 declare that they were (as they knew only too well was in- 
 deed the case) wholly dependent upon their mother. " Do 
 not shrink from this confession, my dears," she said, in con- 
 clusion, after impressing upon them the expediency of the line 
 of conduct ; " rather, on the contrary, make a parade of it 
 on every occasion ; for by so doing you not only preserve your 
 own veracity and dignity intact, but you disarm the anger of 
 those who, self-deceived, may feel it their interest to affect to 
 yield credence to your words, when, in point of fact, they only 
 imagine that you make the assertion from a romantic fancy of 
 being loved for your own sake, and not married for your money. 
 That there are individuals who are weak enough to act in this 
 way I well know ; but in such cases the fault will not be ours, 
 if they find themselves disappointed. At all events, our path is 
 plain, I have explained to you what is clearly your duty, and 
 what I beg also to assure you is most undeniably your interest. 
 It now remains for you to obey me, and to do your best to 
 provide for yourselves, while I still possess the power to keep up 
 an appearance calculated to assist your views. For the present 
 I cannot, of course, go into any society, nor indeed venture 
 into public at all, save in the pump-room, where my weak 
 health will explain my presence ; but as it is by no means a 
 part of my plan to shut you up in an hotel drawing-room, 
 where you can neither see nor be seen, you must take a quiet 
 walk every day under the escort of Jenkins and Baskbody ; 
 and I trust that I need not remind you of your deep mourning. 
 More than this, it will be impossible for us to do at present ; so 
 we must live on the hope that, in some way or other, we may 
 make one or two eligible acquaintances, under whose chaperon- 
 age I may safely permit you, before many weeks are over, to 
 enter into the gaieties of the place, until I am myself able to 
 become your companion." 
 
 The acute reader will now perfectly comprehend the whole 
 Bcope and nature of Mrs. Greville's tactics. The effect which 
 was produced by the foregoing harangue upon the minds and 
 feelings of her daughters, it would be worse tlian idle to explain. 
 They knew that they were handsome ; their worldly mother 
 
THE WILL. * 213 
 
 had made them early acquainted with the fact, and had im- 
 pressed upon them all its importance. They had been flattered 
 and pleased at the idea of passing for rich heiresses — for they 
 had not been deceived for a moment into the belief that they 
 were really such ; but they at once felt that their mother was 
 right, and promised obedience the more readily, that they were 
 well-inclined to trust to the power of that beauty which they 
 had heard so much and so constantly extolled. 
 
 As Mrs. Greville sank back luxuriously in her well-cushioned 
 hergere, and spread abroad the folds of her crape -covered bom- 
 bazeen, she indulged unreservedly in a self-approving reverie. 
 She had acted upon principle I No one could accuse her of 
 attempting unworthily to deceive. The fortunate suitor who, 
 having won the fair hand of either of her girls, received, on his 
 application for the £30,000 bequeathed by the Will of Mr. 
 Greville, a reply of ''no effects," could not blame her 1 Would 
 he not have been told over and over again, botli by herself and 
 her children, that they had no fortune ? And could she be 
 answerable for his unbeHef ? The good lady smiled triumphantly 
 to herself, however, as she remembered that her servants were not 
 undeceived — it was no part of her policy that they should be so; 
 and really, if people would question waiilng-maids and serving- 
 men, they deserved to receive false information. And thus the 
 affair was mentally arranged between Mrs. Greville and her 
 conscience ; and having eased her mind of the burthen which 
 had oppressed it, the worthy lady yielded to an inclination which 
 was frequently her " custom i' the afternoon," and soon slept the 
 eleep of the virtuous. 
 
 There is a trite, old apophthegm, which assures us that 
 Fortune favours the bold ; and, assuredly, our friend, Mrs. Gre- 
 ville, proved no exception to the rule. How, indeed, could she 
 fail, when all had been so admirably arranged ? The widowed 
 and handsome mother, seen only transiently when her sable veil 
 was lifted for an instant in the pump-room, or as her well- 
 appointed carriage passed along the street ; the two beautiful 
 fiisters, looking only the more lovely from the interest inspired 
 by their deep mourning dresses, walking pensively along, arm 
 in arm, followed by the grave footman, and guarded by the 
 starched and somewhat sour-looking duenna. No effort was 
 made by any of the party to form acquaintance, or to mingle in 
 the frivolities of the butterfly-crowd about them. Wiiat could 
 be more undeniably correct or desirable ? And then, when tho 
 
214: THE WILL. 
 
 position of Mrs. Greville, and the beauty and fortune of her 
 daughters were considered — for Buskbody and Jenkins had 
 exchanged all the family secrets for sundry savoury suppers and 
 social cups of tea, shared, indifferently, with the head servants 
 of tlie other hotel guests — who could desire more ehgible 
 acquaintance ? 
 
 " And did the man positively assert, from his own knowledge, 
 that these Miss Grevilles were rich heiresses, ColHns ? " asked 
 Lady Dampmore, of her woman, as she sat before her toilette- 
 glass, putting the last touch of rouge to a cheek already 
 out-blooming nature. *' I always receive such reports with 
 great reservation." 
 
 " I can assure you, my lady," was the rejoinder, *' that Mr. 
 Jenkins can't in no way be mistaken, for all the upper servants 
 were by to hear the poor gentleman's Will read ; and although 
 Mr. Jenkins is only the Honourable Mrs. Greville's own man 
 here, he was under-butler at the Lodge, and so was present 
 himself when the lawyer gave it out, as plain as I'm a-telHng it to 
 your ladyship. The widow got a good fortune of so much a year, 
 with thousands of pounds ready money, and heaps of pictures 
 and silver ; and the young ladies jg30,000 a piece, all inde- 
 pendent like of their mamma." 
 
 "They are very handsome girls, at all events," half-soliloquized 
 the lady, settling her turban a little further back, to give better 
 effect to a cluster of glossy curls, which did Isidore infinite 
 credit ; " it is really a pity that they should be shut out from 
 everything on account of their mother's mourning. I have a 
 great mind to call upon them. I must take it into consideration. ^ 
 Is the carriage round, Collins ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lady ; and here is your ladyship's gloves and 
 fan." 
 
 And Lady Dampmore hastened where her rubber awaited 
 her. 
 
 By some strange fatahty, the respectable person whose 
 acquaintance we have so abruptly made, was, upon the evening 
 in question, singularly absent. She was certainly, if not the 
 most scientific, at least the most successful whist-player, gene- 
 rally speaking, at that period sojourning in the card-loving town 
 of Cheltenham ; yet, on this occasion, she trumped her partner's 
 "best card, misdealt, and finally revoked. It was enormously 
 rexatious, as she herself declared, and as the unfortunate gen- 
 tleman who was her vh-d-vis had all along been thinking, it 
 
THE WILL. 215 
 
 is a melancholy truth, however, that neqiie semper arcum tendit 
 Apollo ; and even so the well-practised Lady Dampmore in her 
 turn failed. She was more collected when, on her return from 
 the rooms, she seated herself at her desk, and, before she pre- 
 pared for rest, wrote and sealed a letter, which bore the address 
 of— 
 
 '' Sir Frederic Dampmore, Bart., 
 Albany, London j'' 
 and which ran as follows : — 
 
 " My dear Fred, — You well know that I am always alive 
 to your interests ; and well it is for you that I am so, or you 
 would not now be in chambers at the Albany. However, your 
 debts are paid, and you have promised not to game again : so I 
 will not aggravate old grievances. We are going on much as 
 usual. Two of our best hands have left ; but we are always 
 sure of tolerable players at the crown table. My last month's 
 gains did not quite pay my bill here, but I cannot complain, 
 upon the whole. I am convinced that I could not do better 
 anywhere else. And now to business. Among our latest arrivals 
 in the house, are a widow with her two daughters ; sprigs of 
 nobility, but all solid and satisfactory/. The girls are uncom- 
 monly handsome, and have fine fortunes : £30,000 apiece, their 
 servants say, but this is, I have no doubt, an exaggeration ; if 
 it should be only ^820,000, however, situated as you are, it 
 would answer the purpose very well. You had better run 
 down, unexpectedly, and look about you ; but don't come for two 
 or three days, by which time I shall have made their acquaint- 
 ance. At present they know nobody ; so I shall make my 
 residence in the same house with them an excuse for calling. 
 Take my advice, and don't let this chance slip through your 
 fingers. 
 
 " Your affectionate mother, 
 
 " Dorcas Dampmore. 
 " Imperial Hotel, Cheltenham." 
 
 It was with no slight satisfaction, that on the morning after 
 this maternal epistle was written, Mrs. Greville received the 
 gracious and gratifying visit of the amiable Lady Dampmore ; 
 who, could she have read the heart of the widow, might have 
 spared herself two-thirds of the elaboration of excuse and ex- 
 
216 THE WILL. 
 
 planation with whicli she accompanied her advent. Never was 
 guest more welcome. Mrs. Greville was beginning to weary- 
 sadly of her solitary state ; and as Buskbody had received a hint 
 from her new friend and fellow-abigail Collins, that her lady was 
 about to call upon her mistress, nothing could be better arranged 
 than the drawing-room of the mourning recluse. Lady Damp- 
 more was positively dazzled by the waste of hixury around her, 
 amid which was not forgotten the precious miniature in its 
 frame of filigreed gold. They were both clever women, but the 
 baronet's mother was no match for her new acquaintance. Lady 
 Dampmore had all the courage of Mrs. Greville, but she handled 
 her speculations roughly, and wanted the delicate tact and 
 touch of the new-made rehct. Had they exchanged roles, for 
 example, Mrs. Greville would never have mentioned, during her 
 lirst visit, the existence of her son ; while Lady Dampmore, on 
 the contrary, expatiated on his numerous excellencies, and 
 lamented over her hard fate that she never could induce him to 
 give her any of his company, and must not venture to expect 
 even a glimpse of him during her stay at Cheltenham : a place 
 of which she declared he detested the very mention. Mrs. 
 Greville most kindly condoled with her upon the privation, and 
 almost before her visiior left the room, was busied in marvelling 
 within herself how many days would probably pass before the 
 young baronet arrived, and which of the girls he would prefer. 
 The war of wits was by no means equal. 
 
 Meanwhile the Miss Grevilles sat by in graceful siler.ce. 
 Arabella was sorting silks, and looking occupied behind an 
 embroidery -frame, wherein was stretched an elaborate piece of 
 laborious idleness, admirably executed by one of the young 
 people of Mrs. Wilks's establishment, which passed for an undeni- 
 able evidence of her own taste and industry ; while Blanche, 
 Beated under the shadow of her harp, might have passed for a 
 modern St. CeciHa. Altogether, the effect produced upon Lady 
 Dampmore was everything that could be wished ; and as she 
 traversed the gallery to regain her own apartment, she gave 
 herself considerable credit for the promptitude which had led 
 her to secure so tempting an opportunity of retrieving the 
 shattered fortunes of her roue son. 
 
 The habits of the Greville family were now completely 
 changed. Nothing could be more considerate and obliging than 
 Lady Dampmore ; she sat an hour or two every day with her 
 lew friends; and it was amusing to see with what perseverance 
 
THE WILL. 217 
 
 each lady sought to draw the other out, and how sldlfully Mrs. 
 Greville confined all her communications to her period of luxury 
 and splendour. These confidential communions afforded her, 
 moreover, the opportunity for which she had long watched, of 
 lamenting that her poor girls had been reared in habits of expense 
 which, under existing circumstances, they ought not to indulge. 
 Lady Dampmore was at first a little startled ; but the remark 
 had been made with such a happy, tranquil, satisfied smile, that 
 she answered it by another equally unembarrassed, and merely 
 replied that if every one thought like herself, the Miss Grevilles 
 would have nothing to desire. Then there were always a 
 couple of seats in her carriage at the service of her " young 
 friends ;" and on the fifth morning of their happy intimacy, she 
 actually carried them oft' to a concert, despite the well-acted 
 reluctance and disclaimers of their mother, who entreated "dear 
 Lady Dampmore" not to inoculate her poor girls with a love of 
 dissipation. 
 
 And thus a week passed by, and both the elder ladies, each 
 in the recesses of her own breast, began to wonder at the pro- 
 tracted absence of the much-desired baronet. On the eighth 
 morning he terminated all doubts and fears by his presence, but, 
 much to the dismay and dissatisfaction of his lady-mother, he 
 did not come alone ; and, as if to annoy her still further, his 
 companion was the handsome Charles Lorraine, a young bar- 
 rister of family and talent, hkely to turn the heads of half the 
 young ladies in Cheltenham. 
 
 " Don't look so black. Lady D.," was the first salutation of 
 the affectionate son, as the friends shook hands with the dis- 
 comfited manoeuvrer : ** Didn't you write word that there were 
 two of them ? Surely you never meant me to marry them 
 both ! so I thought it only fair to give a friend a chance ; and 
 if we can't agree about the choice, we can have a cast of the 
 dice, and decide it in a business-hke manner." 
 
 " Dampmore is as hare-brained as ever, you see, my dear 
 madam," remarked Lorraine, as he watched the deepening frown 
 upon the brow of the lady. " Do not, however, indulge him by 
 putting a moment's faith in his rhodomontade. My errand in 
 Cheltenham is not to marry a wife, but to visit a sick friend ; and 
 as your son was also purposing a run down here, he good- 
 naturedly postponed his journey for a couple of days in order 
 that we might travel together." 
 
 This piece of information did not by any means tend towards 
 
218 THE WILL. 
 
 the restoration of Lady Darapraore's placidity. What mischief 
 might not the absence of those two days have done I And 
 then, as she also reflected, the sick friend could not absorb all 
 Mr. Lorraine's time ; and what chance would her sallow, at- 
 tenuated, sickly -looking son have against such a rival ? It was 
 really too bad ! Remedy, however, there was none ; the evil 
 was done ; and thus her good genius soon whispered that she 
 had better make the best of the matter, and not irritate Sir 
 Frederic into opposition — a feat very easily accomplished — by 
 any exhibition of displeasure. 
 
 Then, again, what her son had remarked was certainly a 
 fact, he could not marry them both; and his title was something 
 of a set-off against Lorraine's handsome face ; a second flirta- 
 tion might also cause a diversion, and prevent the attention of 
 Mrs. Greville from being too exclusively fixed upon the move- 
 ments of the baronet, and her mind from dwelling undividedly 
 upon his circumstances, a study which would inevitably, as Lady 
 Dampmore believed, induce some very inconvenient inquiries 
 from the mother of the co-heiresses; and in all probability 
 break off the match. Poor Lady Dampmore, however, clever 
 as she was, did not understand Mrs. Greville. The latter lady 
 was by no means disposed to be categorical or curious upon 
 such points ; she simply " acted up to her principles," and was 
 as anxious as Lady Dampmore herself to avoid all unnecessary 
 explanation. 
 
 An affectionate little note from the happy mother of a newly- 
 arrived and unexpected son was soon dispatched to the widow 
 and her daughters, entreating them to take their coffee in Lady 
 Dampmore's drawing-room, quite en famille ; and was accom- 
 panied by the assurance that Sir Frederic, even upon the mere 
 description of her new friends, was most eager to make their 
 acquaintance ; and would, had she encouraged him in so ultra 
 a measure, have already called to pay his respects. In conclu- 
 sion, Lady Dampmore declared herself to be so very, very 
 happy, that she required only the presence of dear Mrs. Greville 
 and her sweet girls, to complete her satisfaction : and in this, 
 at least, she was sincere, for '' the Duke " himself never longed 
 more ardently for the moment when he could exclaim " Up, 
 boys, and at them 1" than did Lady Dampmore for that in 
 which she should salute one of the young beauties as her 
 daughter. " Dear Mrs. Greville " was, however, quite aware 
 that both she and " her sweet girls " were seen to much greater 
 
 1 
 
THE WILL. 219 
 
 advantage in her own apartments, surrounded by tlie luxurious 
 elegances of the dismantled Lodge, than they coukl possibly be 
 elsewhere. At home they were a family group set in a costly 
 frame ; abroad they were still attractive, it is true, but they 
 lost the advantage of all the silent implications of wealth which 
 helped forward her projects better than words ; and, such being 
 the case, she replied by disclaiming the possibility of even 
 visiting " dear Lady Dampmore " at so early a period of her 
 widowhood ; and requesting that, waiving all ceremony, the 
 party would do her the favour to meet in her rooms, instead of 
 attempting to lure her from what she felt to be her duty. 
 
 No hesitation to comply with so agreeable and reasonable a 
 request was even affected ; and accordingly, at nine o'clock, 
 Sir Frederic and his friend were introduced, and most grace- 
 fully and cordially received by the widow and her daughters. 
 Arabella and Blanche did their duty admirably, for they both 
 looked beautiful ; and Mr. Lorraine was soon ten fathoms deep 
 in love with the majestic person and delicious voice of the elder 
 sister. He was himself an excellent musician, with a voice 
 rarely equalled in amateur life ; and while Sir Frederic lounged 
 listlessly on the sofa, keeping up w^hat he denominated a con- 
 versation with Mrs. Greville, and occasionally addressing a 
 sleepy remark to the other members of the party, his friend 
 was singing duets with Arabella, and promising to forward to 
 her, on his return to town, as much new music as would occupy 
 her for the next six months. The niother bit her Hps, and tried 
 to look unconcerned ; but the annoyance of Lady Dampmore 
 was beyond all concealment. 
 
 Little, however, availed all her generalship ; the signals were 
 disregarded. The long lank limbs of her amiable son were 
 stretched comfortably across the carpet, his mouth was close to 
 the ear of Mrs. Greville, and the only perceptible symptom 
 which he gave of enacting the role of a modern Coclebs, was 
 the occasional distension of his large, light, meaningless eyes, 
 as he turned them upon Miss Greville and his friend. He 
 seemed to envy their rapid advances towards intimacy, although 
 he was too indolent to emulate them ; nor did he show the 
 slightest animation until his excellent mother hinted something 
 about ecarte (at which patrician amusement, soit dit en passant, 
 she contrived, before the party broke up, to ease her hostess of 
 five guineas), when he suddenly awoke as if touched by an 
 enchanter's wand, and proposed to try his fortune against 
 Blanche. 
 
220 THE WILL. 
 
 Poor pretty Blanche I Inexperienced as she was, she was 
 quite conscious, from the comments of her mother on the 
 receipt of the note which had collected together their im- 
 promptu circle, that it was an experimental meeting ; and 
 although she had, with the natural instinct of a free fresh 
 nature, turned with admiration to the beauty of Mr. Lorraine, 
 she had nevertheless been tutored in the school of expediency 
 sufficiently long, to be quite aware that Sir Frederic was 
 '* a great catch," in spite of his saucer eyes, his sallow com- 
 plexion, and his indifferent and almost insolent insouciance. 
 Nay, so well do we understand the humour of women, even the 
 youngest and the fairest, that we are not quite satisfied that 
 the last negative quality quoted, was not the surest triumph 
 of the baronet. In courtesy and manner he could not compete 
 with his friend more successfully than in mind and person ; and 
 the very attempt at rivalry would consequently have been pre- 
 meditated failure : whereas, a woman considers it a triumph to 
 her beauty when she succeeds in making a mass of inert matter, 
 like Lady Dampmore's son, give signs of life ; and accordingly 
 Blanche very wisely did not pause to consider whether it was 
 herself, or the cards, which had awakened the gentleman from 
 his trance, but very meekly rang the bell, which he suffered her 
 to do without changing his position, and prepared to administer 
 to his amusement in his own way. 
 
 It is possible that some young beauties might have felt dis- 
 posed to rebel in so extreme a case ; but it must be remembered 
 that Miss Blanche Greville had served a very stringent and 
 effective apprenticeship under her honourable and egotistical 
 papa, when she had imbibed very magnificent notions of the 
 privileges of the other sex ; and that she had, moreover, certain 
 very disagreeable reminiscences of the nature of her expecta- 
 tions : therefore, all things considered, she comported herself in 
 a very prudent and praiseworthy manner, and proved herself 
 quite worthy of the admirable tuition of her exemplary mother. 
 So well, indeed, did she act upon the instructions which she had 
 received, that she commenced her gambling campaign by object- 
 ing to the points proposed by her adversary, who, anxious not to 
 lose his time entirely, even in the society of a beautiful girl, who 
 might hereafter become his wife, — for he had as yet by no 
 means decided that he cared which of the fair sisters he might 
 honour with his hand, provided he secured the fortune of one of 
 them, — thought it as well to win a few pounds by way of keep- 
 
THE WILL. 221 
 
 ing himself awake, especially where money was so evidently no 
 object; nor did she confine herself to a simple objection, for she 
 very heroically accounted for her reluctance by saying that she 
 considered it a point of principle that girls without fortune 
 should not indulge in high play. The little expletive fell 
 innoxious, however, for Lady Dampmore had already men- 
 tioned to her son this " peculiarity of the Greville girls, and 
 their evident inclination to be loved for their own sakes." So 
 Sir Frederic only smiled one of his inane and languid smiles, and 
 left the points to her own discretion. 
 
 When the party broke up, the effects of this delicate policy 
 were highly favourable to Blanche ; for the gentleman was, 
 contrary to all his calculations, a considerable loser. Ecarte had 
 been one of the valetudinary amusements of Mr. Greville, and 
 by dint of practice the ladies of his family were great proficients 
 in the game. Their mamma had judged it expedient to lose to 
 Lady Dampmore; for she felt that the five guineas which she 
 disbursed were by no means thrown away ; but Blanche, with 
 the natural enthusiam of her age, threw all her energies into her 
 occupation ; nor could she have played her cards better under 
 the circumstances, — we beg it to be distinctly understood that 
 in using this expression we do not even mean to imply a pun, — 
 for the astonishment of Sir Frederic at the skill of his fair 
 antagonist was so great, that it enhanced immensely his respect 
 for her intellect. Such a wife, properly managed, as he promptly 
 reflected, would be a fortune in herself. As she won game after 
 game, he looked at her more attentively, and remarked that her 
 eyes were *' darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," that her hair was 
 like threads of gold, and encircled her calm, fair brow like a 
 glory ; that her arms and her hands were faultless ; and that, in 
 short, her £30,000 thrown into the balance, she was the very 
 wufe suited to him. 
 
 Lorraine, meanwhile, had entirely forgotten that Arabella was 
 an heiress ; he did not even heed her disclaimer when some 
 allusion was made to the subject of money : he was dazzled and 
 entranced. She was so very lovely, so very graceful, so very 
 musical ; he almost wished that he had known her as many 
 months as hours, that he might have flung himself at her feet, 
 and poured out all his passion. 
 
 A happy woman was Mrs. Greville when she sought her 
 pillow that night. To be sure, Arabella should have captivated 
 the baronet, but who could control destiny ; and it was decidedly 
 
222 THE WILL. 
 
 a great stroke of good fortune that they had each secured a suitor 
 at once ; for that the gentlemen loere both caught, she did not 
 permit herself to doubt. A few awkward misgivings as to the 
 final result of her policy did indeed somewhat damp the self- 
 gratulation of the lady, but she put them aside. Sufficient for 
 the day was the evil thereof; and the girls had behaved 
 admirably I 
 
 The reflections of the rest of the party were less satisfactory. 
 "With all her anxiety for her son, and the natural tendency of a 
 mother to overlook his defects, Lady Dampmore could not con- 
 ceal from herself that neither in person nor manner was he 
 worthy of either of the elegant, and accomplished, and beautiful 
 Miss Grevilles. He was ruined, too ; his estate heavily mort- 
 gaged, and his word pledged for debts which he could not pay 
 off for years. Had the fair sisters passed only one season in 
 town, the case would have been altogether hopeless, for they 
 must have heard much which by no means redounded to his 
 credit. It was in their ignorance only that she had trust ; and 
 she felt, moreover, that if Sir Frederic's suit was to be brought 
 to a happy issue, it must be principally through her own 
 agency, for that he was far too indolent to exert himself, even 
 in so extreme a case as this. She remembered the different 
 bearing of Lorraine ; the undisguised admiration which had 
 brought a flush to the cheek of Arabella, and given a tremor to 
 her voice ; and she sighed to think that his success, at least, 
 was beyond doubt. Despite all difficulties, however, Lady 
 Dampmore felt that the affair must be brought to a conclusion 
 with all possible and decent speed ; some busy London friend 
 might warn Mrs. Greville before her daughter was committed, 
 and then all her exertion and anxiety would have been vain : — 
 
 " Happy's the -wooing 
 That's not long a-doing," 
 
 murmured the unfortunate lady to herself; "and assuredly if 
 this is long ' a-doing,' it will never be done ; so I must refuse 
 Sir Frederic money the next time he asks for it, and that will 
 put him on the qui vive, and settle the matter at once." 
 
 " So much for running down to Cheltenham ! " mused Lor- 
 raine, as he flung himself into a chair in his dressing-room ; "I 
 have certainly taken leave of my reason. How can I hope 
 that such an angel as Miss Greville " (N.B. — Women are all 
 angels with men in love) *' would bestow herself on me ? — I 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 223 
 
 have family, it is true, but her blood is as good as mine ; — 
 talents, they tell me, but she is all mind — it breathes in every 
 note of her sweet and exquisite voice ; — my career is scarcely 
 yet commenced, my income is limited, and she is enshrined, as 
 indeed she ought to be, in indulgence and luxury — and then, 
 her money — ay, that vile money ! That at once overthrows 
 every hope : — Mrs. Greville is a woman of the world ; she will 
 never listen to me, even should Arabella be induced to do so. 
 I will leave Cheltenham to-morrow. I will see General Spencer 
 in the morning, and start by the mail at night. I will go back 
 to my solitary chambers, and forget her I " 
 
 '' DeviHsh deal of trouble, this love-making I " muttered Sir 
 Frederic Dampmore, as, with his hands thrust into his trou- 
 sers pockets, he paced up and down his room, pausing at 
 intervals to swallow a draught of hot brandy-and-water, from 
 a large tumbler which stood upon his dressing-table ; " Bore, 
 too, staying at this confounded place, where there's nothing 
 rational to do. I'd give her up at once, if it wasn't for the 
 £30,000. Not but the girl's devihsh pretty— and clever, too, 
 in her way. Mighty quick at the cards. Egad, she's nearly 
 cleaned me out ; and Lady D. isn't pleased after all. Says I 
 didn't exert myself; after sitting quietly for two hours, and 
 losing my money like a pigeon. There's no satisfying some 
 people. However, I must try what I can do, and Lorraine 
 must speak a good word for me ; that's only fair, as I brought 
 him down." 
 
 And so Sir Frederic Dampmore went to bed. 
 
 " Well, Arabella, what think you of our new friends ? '* 
 asked Miss Blanche Greville of her sister as soon as the two 
 beautiful girls found themselves tete-d-tete in their own apartment. 
 
 " Nay, Blanche ; what think you of them ? " equivocally 
 retorted her sister; "you are the person who engrossed the 
 coveted baronet. This friend, you know, was a mere super- 
 numerary, whom we may never see again." 
 
 Blanche laughed and pouted, as she repHed, carelessly, " Well, 
 then, if you ask my opinion, I consider the coveted baronet a 
 stick ; and, moreover, a very ugly one. As rough as an Irish- 
 man's shillelagh, as stiff as a marshal's baton, and as unwieldly 
 as the staff of a drum-major. A mass of ill-compounded 
 matter, as inferior to his dear, delightful, lovable mother as one 
 human being can possibly be to another. I like Mr. Lorraine 
 a thousand times better." 
 
224 THE WILL. 
 
 Arabella blushed ; and her fine brows contracted with an 
 expression very like annoyance. 
 
 " Do not be angry, Arry, dear," pursued the younger sister ; 
 " you have most decidedly made a conquest, and I congratulate 
 
 you — but, as for mjj Cimon " and she shrugged her pretty 
 
 shoulders ; " I don't really think that, even all things considered, 
 I shall be able to make up my mind to it." 
 
 ** You are jumping very hastily at a conclusion, Blanche," 
 said her sister ; " neither of the gentlemen in question may have 
 an idea of us." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said the young beauty, as carelessly as before ; 
 " and if they have not, I shall be sorry for you, Arry — I should 
 have been sorry for myself if I had attracted the young 
 barrister, for I should not think that there can be many 
 Lorraines in the world ; but, as far as regards myself, I am 
 heart-whole." 
 
 "And I, Blanche ? do you mean to imply that I am not 
 equally so ?" 
 
 " I imply nothing, fair sister ; only I cannot forget that this 
 is the first occasion on M'hich either of us has been an exclusive 
 object of attention to the other sex ; and I am quite sure that 
 had I been in your position this evening, I should not have 
 come unscathed from the trial." 
 Arabella was silent. 
 
 ** Heigho I " resumed Blanche, as she removed the comb from 
 her magnificent hair, which fell like a cloud of gold almost to 
 her knees ; '' they say that we are very pretty girls, Arabella ; 
 and it is well that it is so, as it is our only chance of being 
 commonly comfortable in our marriage state ; for it is certain 
 that the men who marry us will most decidedly burn their 
 fingers." 
 
 " We have now come to the point, my dear Blanche," said 
 Miss Greville, in a tone of deep and unaffected feeling, throwing 
 herself back into her chair, and pressing her small hand heavily 
 upon her forehead ; "I have thought, for the first time, during 
 this eventful evening most seriously of our position, and I feel 
 it to be an ignoble one, Blanche ; mean and unworthy ; an 
 existence of acted falsehood and systematic deceit." 
 ** What can you possibly be talking of, Arabella ? " 
 ** Of ourselves, my dear sister — of Mrs. Greville's husband- 
 hunting daughters. Do not be angry, Blanche ; but listen to 
 ine patiently. I am not about to speak harshly of our mother. 
 
THE WILL. 225 
 
 We will hope that she is doing what she conceives to be 
 her duty ; but the last few hours have taught me that she has 
 mistaken her path ; your eyes are not yet opened, for neither 
 your heart nor your imagination are touched. I will confess to 
 you that such is not my own case ; nor will I longer affect 
 bhndness to the effect which I produced to-night upon Mr. 
 Lorraine. Blanche, he shall not be deceived I I already feel 
 that I would rather never see him again." 
 
 *' How very absurd ! " said the younger sister, pettishly ; '* I 
 presume that you followed mamma's instructions, and told him 
 that we had no money." 
 
 " I did — but do you, in your heart, imagine that he believed 
 the statement, Blanche ? Can you conscientiously say, that 
 when we were so instructed, it was intended that we should be 
 believed ?" 
 
 " I am no casuist, Arabella ; I only know that if we are 
 not married while the ready money lasts, and are condemned to 
 become pensioners on mamma, we shall lead a most miserable 
 life: so, zogue la galere, say I ; I am not responsible for the con- 
 sequences of a policy which I did not originate." 
 
 " I would fain hear you reason differently, my dear Blanche," 
 was the subdued reply ; " as for myself, my resolution is taken. 
 I shall seriously and positively undeceive Mr. Lorraine, before 
 I suffer his attentions to become more marked. As yet he is 
 not committed, nor shall he be made the victim of my unhappy 
 position." 
 
 " Mamma w^ill never forgive you, and you will ruin me." 
 
 " Do not say so, Blanche ; I am convinced that I shall, on 
 the contrary, save you. Mamma's displeasure I must support 
 as I best can ; but my resolution is irrevocable." 
 
 " We had better say good night, at once, Arabella," broke in 
 Blanche ; " my temper will not hold out much longer against 
 your folly : " and the first cold kiss that had evc-r passed 
 between the sisters, was given and returned. 
 
 Poor Miss Greville wept herself to sleep. She believed that 
 her tears were caused by the effort which she was about to 
 make in opposing her mother for the first time ; she was not 
 herself aware how deeply the handsome person and devoted 
 attentions of Lorraine had touched her heart. Her only con- 
 solation arose from the conviction that her decision was a proper 
 one ; and she strove to believe that all might yet end well. 
 Blanche, meanwhile, fell asleep, half ashamed of her own argu- 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE WILL. 
 
 merits, and half angry with her sister for raising the doubt by 
 which they had been caused. Could their mother have over- 
 heard their dialogue, she would not have closed her eyes 
 throughout the night. 
 
 The next day was one of gaiety ; in the morning, the party 
 drove out in Lady Dampmore's barouche ; when, despite all the 
 entreaties of the two elder ladies, Sir Frederic insisted on 
 mounting the box, and exhibiting his skill as a whip ; upon 
 which Mr. Lorraine, true to his prudential resolve of the pre- 
 vious night, volunteered to bear him company. The servants 
 then mounted the rumble ; and, greatly to the annoyance of 
 Lady Dampmore, this expedition, for all the purposes which it 
 had been intended to further, was a decided failure. 
 
 A late dinner had just been brought to a conclusion when, 
 greatly to the surprise of all assembled, Mr. Lorraine rose, and 
 apologising for his abruptness, announced his departure by the 
 mail, which was about to start in ten minutes, and he had still 
 some arrangements to make. Mrs. Greville bit her hps with 
 mortification ; Lady Dampmore smiled her regrets ; and Blanche 
 glanced furtively towards her sister ; Sir Frederic uttered 
 something very like an oath, and rousing himself into energy, 
 began to remonstrate vehemently with his friend ; and, mean- 
 while. Miss Greville sat by, calm, pale, and apparently unmoved ; 
 but she was, nevertheless, smitten to the heart. She felt, 
 even although she had known him only for a few hours, that 
 Lorraine had trifled with her ; and the natural dignity of her 
 sex prevented all betrayal of the internal struggle. 
 
 All the baronet's arguments, if, indeed, his wordy objections 
 deserve to be so denominated, produced no effect upon his 
 friend ; Lorraine believed that he was acting honourably towards 
 Arabella, while he was securing his own safety, and accord- 
 ingly, making his leave-taking as brief as courtesy would 
 permit, he hurried from the apartment, and, by a violent effort, 
 tore himself away from the presence of the only woman whom he 
 had ever felt disposed to love. 
 
 The field was now left free to Sir Frederic ; and nothing 
 could have served him better with Mrs. Greville than the 
 departure of his friend. She became so nervous lest he should 
 follow the erratic example, that she petted and praised him, 
 until he began seriously to ponder within himself whether 
 the mother, ** with her hundreds a year, and thousands in ready 
 money, with silver, wine, and pictures," might not be a better 
 
THE WILL. 227 
 
 speculation than one of the daughters with £30,000. " The 
 widow," as he told Lady Dampmore, to her extreme conster- 
 nation, " was still a very fine animal, and knew the world better 
 than the girls ; nor did he believe, from what he had seen of 
 her, that she would stick at a thing or two, which, all circum- 
 stances considered, might be quite as well." 
 
 Lady Dampmore had no alternative but to praise the grace 
 of Arabella and the beauty of Blanche, and to remind him that 
 whoever married Mrs. Greville before her daughters were dis- 
 posed of,, would be saddled with them as a matter of course, 
 until they at least were of age ; which, accustomed as they were 
 to every description of luxury, would be by no means a trifling 
 deduction from the lady's income. " Remember, too, Frederic," 
 she concluded, " that, pressed as you are, it is ready money that 
 you want ; a wife's income, handsome though it might be, would 
 not save you from a gaol. My advice to you therefore is, not 
 to trifle with your luck, but to secure one of the girls, no matter 
 which. I shall be happy to welcome either as Lady Dampmore, 
 and to accept my dowagership with a good grace." 
 
 The maternal reasoning was unanswerable, and Sir Frederic 
 did accordingly seriously incline towards the thought of imme- 
 diate matrimony ; but, judging from the urbane and affectionate 
 empressement of Mrs. Greville that both the young ladies were 
 equally at his service, he could not decidedly make up what he 
 called his mind. One day he lounged beside the piano, while 
 Arabella, with a full heart, but steady voice, tried over some of 
 the songs which had, according to his promise, duly arrived 
 from town, inscribed with Mr. Lorraine's compliments ; and the 
 next he spent hours stretched along a sofa beside the harp of 
 Blanche, half asleep, and believing that he was making infinite 
 progress in his courtship by the very fact of his presence; 
 without having as yet given either sister reason to conjecture to 
 whom he should ultimately throw the handkerchief. Thus, to 
 the terror of Mrs. Greville and the mortification of Lady Damp- 
 more, did matters stagnate for a whole month; when one 
 morning, as the suitor had given his hair the last twist before 
 the drawing-room mirror, and was about, as usual, to betake 
 himself to Mrs. Greville's apartments, in order to ascertain, or 
 rather to arrange, what he termed " the order of the day," he 
 turned suddenly towards his mother, as if a new light had just 
 broken upon his obtuse brain. 
 
 " Lady D.," he asked somewhat sententicusly, " are you quite 
 
228 THE WILL. 
 
 sure tliat we are not playing a devilish shallow game here ? 
 On what authority have you put forward your statement as to 
 the fortunes of these two Greville girls ? Who told you that 
 they were heiresses? Who knew them before they came 
 here?" 
 
 *' How many more absurd questions in the same breath, Sir 
 Frederic?" asked his mother in her turn. "I am quite sure 
 of my game, I had my intelligence from the best authority' — 
 the very best in a case of this description — it was the news of 
 the second table. The butler of Mrs, Greville told Collins in a 
 fit of gossipry, without an idea that it would ever come to my 
 ears, that he was present at the reading of Mr, Greville's Will, 
 when all was bequeathed as I have already told you." 
 
 Sir Frederic's reply was a fit of contemptuous laughter, " So 
 far," he exclaimed at last, '* nothing can be more satisfactory. 
 And now to my second query : Who knew them before they 
 came here ?" 
 
 "Dear me, how can I undertake to say?" replied Lady 
 Dampmore, startled in spite of herself by her son's objections, 
 " You may depend upon it that, if they had made a very general 
 acquaintance elsewhere, you would not now have the opportu- 
 nity of patching your broken fortunes with the money of either 
 of them. But there — I wash my hands of the whole affair ; do 
 as you please, I have been very weak in believing that you 
 would now take my advice for the first time in your hfe, I 
 have said all that I mean to say upon the subject." 
 
 " In that case, with your kind permission, I will act," said 
 the gentleman ; " and I shall commence operations by writing 
 to Lorraine, and starting him to Doctors' Commons, to look at 
 the Will. No pig-in-a-poke work for me. Lady D. I may be 
 glad to bite, but I'll take devilish good care not to be bitten." 
 And with a smile of satisfied self-appreciation the enlightened 
 young baronet drew a writing-table towards him, and forthwith 
 indited the threatened epistle to his friend. 
 
 The result will be, of course, anticipated. Lady Dampmore 
 could not repress a shudder of dread as she saw her son receive 
 the answer of Lorraine, which arrived by return of post ; but 
 doubt and misgiving vanished at the "All right I" with which 
 he terminated its perusal. The young barrister had lost no time 
 in complying with the request of his friend. He had been to 
 Doctors' Commons, had duly paid his shilling for the privilege, 
 and had then read the Will, wherein the Honourable Charles 
 
THE WILL. 
 
 229 
 
 Greville had bequeathed to each of his daughters, on the day of 
 her marriage, or her majority, the sum of j830,000. 
 
 It was now Lady Dampmore's turn to triumph. She was 
 surprised that Sir Frederic should have degraded himself by 
 believing, for an instant, that any deceit were possible. She felt 
 personally hurt that her friends should have been classed with 
 the sharpers and swindlers, to whose contact he was only too 
 much accustomed ; and she trusted that, in future, he would do 
 her the justice to place a little more faith in her penetration. 
 Her amiable son only repHed by inquiring which of the girls 
 she would advise him to have, as he declared that, to himself, 
 it v/as a matter of perfect indifference ; when Lady Dampmore 
 immediately named Arabella : she thought her the most manage- 
 able. And Sir Frederic, with Lorraine's letter in his pocket as 
 a certificate of safety, forthwith proceeded to offer himself and 
 his debts to the acceptance of Miss Greville. 
 
 He had not, however, reached the extremity of the gallery, 
 when he remembered the terms in which his mother had recom- 
 mended the elder sister ; and with the cunning of persons of his 
 stamp, he muttered to himself—" So, so ; * the most manage- 
 able,' is she. Lady D. ? You want to manage my wife as you 
 try to manage me ; but I'll take you in for once, for, egad I I''" 
 ask Blanche." 
 
 By what he considered a fortunate fatality, he found the young 
 lady alone, stringing her harp ; an occupation from which, how- 
 ever, she immediately desisted, in order to do the honours of her 
 mother's drawing-room. We feel no inclination to weary either 
 our readers or ourself by detailing the advances of Sir Frederic. 
 That he did his spiriting gently we are bound to beheve, as.Miss 
 Blanche Greville, the beautiful and the accomplished, did not 
 disdain to listen ; and only replied to his verbal professions by 
 calmly remarking — " You are aware, of course. Sir Frederic, 
 that I am utterly without fortune?" 
 
 " Devilish glad of it. Miss Blanche," was the prompt resj^fltse, 
 as the gentleman pressed the letter of Lorraine closer to his 
 person to assure himself that its existence was not u dream ; 
 '' want a fine woman at Dampmore Hall to displace the dowager, 
 and needn't look farther." 
 
 " But are you quite sure that you shall not repent marrying 
 a wife without money ?" 
 
 A smile of the most liberal and benevolent impression radiated 
 the heavy features of the baronet as he replied playfully — " Don't 
 
230 THE WILL. 
 
 you be afraid, my dear girl, we'll manage to make the pot boil. 
 And now, what say you ? We'll talk no more about ways and 
 means. Will you have me ?" 
 
 '' Really, Sir Frederic," said Blanche, with well-acted coquetry, 
 " you have quite taken me by surprise. What do you expect 
 me to say ? I can venture on no decision without mamma's 
 consent." 
 
 " And if the old lady says ' Yes ?' " 
 
 " Why then, perhaps," laughed Blanche, " I may consider 
 of it." 
 
 And of course Mrs. Greville did say " Yes," only warning Sir 
 Frederic to look well into his own heart before he allied him- 
 self to her " penniless girl ;" equally, of course, he told her that 
 he had done so, and that without Blanche he should be miserable. 
 The last argument was unanswerable ; so the two matrons ex- 
 changed a sisterly embrace. Arabella shook hands with her 
 intended brother-in-law, quite unconscious how near he had 
 been proposing himself as her own bridegroom ; and all was 
 harmony and good-humour. 
 
 But, desirous as Mrs. Greville herself was to see the marriage 
 fairly over, and Blanche definitely disposed of " for better, for 
 worse," she was by no means prepared for the ardour with which 
 Lady Dampmore (prompted as she declared by her son) hurried 
 forward every preparation for the happy union. She would 
 not listen to the bride elect when she talked of entrusting her 
 trousseau to a town milliner ; the craft abounded, as she declared, 
 in Cheltenham, and the future Lady Dampmore ought rather 
 to aspire to lead the fashion than to follow it. And when Mrs. 
 Greville faintly remarked something about collecting their 
 connections around them upon so interesting an occasion, she 
 laughed her out of what she termed her antiquated notions, and 
 cited twenty instances in which personal friends of her own, of 
 high rank and enormous wealth, had left London just before 
 the ceremony, expressly to rid themselves of the crowd by 
 which they must, otherwise, have been inevitably surrounded. 
 Mrs. Greville made some feeble resistance, and she had reasons 
 of her own for neither insisting too pertinaciously, nor too 
 strongly ; and accordingly, after a few days' hesitation and 
 well-acted reluctance on the part of Blanche, the time for the 
 marriage was named, greatly to the relief of the two principal 
 parties, who were both tired to death of the farce which they 
 were severally enacting. 
 
THE WILL. 231 
 
 This important point decided, Lady Dampmore proceeded tc 
 suggest that the ceremony should be conducted as privately 
 as possible, and that Blanche should have no attendant 
 at the altar save her sister ; while Sir Frederic, on his side, 
 should be accompanied only by a single friend ; in which case 
 there could be no impropriety in herself and dear Mrs. Greville 
 being of the party to church, and having the happiness of seeing 
 their beloved cliildren united. Nothing could be more affec- 
 tionate and endearing; and as both the elder ladies shed tears, 
 while discussing the subject, it was, of course, arranged according 
 to their desire : upon which Sir Frederic declared that he should 
 make a groomsman of Lorraine, for that it would be devilish 
 hard, as he was by when they were turned off, that he should 
 not be in at the death. 
 
 The heart of Arabella gave one wild bound as she heard the 
 decision of the baronet; but she compressed her lips tightly, 
 and no one remarked her emotion, and so a week rolled by. 
 The satins and blondes, the Brussels lace veils, and chip bonnets 
 were all duly trimmed ; and at length the eve of the marriage- 
 <lay found the party assembled as usual round the tea-table of 
 Mrs. Greville, with the addition of Mr. Lorraine, who had been 
 deposited at the door of the hotel just as the promessi sposi 
 and their affectionate relatives were terminating their dessert. 
 
 Blanche looked uncommonly pretty; there was a triumphant 
 expression in her deep blue eye and about her small mouth, 
 which Lorraine had never previously seen there, but which he 
 took no trouble to understand. Mrs. Greville, too, was radiant, 
 and her joy circled like a halo round her weeds ; nor did the 
 young barrister fail to perceive how much it was increased by 
 his own presence. Lady Dampmore was calm, stately, and 
 somewhat dictatorial ; like one desirous to enjoy to the full the 
 success of her exertions. Sir Frederic, a shade more lethargic 
 and more uncouth than ever. His work was done : " all the 
 love-making," as he took an early opportunity of observing, 
 with great self-gratulation, to his friend, " being happily over." 
 
 From his rapid examination of these several individuals, 
 Lorraine ultimately turned, with an expression strongly bor- 
 dering upon disgust, to remark Arabella. She had placed her 
 chair slightly behind the circle, and beyond the glare of the 
 lights, and he fancied that an emotion of deep pain contracted 
 her fine features at intervals. Amid the strife of tongues she 
 alone was silent ; but it was not the silence of suUenness. To 
 
232 THE WILL. 
 
 all the puerile questions which were from time to time addressed 
 to her, she answered promptly, and with a smile ; but Lorraine 
 felt that the heart was sick from which that smile was forced ; 
 and, be it from what cause it might, he watched her narrowly. 
 
 Could he have detected, in the look or manner of Blanclie, 
 one sign or symptom of reluctance at the sacrifice which she 
 was about to make — could he have seen anything in the bearing 
 of his so-called friend which implied anything more worthy than 
 the quiet triumph of a selfish nature, there is no guessing liow 
 that evening would have terminated. As it was he remained 
 passive; the two ecarte tables were formed as usual, and he 
 found himself once more tete-a-tete with Arabella at the piano. 
 
 Once or twice Sir Frederic shouted across the room, from the 
 sofa upon which he was lounging at full length, opposite his 
 beautiful betrothed, to know " why the devil they sat gossiping 
 there, instead of giving them some music ;" and, with the most 
 meek humility, on each occasion they complied with the implied 
 request, and poured forth a flood of melody which might have 
 liberated another Eurydice : but the song, whatever it might be, 
 once terminated, the conversation was resumed; and one who 
 had watched them might have seen the bosom of Arabella 
 heave, and the tear stand in her fine dark eyes, as she spoke 
 rapidly but impressively, and the gentleman laughed away her 
 asseverations, as if in disbelief. Blanche kept a careful eye 
 upon them ; and, as the best method of diverting the attention 
 of Sir Frederic from what she believed to be a very important 
 dialogue, she played carelessly, and suffered him to win ; ai 
 manoeuvre by which she succeeded in wholly riveting his atten- 
 tion upon the game. To Lady Dampmore the quiet flirtation^ 
 as she termed it, was now altogether a matter of indifference. 
 Her son had secured his prize ; he had selected the sister he 
 preferred, and the other must raarry some one ; therefore, as 
 well Sir Frederic's friend as any other; while Mrs. Greville 
 looked upon the extraordinary understanding which had evi- 
 dently grown up between her daughter and the rising young 
 barrister as, what Oliver Cromwell called the battle of \Yorce6ter^ 
 her " crowning mercy." 
 
 The morrow came ; and at half-past ten precisely the mar- 
 riage party drove from the door of the Imperial Hotel, amid 
 bows and smiles of all the household functionaries ; and, after 
 twenty minutes passed in the church, and sundry autographs 
 deposited in the vestry, Sir Frederic and Lady Dampmore drove 
 
THE WILL. 233 
 
 back to breakfast, followed by their bridal train. As they 
 entered, the bridegroom arranged his lank hair with his equally 
 lank fingers, and hurried his lovely wife through the crowd, 
 which had collected about the steps and in the hall, so rapidly, 
 that she had scarcely time to return the courtesies, or to receive 
 the bouquets, that were offered to her ; and the last carriage had 
 not driven from the door when he rang for tea and coffee, and 
 warned Blanche '' not to be all day changing her toggery, as he 
 wanted to be off." The new Lady Dampmore turned upon him 
 the prettiest look of contempt imaginable ; and had it not been 
 for the memory of certain circumstances, it is probable that she 
 would not have contented herself with a look. As it was, how- 
 ever, she only threw herself on a sofa, and desired " Frederic" 
 to ring for her maid. 
 
 The breakfast passed off heavily enough. Mrs. Greville was 
 highly nervous, and took far too much trouble in explaining to 
 Mr. Lorraine that she was overcome by the idea of parting with 
 her sweet Blanche. Mr. Lorraine himself was thoughtful, even 
 to absence ; and appeared to be infected by the same malady. 
 Arabella was drowned in tears, far more bitter than a temporary 
 separation, even from an only sister, should have called forth ; 
 while Blanche and her bridegroom listened to the unceasing 
 havarclage of the triumphant Lady Dampmore with as much 
 composure and indifference as though they had no interest in 
 the event which had so palpably affected all round them. 
 
 The breakfast was no sooner over than Sir Frederic and his 
 mother suggested to Mrs. Greville that, previous to the departure 
 of the newly-married pair, whose four greys were already mar- 
 shalled before their house, and whose respective wardrobes were 
 in process of arrangement on and about their travelling carriage, 
 it might be as well to have half an hour's explanatory con- 
 versation on matters of business ; and as this desire was inti- 
 mated, Mrs. Greville gracefully bowed her assent ; and, with a 
 heart whose beatings threatened to burst through her sable 
 bombazeen, she preceded them to her private room. Blanche 
 had already retired to her apartment to put on her travelling 
 dress, and once more Arabella and Lorraine were left alone. 
 
 Had they been less in love than they actually were, they must 
 have been lost in amazement at the length of time which was 
 consumed in that private conversation ; and even as it was, 
 Arabella once or twice glanced towards the French clock upon 
 the console. Soon, however, she forgot even to wonder; for 
 
234 THE WILL. 
 
 Lorraine was urging her, with all the impetuosity of a sincere 
 and long pent-up passion, to be his — his, ere some happier man 
 stepped in, and robbed him of her heart. 
 
 Arabella, trembling with mingled happiness and shame, could 
 only falter out — " You do not credit what I told you last night, 
 Mr. Lorraine? Alas I alas I how should you? How should 
 your frank and open nature yield credence to anything so un- 
 worthy ? But here, here on my knees — " and she sank down 
 before him as she sobbed out the words — " here, in this abject 
 posture, do I swear to you, by all that woman holds most dear, 
 that the tale of deceit and shame is true. Let us part, then, 
 Mr. Lorraine — let us never meet again. For my sake — for 
 both our sakes — only promise me, promise me on your honour 
 as a man, that you will acquit me of all share in this most weak 
 and wicked stratagem I " And as she faltered out the prayer 
 she seized the hands of her companion, and gazed imploringly 
 into his face. 
 
 For a moment Lorraine did not attempt to raise her : she 
 looked so beautiful, so graceful in her tears ; her love for him 
 shone so vividly through her desire not to forfeit his respect; 
 there was so holy an abandonment in her whole expression and 
 attitude, that he could not break the thrall in which his admi- 
 ration held him ; but suddenly he withdrew his hands from hers, 
 and lifting her from the floor, he pressed her to his heart as he 
 murmured fondly — " I wdll promise anything, everything, if 
 you, Arabella, in your turn, will promise to be mine — my fond 
 and faithful wife — my friend through all the trials of my coming 
 life — the partner alike of my joys and of my sorrows." 
 
 " Alas ! alas I " exclaimed Arabella, struggling to free herself 
 from his embrace ; " you do not yet believe me I " 
 
 " Listen to me, dear girl," said Lorraine, soothingly ; '' we 
 may be interrupted. Mine has been a delicate and a difficult 
 position. .. Dampmore, startled by the frequent disclaimers of 
 your mother and sister, wrote to me three weeks back to exa- 
 mine your father's Will ; I did so, and by the following post 
 acquainted him with the result." 
 
 Arabella covered her fiice with her hands, to hide the crimson 
 blush that had mantled over her brow and bosom. 
 
 *' After I had dispatched my letter," pursued Lorraine, " a 
 lawyer-like misgiving came upon me. I remembered that it 
 was not specified from whence the funds were to proceed for the 
 payment of your respective fortunes. It is probable that, after 
 
THE WILL 235 
 
 having complied witli Dampmore's request, I should have dis- 
 missed the subject from my thoughts ; but short as had been 
 our acquaintance, I had learned to love you, Arabella ; and I 
 was anxious to comprehend all its bearings and details for my 
 own sake." 
 
 *' And you found " sobbed Miss Greville. 
 
 " I found, dear love, that the inheritance which I feared would 
 cause your worldly mother — for I had soon discovered that your 
 mother i^as worldly, Arabella — to deny my suit and separate us for 
 ever, was a mere fable ; that your father had sunk all the rem- 
 nant of his property in a life-annuity for your mother, and that 
 yourself and your sister were penniless. I made the discovery, 
 fully and perfectly, only on the day previous to my return here, 
 and I need not explain to you the peculiarity of my position. 
 
 Dampmore was a fellow-collegian — could I suffer him to be " 
 
 Lorraine paused, the word which had risen to his lips was one 
 which he could not bring himself to utter to Arabella ; but 
 despite his caution, the pause was to the full as bitter to the 
 shrinking girl. He felt that it was, and hurriedly resumed. 
 
 *' It was too late to interfere to save either party ; for I regret 
 to tell you that Blanche has wedded herself to ruin. Damp- 
 more is steeped in debt ; his estate is mortgaged ; and he is now 
 chiefly dependent on the jointure of his mother." 
 
 Miss Greville's tears flowed still faster. 
 
 " And now, dear Arabella — for so you must indeed suffer me 
 to call you — let us speak and think only of ourselves. I cannot 
 offer you luxury ; I may not be enabled to do so for years to 
 come ; but I can secure to you a home of love and comfort, 
 worthy of your truth and principle. How say you, then, 
 will you make my happiness, and entrust me with your own ? " 
 
 Miss Greville only replied by hiding her face upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 They had forgotten the event which brought them together 
 — they had forgotten the purpose for which they had been left 
 60 long tete-d-tete, they had forgotten that Blanche, whom 
 bienseance forbade to leave her chamber until she was sum- 
 moned thence by her bridegroom, must long ago have expected 
 the companionship of Arabella — they had, in short, forgotten 
 all save themselves and their affection, when they were startled 
 by the violent opening of the door, and the sudden apparition 
 of Sir Frederic Dampmore. 
 
 " What are you two about here ? " he exclaimed with a 
 
236 THE WILL. 
 
 convulsive laugh ; his usually leaden eye burning with a fierce 
 light, and his thin lip quivering with agitation, as he rushed to 
 the breakfast-table, and poured out a tumbler of champagne, 
 which he emptied at a draught ; *' Love-making, eh ? All 
 right, old fellow I I'm off with my handsome heiress ; and 
 advise you to make sure of the sister. Don't lose time either, 
 or some rascal or another may step in and spoil your chance. 
 I should like you to share my luck. Curse all monopolies ; I 
 don't want to be the only happy man on this auspicious day. 
 All right, you know, eh ? you saw it with your own eyes, so 
 there can be no mistake. Why don't you pluck up a spirit, 
 and offer yourself to Arabella and her £80,000 ?" 
 
 " I have done so," replied Lorraine, quietly, " and Miss 
 Greville has honoured me by accepting my hand." 
 
 " I'm devilish glad to hear it I " said the baronet with another 
 yell of laughter, as he gave his friend a violent blow between 
 the shoulders, and then tossed off a second bumper of cham- 
 pagne. " Here's to your happy bridal, old boy ! But I hope 
 you'll be prudent when you come into your property, and not 
 make ducks and drakes of it, as I have done. Where's Blanche ? 
 Where's my heiress ? She must come and salute her new 
 brother-in-law. But your sure you're serious, Lorraine ? that 
 you're not humbugging ? — I'm a little hard of belief this 
 morning." 
 
 "I am quite serious," said Lorraine, in a constrained tone ; 
 " I should not venture to trifle with Miss Greville." 
 
 There was something in this assertion which struck the half- 
 intoxicated baronet as so eminently ridiculous, that he threw 
 himself down upon his favourite sofa, in order to laugh more at 
 his ease ; and the paroxysm had not yet abated, when the door 
 once more opened, and admitted tlie elder Lady Dampmore and 
 Mrs. Greville. The brow of the dowager was as black as night; 
 her cheeks were flushed, and her brealli came quick and hard, 
 like that of one who has not yet mastered some violent emotion. 
 Her companion, on the contrary, was as pale and as calm as a 
 piece of statuary : her look was somewhat troubled, indeed, as 
 her eye first fell upon Lorraine, but she conquered the weak- 
 ness in a moment, and sailed towards the upper end of the room 
 with a cold, hard smile upon her lips. 
 
 " Give me leave, my good mother-in-law," said Sir Frederic 
 when he became somewhat more composed, raising himself upon 
 his elbows as he spoke ; " give me leave to present to you, and 
 
THE WILL. 237 
 
 to back by my best recommendation, Mr. Charles Lorraine, who 
 is a candidate for yonr other heiress. You will not, I suppose, 
 forbid his addresses ; and I invite myself to the wedding." 
 
 " You are, I trust and hope, aware, sir," said Mrs. Greville, 
 turning composedly towards the new suitor, *' that my daughters 
 are portionless ?" 
 
 " Perfectly, madam," replied Lorraine, as he looked steadily 
 towards her ; " I am aware that Mr. Greville, after a career of 
 egotistical indulgence, converted the remainder of his property 
 into a life annuity for yourself; and that, in the partial aberra- 
 tion of his last moments, he was induced to make a parchment 
 bequest to his daughters, with what intention I have too much 
 respect for Miss Greville to inquire." 
 
 As Lorraine spoke, Mrs. Greville sank speechless and aghast 
 into a chair near which she had been standing; while the baronet 
 sprang from the sofa in a blustering attitude, and approached him 
 evidently with a hostile attention. 
 
 " Hear me out, Dampmore," said the barrister, as he waved 
 him off with quiet dignity, which produced an instant effect 
 upon the mystified senses of Sir Frederic ; " for until you are 
 told it was only two days ago that I learned this, you have some 
 reason to believe that you have cause of complaint against me. 
 I now beg to explain that fact, and also to remind you that 
 there were circumstances connected with your own affairs which 
 would have rendered any interference on my part unnecessary 
 and absurd, as well as impertinent." 
 
 The baronet skulked silently and sullenly back to his sofa. 
 
 " Come, come, Dampmore," persisted Lorraine, "let us eschew 
 all mahce. Are we not to be brothers-in-law ? and that, I trust, 
 not many weeks hence ; and have you not already invited your- 
 self to our wedding ? And after all, what are you, my dear 
 fellow, but the biter bitten ? The world is full of such mis- 
 takes as yours; and, moreover, have you forgotten that you 
 have married one of the prettiest women in England, and that 
 she has had on her travelhng-bonnot for the last hour ?" 
 
 " Mr. Lorraine is quite right. Sir Frederic," said Mrs. Gre- 
 ville, rallying her spirits; "you are, indeed, a laggard bride- 
 groom. Pray do not, by your own childish folly, expose to all 
 the inmates of the hotel, that, after all the asseverations of 
 myself and my daughters, you have been the dupe of your own 
 disbelief, that there were persons in the world possessed of suf- 
 ficient moral courage to act up to their principles." 
 
238 THE WILL. 
 
 " Spare your sententiousness, madam," said Lady Darapmore, 
 as she motioned her son from the room. " I would advise you 
 to take leave of your able assistant, my estimable daughter-in- 
 law, before her departure, which will take place in ten minutes, 
 as I shall be careful that you never meet again." 
 
 Sir Frederic gave one general nod : his head was loo heavy 
 with the fumes of the wine to prompt him to a wordy leave- 
 takino- ; but as he reached the door he muttered, almost audibly, 
 " Devilish bore of Lady Dampmore to interpose. If I'd done 
 as I liked, I should have married the mother, and been all right." 
 
 Mrs. Greville had already vanished. She was taking leave 
 of her beautiful and unfortunate daughter Blanche ; but Arabella 
 made no effort to follow her ; she was so bowed down by grief, 
 shame, and mortification, that she could only weep upon her 
 lover's bosom, and beseech him, again and again, to promise 
 that he would never, when she became his wife, drive the iron 
 into her soul, by any allusion to the period when she moved 
 and was known as one of the co -heiresses under her father's 
 " Will." 
 
KING YERIC: 
 
 A SCENE OF THE EOMANS IN BRITAIN. 
 BY MAETIN F. TUPPER, D.O.L., F.R.S. 
 
 PROEM. 
 
 A FEW months ago, during some antiquarian researches at 
 Farley Heath, near Guildford (unusually prolific in coins, urns, 
 ornaments, and other ancient remains, -which generous old 
 Rome so kindly threw away for our cabinets), it chanced that 
 one day the labourers found nothing at all — except one Httle 
 gold coin. Contrary, however, to all rustic estimation, that 
 morsel of gold was a treasure, alone worth all the toil of all the 
 many weeks of excavation : not for the mere gold's sake, still 
 less only for its antiquity, but because it bore obversely the 
 name of Veric the King, the son of Comius. To say that the 
 coin is worth a hundred times its weight in gold is not to say 
 enough, for it is unique ; and whenever two or three numis- 
 matic maniacs may at some time future be got together at an 
 auction to struggle for its possession, keen indeed will be the 
 strife, and bold indeed the biddings, before one or another shall 
 be the fortunate possessor of our little coin. On a previous 
 day, a mite of silver, bearing a youthful head and the legend 
 of Mepati, was scarcely less interesting as a discovery, or less 
 valuable for rarity. Here, however, we leave the mere anti- 
 quarianism of these sweet suggestive morsels to be discussed in 
 drier places ; and referring the more learned reader to certain 
 numismatic chronicles and archaeological journals for duller dis- 
 quisition on such matters, let me now tell you shortly how true 
 a tale, and yet how new, mine eyes have read herefrom anent 
 King Veric and young Prince Mepati. 
 
240 KING VERIO. 
 
 POEM. 
 
 It is just nineteen hundred years ago, some forty or fifty before 
 the Sun of Righteousness arose with healing in his wings. 
 Taranis the Thunderer was then chief god of Britain ; and 
 Hjcsus the bloody, thrice-great Teutates, with a legion of other 
 names — dark spots now shone away into oblivion by the noon- 
 tide lustre of truth — shared with him dominion over \vood, and 
 stream, and hill, and valley — over winds, and waves, and fire. 
 And now this day — this very day of our story — not few had 
 been the fair-haired maids whose life-blood had been shed in 
 sacrifice to such, beneath the curved poniards of the green-clad 
 Ovates; and loudly had the sacred bards, in flowing robes of 
 blue, struck from their harps the spirit-stirring hymn that called 
 the patriot Briton to combat his invader — spirit-stirring, indeed, 
 for the cords of those black-oak harps had once been the heart- 
 strings of princes and magicians in old time : now they seemed 
 to wail for the dead, now to shout for revenge on the living ; 
 anon, with ghastly energy, the sentient string would thrill with 
 warlike ardour — anon would die away with tones of saddest 
 pathos. And wherefore had the victims bled, and the sacred 
 harps been tuned ? Why had the fleshy mound been heaped 
 with its huge burnt-offering on the unhewn footstool of Taranis? 
 What had the oak-tiaraed Druid noticed in the Adder's Stone ? 
 How had the hoary seers read the stars, that this unwonted stir 
 should have vexed the shadowy vale of Coed Andred ? 
 
 Do ye know Coed Andred? I trow, many who shall read 
 these lines know it full well ; and may be glad for a w^hile to 
 linger with me in the wildest forest-track of ancient Surrey, 
 whilst I try to conjure up, in a resurrection of to-day, how 
 the hundred of Blackheath must have looked in those primeval 
 ages. 
 
 Changeless since the Deluge, changeless as now and to the 
 end of time, stood the chief feature in the landscape, a heaven- 
 kissing hill : in those days known as Moel Mawr, or the High 
 Mount — later, more mournfully, and yet more triumphantly, 
 celebrated as Martyrs' Hill, where some early witnesses to Jesus 
 and the Resurrection sealed their testimony with their blood ; 
 and later still, in this our luke-warm day, corrupted into the 
 familiar name, St. Martha's. On its summit was built the 
 Beacon, whose nightly fires had melted into one mass of vitri- 
 fication the rude iron sandstone of which it was roughly heaped : 
 
KING VERIO. 241 
 
 studded about within the fosse-and-mound enclosure, which lined 
 the hill on all sides, were the snug round kraals of our native 
 ancestors, built of chalk, with wattled doors, and a hole at top 
 for light, air, and an exit to the thin blue smoke of the logs 
 always left smouldering on their pebbled floors. Two circles 
 — still visible on the south side of the hill — marked spots 
 devoted to the comparatively pure idolatry of Druidism ; and 
 on the eastern shoulder, that most accessible to an enemy, were 
 successive ridges of ditch and band — at thin day well-nigh (but 
 not quite) filled in and levelled. This then was one of the chief 
 strongholds of Britons nineteen centuries ago : behind them, to 
 the north and east, were the sacred groves and avenues of yew, 
 consecrated to religious meditation ; and, except a few bare 
 spots, appearing like islands in the ocean of surrounding forest, 
 all round for miles and miles to the horizon, was a tangled, 
 pathless, marshy, and pestiferous wilderness of trees. There, 
 fallen across the streams — the same so pleasant now, so well 
 defined, and full of leaping trout — the rotting ash and beeches 
 dammed the currents, and on all sides converted our sparkling 
 Tillingbourn and our peaceful Wey, into the wide -spreading 
 dangerous morass. Where now fair Albury reposes in its cul- 
 tured vale, where the sheep-bell is heard upon the downs, and 
 the wains creak beneath the harvest riches of the farmer — then, 
 in his inaccessible solitudes, roamed the elk or the bear ; then 
 the wild boar grunted as he ground his beech -mast; and the 
 pack of hungry wolves sagaciously watched the gluttonous 
 monster till he flung him down to sleep among the bramblea. 
 Instead of the tame and sweet-breathed cows, going home at 
 eventide with well-filled udders, there roamed among the coarse 
 patches of pasturage, herds of sheeted cattle, maned like lions, 
 with short horns and long stag-hke faces, fierce, yet timorous. 
 Now and then, the red-deer would nobly stand against the sky 
 on some commanding height, as at Holmbury, or at Ewhurst : 
 in the Hurtwood there abounded ptarmigan and black-game 
 (still, indeed, plentiful there), enamoured of the dark blue 
 berries ; and, as a natural consequence, there also abounded the 
 wild cat and the fox. All around St. Martha's, at evening, 
 after some sultry summer's day, arose a dense pestilential vapour 
 from the dank foliage rotting and sweltering below ; and, ex- 
 cepting for the far-seen stranger's settlement, on the bare height 
 of Fairlee, the panorama was one of rank, unwholesome, gloomy 
 jungle. u 
 
24:2 KING VERIC, 
 
 But — why had the virgin-victims bled within those magic 
 circles ? wherefore was the beacon a smoke by day and a flame 
 by night ? what means this gathering of the woad-stained clans, 
 coming in by twos and threes, with their dew-lapped bnll-dogs, 
 their targe and spear, and bow and hammer — converging, from 
 the eastern heights, from the Hog's Back on the west, from Coed 
 Andred, and from distant Leith? Incessant is the clang of 
 their shields, loud the clamour of their tongues ; and furiously 
 they look upon each other, as men betrayed would look upon 
 a doubtful, a suspected friend. And still, in their rude lan- 
 guage their cry is the same — " Why lingers King Veric ? w^hy 
 comes he not from Leith to lead us to the battle ? Has he 
 brought the Roman here — not for us to plunder, as he promised, 
 but to conquer us, hemmed in our fastness, while we sit down 
 idly here to starve ? Whose was that too true voice, shouting 
 — ' Veric is a traitor ?' " 
 
 Slowly emerging from the wood, a war-chariot is seen ap- 
 proaching. Up the sandy steep, with strenuous effort, the 
 foam-covered stallions plough their violent way : and look I 
 pallid and haggard, on his iron-bound chariot, stands the British 
 king. 
 
 Look on him I even now, while the clamorous crowds are 
 circling round to ask the same terrible question, — look I with 
 what majesty and firmness he comes to quell the storm. 
 Arrayed in his royal robes of the seven rainbow colours, with 
 a fillet of gold and pearls around his massive brow, and the 
 torque upon his neck, he is here in his scythed car, to lead 
 the remnant of his host for one last desperate charge against 
 the invincible Roman. 
 
 Oh, with what bitterness of spirit did the conscience -stricken 
 king now repent his feeble, his treacherous, though, originally, 
 patriotic policy ! He had come to his inheritance as one of the 
 stock of imperial Comius, full of good hope, and zealous for his 
 people ; but the multitude of petty factions, arraying chieftain 
 against chieftain, sept against sept, loosened the bands of govern- 
 ment, divided the strength of the country, and seemed to be 
 opening an easy way for the domination of those iron strangers. 
 Already had the Roman settled down in force at Clausentum 
 and at Venta — our Southampton and Winchester ; already had 
 they ravaged all the coast, and pushed their outposts far into 
 the interior ; but all their discipline and hardihood could have 
 availed little against the natural impenetrabiUty of this part 
 
KING VERIC. 
 
 243 
 
 of Veric's dominions, had he not himself paved tlie way to 
 their success, by the fault and the folly of a double-handed 
 treachery! 
 
 This was his plan. By secret emissaries to invite the legate, 
 Aulus Plautius, to render him assistance as against domestic 
 foes ; thus, by the sword of Eome, to cut down the mutiny and 
 disaffection which now had for a long time paralysed his army, 
 and threatened to throw his ancestral realm into anarchy and 
 ruin, thus also, as he fondly hoped, to weaken, by a war against 
 each other, the rebels at home and the invaders from abroad, too 
 surely waiting for the results of discord, to pounce upon him- 
 self as their prey ; and thus, in fine, as his subtle policy had 
 suggested to the well-affected councillors around him, to '* cut 
 down his foes by Eome, and Eome by his own good celt." 
 
 But Aulus Plautius, that prudent consular, at a glance divined 
 the scheme ; and the wily barbarian found himself out-generalled 
 by the plainer and more honest courage of his inconvenient 
 ally. It is true that, under the guidance of King Veric's 
 messengers, Aulus Plautius had safely threaded, with a well- 
 selected band, the perilous morass of Coed Andred, and had 
 hewn down, in fair fight, a multitude of the unruly patriots, 
 whom Veric stood aside to see fall beneath the Eoman sword ; 
 but it is also true, that the astute Aulus had kept open his 
 communications in the rear, and that every hour brought up 
 detachments of sturdy legionaries, with " elephants, and other 
 new terrors of war," which had easily and safely wound their 
 labyrinthine way from distant Venta to the promontory of 
 Fairlee. Accordingly, when the fight, so seemingly politic, 
 was over — and King Veric, with his loyal followers, felt well- 
 enough disposed to thank the Eoman in kind, for the help of 
 his bloody lances — behold ! the orderly and well-disciplined 
 array of iron soldiery whom Plautius quietly reviewed in the 
 field of battle, after its laurels had been reaped, speedily con- 
 vinced Veric that he had made the ruinous mistake of placing 
 his deadliest foe on the vantage-ground due only to a patriot 
 monarch's truest friend. There, in the heart of his dominions, 
 stood the imperial standards, invincible, implacable — and yet, 
 as invited by himself, in all the seeming friendhness and con- 
 fidence of good alliance. Oh, how often is the crafty taken in 
 his own net, and the shrewdness of political economy shown to 
 be remarkably short-sighted I 
 
 What was now to be done ? Notwithstanding the studied 
 
244 Ki^^a vERic. 
 
 honours rendered to the king, and in spite of the frank friendli- 
 ness accorded to the man, it was perfectly manifest to all that 
 Veric was, in fact, the p)risoner of the astute Plautius. Pre- 
 cisely as Pizarro in after ages proved the most inconvenient 
 friend to the Mea Manco that it could be possible to find, so it 
 now fared with Plautius and his overreached inviter. Many a 
 chuckle did the stout praetorians indulge in at their host's 
 expense, and many a joke passed about the Veritas of Vericus 
 among the gay young centurions over their Falernian. It 
 grew intolerable. Every day, by dint of galleys from Gallia to 
 Clausentum, and thence by forced marches to Fairlee height, 
 Rome stood stronger in his camp, and Veric waxed weaker in 
 his kingdom. What was to be done ? 
 
 It was high time, indeed, for poor King Veric to be up and 
 stirring, for he was fast losing all the loyal hearts he once loved, 
 as well as was already quit of those, perhaps equally patriotic, 
 whom he lately feared. Such are the fruits of double-dealing : 
 beware, ye far-seeing Machiavellis I — "honesty," after all, 
 "is the best policy;" and, by way of pressing into our service 
 another time-honoured adage, poor King Veric found to his cost 
 that the Roman sword was far too " sharp-edged a tool " to be 
 trifled with. 
 
 One night, being that just before this day on which we have 
 seen the furious and doubtful Britons converging on St. Martha's 
 Hill — (and if any one wishes to know the exact date, I can 
 assure him it was the 17th of March, a.u.c. 710, just forty- 
 three years before our era) — one dark night, after certain games 
 and a carouse wherewith the Roman general had indulged his 
 troops, King Veric escaped, alone and disguised ; as thus : — 
 the whole day had been devoted to festivities ; for it was not 
 only that of the general's nativity, but they had, as a settled 
 colony, inaugurated on that same morning a " tcmenosj' or 
 consecrated site, to Apollo on the highest point of Fairlee : 
 accordingly, Phcebus expected all his true votaries on that 
 occasion to relax the stern demands of discipline, and to get 
 "fou"upon imported Falernian and indigenous mead, on the 
 well-recognised principle of " neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.'* 
 Here, at least, Veric outwitted his guards : for, having lulled 
 their watchfulness by a simulated intoxication early in the 
 evening, and fallen fast asleep off the triclinium, it is small 
 wonder that, later in the night, wrapped in the scarlet chlamys 
 of his neighbour — a stout but slumbering tribune — he crept 
 
KING VERIC. ■ 245 
 
 away, passed the sentinels, and stood once more in real freedom 
 on Fairlee Heath ! 
 
 All that night, painfully and dangerously, he forced his 
 dijfficult way, by paths well remembered as a child, through the 
 tangled Hurtwood, by Ewhurst and Holmbury to his ancient 
 palace at Leith. On the way he had grappled with a prowling 
 bear, and more than once had heard the wolves on his track; 
 but a sharp sword and a stout heart, and a stern purpose of 
 revenge upon Aulus for his hated hospitalities, made the monarch 
 and the man invincible to mere brute force. And, early this 
 morning had he entered his own stronghold — alone, a fugitive, 
 but still a British king. 
 
 His first act was, by messengers, and beacons on every height, 
 to raise his subject clans ; and the place of meeting, as we 
 know, is yonder heaven-kissing hill — well named " heaven- 
 kissing," ever since a martyr sanctified it with his blood, and 
 pious Newark gave the rude old ironstone choir, with its keyless 
 arch, a Gothic nave and transepts ; — well named, since even as 
 now, after evil dilapidations within these ten years, our recent 
 zeal restores it to the Lord — a fair tabernacle for His service. 
 
 See I how they crowd around the king. See I how many 
 throng to kiss his chariot-wheels. See I too, how many stand 
 aloof, and doubt him as the traitor, but that no one save a 
 patriot dare stand alone upon that hill among the fiercest clans 
 of Comius. 
 
 On the northern edge of the upper sacred circle stands 
 Oreddlyn the Druid. His robes and beard are white, but his 
 eyes are bleared with rheum, age, and tears, and his palsied 
 hands are ruddy with blood. A green pall covers the victim : 
 Maachal, the daughter of King Veric, in her country's darkest 
 hour, has offered herself a spotless sacrifice to appease the gods 
 of Britain. Well knew the king in his inmost soul (though 
 none had dared to tell him) who lay beneath that pall — whose 
 heart trembled in that golden vessel — whose blood Oreddlyn 
 came to sprinkle upon him, to consecrate his arms to victory I 
 And the king stood like a statue, white, firm, breathless; and 
 the king calmly looked round him on the rude and hurrying 
 multitude, and. as he spoke, the words seemed to come from 
 some image of his former self, some clay model made to imitate 
 life. And the king said, "Britons — my cliildren, my free, my 
 fearless children — look not on me so I By my Maachal's dear 
 blood — by the thunder of Taranis — by mine own honour — and 
 
24:6 • KING VERIC. 
 
 by the sacred fillet wliich I wear, Veric is no traitor I Hoping 
 to secure your peace and welfare in the stabiHty of your lawful 
 monarch's throne, my folly welcomed to these shores that dan- 
 gerous ally, the Koman : my councillors and I had looked for 
 other issues ; and well are we rewarded for having imitated 
 Celtic Gaul ! for having laid aside the frankness, the honour, 
 the fair spirit of a Briton, and tried to compass by duplicity 
 what valour only should have won. I repent — Maachal ! my 
 Maachal, I repent I My people, here am I, to lead you on at 
 once against yonder smooth invader. Let this night — whereon 
 our silver queen, kindly for us, shines not upon the Roman, but 
 trims her newborn crescent as our sign — witness his utter 
 destruction on the heights of Fairlee ! " 
 
 Loudly, too loudly — for the watchful clarions echoed it at 
 Fairlee — the British thousands clanged their brass -bound 
 shields ; and earnestly, with all the good feeling indigenous to 
 England's soil, did many a heart there reproach itself for having 
 doubted Veric. Then did they throng around him ; and he 
 felt himself once more a British king — but alas, for Maachal, 
 sweet Maachal I — and the father fell like a corpse upon that 
 fearfully defined green and bloody pall. 
 
 All is now preparation at St. Martha's ; and, owing to the 
 diaphanous nature of barbarian tactics, all was equally prepara- 
 tion at the colony at Fairlee. If young Mepati, the eldest son 
 of Veric, was busy with his painted peers in chiselling flints 
 into arrow-heads, and fixing them to the feathered reeds, 
 Flavins and Candens, stout lieutenants of the general, were 
 ready with their iron cohort, secured at every part against the 
 night attack. All the outposts upon Blackheath, Wonersh Hill, 
 and Shimley Green had been called in ; the suttlers and camp 
 followers had left their wooden huts, and crowded for security 
 within the diagonal walls of Fairlee : scouts were posted on 
 every eminence around to give notice of the foe's approach, and 
 Plautius with his legion felt never more happy than when he 
 saw that the poor betrayed traitor was falling into the snare 
 prepared for him at Fairlee. 
 
 Red, and robed in lowering clouds, down sank the sun 
 behind the hill of Waverley. There Oxana, the witch, had 
 brewed a magic potion in her caldron, whereby, as by a cordial 
 elixir, Veric had been made invincible by man : there, from her 
 gloomy cell had she uttered out the oracle — 
 
KING VERIC. 247 
 
 " Unscathed, un"besieged, in his own royal home, 
 Veric shall die when his hour is come! " 
 
 This distich, bruited through the gathering host, gave a con- 
 fidence to the Britons which dangerously bordered on contempt 
 for the handful of invaders pent within their rubble walls at 
 Fairlee. Who had ever known Oxana's prophecies to fail? for 
 ninety years the bleared and wrinkled hag had forecast every 
 coming shadow, and well could read the quivering entrails, 
 reeking from the hands of the Ovate ; while the blood of the 
 gentle Maachal, martyr in her country's cause, had insured the 
 patriot bands a leader and a king whom hand of mortal man 
 should never wound or slaughter. 
 
 And now the night was glooming on apace — moonless, chill, 
 and gusty : and, leaving the beacon well heaped, with the old 
 men and the children gathered round, to show as if the multi- 
 tude still rested on the hill-top — down by several paths in many 
 bands, converging upon Fairlee Camp, slowly, and in single 
 files, crept on the host of Britons. One band, headed by the 
 young Mepati, passing what we now call Chilworth and 
 Tangley, skirted Wonersh Hill, and meditated their attack from 
 the west; another, down by the marshy track of Postford, 
 debouched upon Blackheath, to take the enemy on its northern 
 side ; a third, winding along the hanger, surmounted the 
 Weston height and Birkett Wood, so getting to the eastern 
 flank by way of Blackheath Lane ; and a fourth, marching over 
 Albury Heath and Farley Green, were to make a detour to the 
 south, and attack the camp by way of Wood Hill. 
 
 The new moon, which was to rise at one in the morning, was 
 agreed to be the sacred signal for a simultaneous attack : so 
 soon as ever her lower horn topped the old larches upon 
 Abinger mound, the Britons were to rush from the woody 
 ambuscades, and destroy the slumbering hive of Eomans upon 
 bare Fairlee. 
 
 Cleverly, before their advancing bands, the scouts of Plautius 
 noiselessly receded — and all the camp, in deep silence, were 
 awaiting the attack behind their mounds and ramparts, when 
 the crescent slowly rose blood-red upon the eastern sky. With 
 breathless expectation the legionaries stood to arms — for it 
 needed no magician to suggest to them that Veric would fight 
 beneath his favouring planet, and must wait her rising. Hush ! 
 hush I — not a sword-chain jingled at the w^ist — not a war-horso 
 
248 KING VERIO. 
 
 neighed — not a light was seen — not a leaf stirred. All around 
 seemed innocently sleeping nature. 
 
 Suddenly, from every side at once, rushed, with loud shouts, 
 and torches hastily rubbed alight, and flint-topped spears, and 
 heavy celts, and heralded by a shower of sling-stones, the 
 swarming masses of barbarian Britain ! And now the clarion 
 sounds, the standards are reared, and the flare of suttlers' huts, 
 lighted by the patriot torches, reveal the orderly steel-clad 
 cohorts in their battle-array. On one side all is a chaos of 
 wild ungovernable energies; on the other all is placid order, 
 the quiet lion's strength of skill and discipline. Nevertheless, 
 through all that fearful night, by turns on every side, the weary 
 Komans charged among the mass in column, or routed the thick- 
 coming waves of frantic warriors with the serried line of spear 
 and buckler; or, falling on their flanks and rear with the heavy 
 turmse of horsemen, swept away, as by the besom of destruction, 
 the ant-like swarm of patriots. Yea, till the morning's dreary 
 dawn, the fight still waxed more furious, more dubious ; every- 
 where was Veric, slaughtering, unscathed ; everywhere was 
 Mepati, leading on fresh bands to the attack, and firing from 
 all points the wooden huts of the invaders ; everywhere, like a 
 hive of wasps attacking an eagle, the brave barbarians hope- 
 lessly renewed the fight. But, when morning's dawn revealed 
 the slaughter — and showed their own thinned and wasted band 
 of tumultuaries, in hopeless contrast with the unbroken ranks of 
 I^ome — then, pell-mell, as if their courage had indeed been all 
 due to the favouring influence of the queen of night, beneath 
 whose screen they had fought, fled in all directions the skin- 
 clad British host ; — all was ruin, all was confusion — and the 
 fortunes of King Veric were utterly lost ! Mepati alone, and a 
 small band of nobles round him, battled to the end ; and — the 
 last scene has been sung by me in stanzas : so, then, by way of 
 a change, hear, in congenial verse, the end of this prose poem, 
 and see how truly spake the prophetess, that Veric should die 
 at Leith, in his own home, unscathed and unbesieged. 
 
 Veric, the king, in his chariot of war, 
 
 Like a statue straight ripstood, 
 As his scj'thed wheels flashed fast and far, 
 
 Smear'd with the Eoman's blood ; 
 His huge bronze celt was crimson with gore, 
 
 And, round his unlvempt head. 
 The golden fillet his fathers wore 
 
 Was dabbled with drops of red ! 
 
KING VERIO. 
 
 And rage in the monarch's eye hlazed bright, 
 
 And his cheek was deadly pale, 
 For Plautius Aulus had won the fight 
 
 With his mighty men in mail : 
 The carross of "hide and the wicker targe 
 
 Were riddled far and near ; 
 And terrible was the praetorian charge, 
 
 And keen the cohort's spear. 
 
 And over the Hurtwood and over the heath, 
 
 Alone — alive he fl.ed ; 
 For the car bore straight to his stronghold of Leith 
 
 The living— and the dead ! 
 Yonng Mepati lay at his father's feet, 
 
 Hewed by the ruthless foe ; 
 And the bloodhound may track on the trickling peat 
 
 The pathless way they go ! 
 
 Young Mepati — well had he borne him then, 
 
 On Fairlee's fatal day, 
 He boasted that ten of those bearded men 
 
 Had vanished from the fray : 
 His flint-head shafts went merrily home, 
 
 As four hard hearts had felt ; 
 And six of the stalwart guards of Kome 
 
 Had bowed to the stripling's celt ! 
 
 Young Mepati, come of the Comian stock, — 
 
 Ha ! look ! they hem him round, 
 And down is he hurl'd in the battle-shock. 
 
 And trampled to the ground : 
 But Veric has seen with his lightning eye, 
 
 And, struck as the bolt, goodsooth ! 
 Like thundering Thor with his hammer on high, 
 
 He has saved the gallant youth ! 
 
 But woe ! for the foe had smitten him sore ; 
 
 And eight deep wounds in his front, 
 With red lips swore how well the boy bore 
 
 That hideous battle-brunt ! 
 Proudly the monarch smiled on the child. 
 
 In his rescuing arms upborne ; 
 But — all of his son that Veric has won 
 
 Is a corpse by the tigers torn ! 
 
 Then, deep as the ocean's distant roar, 
 
 The father gave a groan — 
 And the Attrebate king by his gods he sworo 
 
 He should not die alone ; 
 Back on their haunches swift he stopped 
 
 Those untamed fiery steeds, 
 As an eagle down on the dovecote dropped, 
 
 Or a whirlwind in the reeds ! 
 
 249 
 
250 KING YERIC. 
 
 And, was it then that the monarch's life 
 
 By the Waverley witch was chann'd ? 
 The javelin sleet of that stern strife 
 
 Around him flew unharm'd 1 
 And weary he cleffc with his wedge of war 
 
 The hundredth foreign hrow, 
 Before he would flee in his iron car, 
 
 As he is fleeing now ! 
 
 For lo ! to that false foe he had lost 
 
 All that a king can lose ; 
 His veteran chiefs, his patriot host, 
 
 Scattered as early dews : 
 Treason had winked at the stranger's gold, 
 
 And faithless friends had fled, — 
 And Mepati's self— his darling hold — 
 
 Alas ! that he is dead ! 
 
 He flies, as only a king may fly, 
 
 To flght yet once agen, — 
 On his hill-top high like a lion to die 
 
 At hay in his o^ti den ! 
 And lo ! the hlack horses are white with foam 
 
 Strong straining up the steep ; 
 To carry the king to his ancient home, — 
 
 Yon i'ar-seen castle keep ! 
 
 But — woe upon woe ! for the wily foe 
 
 Hath heen hefore him there. 
 And, while the lion was prowling helow, 
 
 Hath spoiled the lion's lair : 
 Dead, dead, and stark, and smear'd with gore, 
 
 Beneath a smouldering heap, 
 Wife, daughters, and sons, and the grandsire hoar, 
 
 On death's red ashes sleep ! 
 
 Then hurst in agony, rage, and pain, 
 
 That nohle hroken heart ; 
 And under his beetled hrows like rain, 
 
 The spouting tears did start ; 
 And down like a poll-axed hull he drops. 
 
 And weak on the threshold lies, 
 The wellspring of life freezes and stops — 
 
 He dies— the hero dies ! 
 
 But, look ! a light on his royal brow, 
 
 A strange prophetic flame — 
 The spirit of Vola over him now 
 
 In solemn calmness came ! 
 He saw the Gael at the gates of Rome, 
 
 And carnage on the track,_ 
 And Britain's spoilers hun-ying homo 
 
 To drive the terror back. 
 
KING VERIC. 251 
 
 He saw in the midst of his native plains 
 
 Fairlee's polluted hill, — 
 Where Rome so long should forge her chains 
 
 To bind the Briton still,— 
 He saw it ruin'd, and burnt, and bare ; 
 
 And — from one mite of gold, 
 He saw a Saxon stranger there 
 
 Eead off this tale of old ! 
 
 And I wot not that either Dion Cassius or Gabriel Brotier, 
 or even Beale Posts himself, can tell of King Veric more, or 
 more truly, than, reader, is recorded here. 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE 
 
 BY MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 " Why, then, Grace, where was the good of all the larning I 
 gave you, girl darlint, if you won't read us what's on the paper ? 
 sure it's pleasant at times to hear the news." 
 
 " Uncle, dear, sure it's all the pleasure in life I'd have in 
 accommodating you," replied Grace, still continuing to twirl 
 her wheel ; " only that, you see, I can't read and spin at the 
 same time." 
 
 " What news you tell us," persisted Corney Burnett, or, as he 
 was commonly called, " Black Burnett ;" " what news youtell us. 
 Whoever expected you to read and spin at the same time ? 
 And indeed, dear Grace, it's glad of an excuse I'd be, set aside 
 the reading, to get you from your wheel; the bur and the twirl 
 of it's never out of my eyes nor ears." 
 
 " It's eager to make the linen I am, to keep us clean and 
 comfortable, — and you above all, uncle ; to see you comfortable, 
 sure, is the pride of my life, to say nothing of the blessing." 
 
 " Thank you, Grace ; I believe it from my heart. And why 
 shouldn't I? since the day I promised my poor brother (God be 
 good to him I) to be a father to the both of you, I never had a 
 care on your account anyhow." 
 
 *' Nor on account of poor Michael, either, uncle. Poor 
 Michael, for the sense God has left in him, is as good a boy as 
 is to be found in a month of Sundays." 
 
 " Ay," replied Burnett, sorrowfully ; " but it's very mournful 
 to see Iiim sitting there, staring into the turf-fire, and seeming 
 to care for nothing on the Kving earth but that cur of a dog." 
 
 *' Snap loves him dearly : it's wonderful, so it is, to see how 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 253 
 
 he watches every turn Michael takes ; the poor haste's eye is 
 never tired looking at him, nor his ear never shut to his voice," 
 said Grace, putting aside her wheel and unfolding the remnants 
 of a tattered newspaper. 
 
 " Eead the news — read the news," reiterated the half-idiot 
 boy, who had been, as his uncle truly said, staring into the 
 turf-fire, his dog curled round his feet, and his long bony fingers 
 clasped over his knees. " Read the news, Grace. What you 
 see wrong in others, mend in yourself, — w^hat you see wrong in 
 others, mend in yourself : — is that the news, Grace ? " 
 
 Grace could hardly forbear smiling at the rapidity with 
 which he pronounced and repeated a sentence that had obtained 
 for him the soubriquet of *' Preaching Michael ;" and she replied, 
 " I think, Mick, honey, it would be news if people did so." 
 
 " Ay," repeated the idiot, ** what you see wrong in others, 
 mend in yourself." 
 
 "Hold your whisht,* will you?" exclaimed Black Burnett. 
 " What name's to the paper you've got, Grace ? " 
 
 " That's more than I can tell you, uncle dear," replied the 
 gentle girl; "for the name's clean tore off: but sure it's no 
 matter for the name ; one paper's as good as another." 
 
 " Oh ! be quiet, now ; don't you mind that some papers are 
 for one side, and some for t'other, — and both can't be right, 
 that's an impossibility. How ould is it ? " 
 
 " I can't tell that either, uncle ; but it can't be very ould, tor 
 just down here it says that small bonnets are all the thing, and 
 the last time Mrs. Hays, of the big house, was past here, she 
 had a hat like a griddle : so, as she's tip-top, she'd have tip-top 
 fashions — why not ? So I'm sure the paper's not over a fortnight 
 printed, any way." 
 
 **' Well, read what they're after saying in the big houses of 
 parliament ; read every word, not as you did the last loan of a 
 paper I had : Barney Doolen told me twice as much out of it as 
 you read, Grace." 
 
 "Barney made it, then," exclaimed Grace, nevertheless 
 colouring deeply — for she knew the charge was not altogether 
 unfounded, as she was in the habit of skipping a great deal. 
 " Barney made the news, I say, uncle ; for I read it from top 
 to bottom, — and then again, and again, — and most of it back- 
 wards to plaze you : it took me as long as I'd spin a pound of 
 flax — so it did." 
 
 ♦ Keep silence. 
 
254; THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 " I wish I knew if that paper was one of the right sort," said 
 Burnett, without heeding her observation. 
 
 " I'm sure it is," she replied ; " for at the very top it 
 begins with * Father Mulvaney's Sarmon.' " 
 
 " A priest's sarmon put on the paper," repeated the good 
 old man, rubbing his hands gleesomely, and drawing his 
 *' creepie " closer to the fire ; ''let's have it, Grace. Now show 
 your fine larning, my girl ; — but aisy, there, — first let me light 
 my doodeen* Augh ! " he continued, after screwing up his 
 tobacco in a piece of dirty brown paper and thrusting it into a 
 hole in the wall " for safety." " Augh ! Grady's tobacco isn't 
 worth a farthing a pound — he always keeps it in paper." 
 
 " What you see wrong in others, mend in yourself," exclaimed 
 the natural. 
 
 " He has you there," laughed pretty Grace, as she glanced at 
 the paper-ends sticking out of the wall. 
 
 *' Read the sarmon, — one at a time, if you plaze, Miss Grace," 
 said Burnett, looking serious ; but Grace, before she did her 
 uncle's bidding, sprung up, and kissed his wrinkled cheek- 
 affectionately, whispering, '' You are not angry with your own 
 poor Grace ?" The seriousness passed from the old man's brow, 
 and Grace commenced showing her " larning." She had not 
 finished the iirst sentence, however, when she stopped, and said, 
 " Uncle, it's very strange, but this sarmon is spelt quare — not in 
 good English." 
 
 " A mighty fine judge you are, to be sure," rephed Burnett, 
 again roused to the " short passing anger." " A mighty fine 
 scholar you must be to faut a priest's sarmon and the printing 
 of a newspaper I I suppose you'll be for preaching and printing 
 yourself." 
 
 Grace recommenced : — 
 
 *• * Boys and girls — but most particularly boys — we must all 
 die I Ay, indeed die, — as sure as grass grows or wather runs. 
 Now you see that the great min of oidd times are all dead I Not 
 a mortial sowl of thim all alive.' Uncle," said Grace, pausing, 
 *' do you think that's true ? " 
 
 " True ! " repeated Black Burnett, not looking in the mildest 
 manner from under the deep and shaggy brows which had 
 gained him his cognomen ; " to be sure ; and to all reason it's 
 true. Show me one of the people of ould times that's alive." 
 
 ** Molly Myran, of Crag's-pass, near Carrickburn, 's above a 
 
 * Pipe. 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 255 
 
 hundred," replied Grace, who feared, she hardly knew T\hy, 
 that the sermon was a sort of quiz upon the priesthood, though 
 she dared not say so. 
 
 " Mohy Myran I " again repeated her uncle, contemptuously. 
 " Heaven help the child I Sure no one 's worth talking of 
 amongst the rale ancients that's less than a thousand or two I 
 Go on with the sarmon." 
 
 Grace continued — 
 
 " 'There was Julus Sasar, and twelve of them there was — 
 mortus est — he's dead !' " 
 
 " Morty who?" inquired Burnett, sharply. 
 
 ^^ Mortus est ! — M-O-R," continued poor Grace, reading, and 
 then spelling the letters. 
 
 " I hope you are reading what's on the paper," persisted her 
 uncle, doubtingly. 
 
 ** As true as Gospel," she replied, " that is what I'm reading. 
 'There was the great Cleopathra, an Egyptian, and a grate 
 warrior ; he used to dhrink pur/s for wather — mortus est — he's 
 dead, too I There was Mark Antony, a great frind and co- 
 adjuthor of Cleopathra's, he had a grate turn for boating and the 
 like — mortus est — he's dead, too ! There was Charleymange, a 
 grate Frinchman of larning and tongues, and with all his 
 larning — mortus est ! — he's dead, too ! There was the grate 
 Alexandre, the gineral of the whole wide world — ' " 
 
 "Lord save usl" ejaculated the old man, as he knocked the 
 ashes out of his pipe against a stone which projected from the 
 back of the chimney. 
 
 " * The whole wide world I ' " repeated Grace ; " ' he used to 
 roar and bawl whenever he couldn't set a faction fight a-foot ; 
 and it isn't at that he'd stop, if he had his own way, for it was 
 all fun to him — mortus est — he's dead, too ! There was the 
 rate Cicero, a mighty fine preacher, like myself — mortus est — 
 he's dead, too. There was the wonderful Arkimedays, he was 
 a great magician, an admiral, and a navigator ; he used to set 
 ships o' fire by just looking at them through a spy-glass ; he had 
 an eye, boys, like a process — mortus est — he's dead, too ! ' " 
 
 " Grace," interrupted the old man, " I believe, after all, you're 
 right. I wish I had the name of the paper. I don't think it's 
 of the true sort, so I'll roul it up, put it into my pocket, show it 
 to his reverence at the ' station ' on Friday, and ask him if the 
 earmon's a right one." 
 
 " Just let me go over it a bit first," said Grace, intending 
 
 G 
 
256 THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 doubtless to refer to the paragraphs on fashion, as all girls in 
 Ireland and out of Ireland invariably do. " Sure, I'm not so 
 fond of spending my time at anything of the sort." She con- 
 tinued looking over column after column, until at last she came 
 to a name she thought she had heard her uncle speak of. 
 
 *' Didn't you know one James Kenneth, uncle ? " 
 
 '•To be sure I did, Grace. What has honest Jemmy been 
 after, to be put on the paper ? " 
 
 " He's dead, uncle." 
 
 " The Lord be good to us ! " ejaculated the old man ; " James 
 Kenneth was fifteen years to the good younger than me I — My 
 poor Grace ! " 
 
 " Why, what had I to do with him ? " inquired the girl, 
 astonished at her uncle's earnestness. 
 
 " Not much, to be sure, — and yet you had, Grace, as a body 
 may say." 
 
 " But what's very strange, uncle, is, that just under his death, 
 is the death of his son Thomas, — a young man in his seven- 
 teenth year I " 
 
 Grace was so intent on the paragraph, for people are always 
 touched by the deaths of those who are nearly their own age, 
 that she kept her eyes fixed on the paper, and it was some 
 minutes before she perceived that a death-like pallor had over- 
 spread her uncle's countenance. She sprang from her seat 
 when she perceived it, and flinging her arms round his neck, 
 inquired if he was ill. 
 
 I have observed the manifestations of joy and grief in the 
 inhabitants of many lands. The Scotch are wisely taught from 
 infancy to subdue their feelings ; they bring them at an early 
 period of life under a quaker-like subjection, which, though 
 decidedly advantageous to themselves, throws a coldness upon the 
 feelings of others. The expressions of English sympathy or 
 anxiety, though the sincerest in the world, are blunt and un- 
 graceful. You feel that those of French tenderness are tricked 
 and garlanded with a view to effect ; their tears are shed after 
 a form — their sorrow is made picturesque. But the anxiety, 
 earnestness, the truthfulness of Irish sympathy, sorrow, or ten- 
 derness, burst uncontrolled from the heart, — the young heart, I 
 should say, for old hearts learn how to regulate their feelings, 
 and it is well they do, for otherwise they would go wounded and 
 tortured to their graves. To one accustomed only to the well- 
 bred habits of modern society, the earnest and gushing sympathy 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 267 
 
 with which an Irish girl enters into the joys, griefs, hopes, and 
 fears, of those she loves, presents quite a new and delightful 
 reading of human nature, — it is most beautiful and eloquent in 
 its character. She loses all consideration of self — she weeps — 
 she laughs — because those she loves weep or laugh. She forgets 
 that she is a separate creation — and feels as if created for her 
 friends — friends I — the word is all too cold to express her devo- 
 tion, it must be seen to be understood — excited, or it can never 
 be appreciated as it deserves. Grace Burnett was a creature of 
 smiles and tears — a sunbeam or a shadow. She had never been 
 seen to frown, though she was often sad, because her uncle was 
 at times moody, even to ill-temper — the neighbours said they 
 sometimes pitied her ; had they understood the happiness she 
 felt in soothing his irritations, they would have envied her 
 her delight wlien saying — " No one can please my dear uncle 
 half as well as I." Grace was proud of the influence her affec- 
 tionate gentleness had gained over Black Burnett. And now, 
 when she hung round him and inquired so earnestly if he was 
 ill, and what troubled him, she thought her heart would break 
 at his continued silence : even her idiot brother seemed to sym- 
 pathise with her — he fidgeted on his seat, looked at her, shuffled 
 his fingers through his hair, and at last came and stood by her 
 side. 
 
 " Something's come entirely over him that I've no skill in," 
 said she at last despairingly, '* Mick, speak to him, Mick — he'll 
 mind you, maybe." 
 
 " What you see wrong in others, mend in yourself," muttered 
 the idiot. 
 
 " Ay, Grace — my poor Grace — and that's it, sure enough," 
 said her uncle, recovering from his stupor — "that's it I — the 
 sarmon that poor natural preaches was evermore in my ear, and 
 maybe that was the reason it did not reach my heart — ' What 
 you see wrong in others, mend in yourself.' Wasn't I constant 
 at Mr. Hanway, of Mount Grove, to get a lease of years, instead 
 of lives, for his farm ? — didn't I worry Mr. Maguire till he had 
 his lease properly drawn ? — and when forty acres of the best 
 arable land in the county went clean out of the hands of 
 Nicholas Cruise, who passed so many censures on his careless- 
 ness as Black Burnett?" 
 
 " What you see wrong in others, mend in yourself," again 
 said Michael. 
 
 ''By the blessed saints!" exclaimed Burnett, his agitated 
 
258 THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 feelings taking another turn, and glad of escape by words or 
 violence, " if you repeat that to me again, you poor tantahsing 
 ill-featured fool ! I'll find if there's any brains in your skull I — 
 It's a purty thing for you to be reproaching me, that nursed 
 you since you came out of your shell." Michael and Snap 
 paired off into the chimney-corner, and Grace burst into tears. 
 
 " Ay, cry ; — you may well cry, Grace, but it's no use. I'm 
 ould, and almost helpless — and God only knows," continued 
 the farmer, as he paced up and down the spacious kitchen, 
 which his father and grandfather had trod before him, " God 
 only knows how long I may be in the land of the living ; and 
 then, Grace, then what's to become of you ?" 
 
 " Me, uncle ?" 
 
 "Ay, you, uncle I — why you're growing as great an 
 omadawn'^ as your brother ! " 
 
 Grace feared to ask a question, but still the tears rained down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ** Hav'n't you heard me say that I had three lives in the new 
 lease of this place — James Kenneth, and his son Thomas — 
 Thomas, who was born the same year as you, my poor Grace 
 — and — but the Lord forgive me, what an ould sinner I am I — 
 Tom Kenneth, cut off, as a body may say, in the very bud of 
 his youth — the same age as you, Gracy — within a week the 
 same age — yet he is taken — a fine, strong, healthy boy — 
 he is taken — and you, a delicate, weakly girl, but the dehght 
 and treasure of your uncle's heart — you are left upon the earth, 
 and in my own house, to bless it, as you have always done. 
 God forgive me my sins I — but I was always a passionate man 
 — hot and hasty — you'll forgive me, my child!" 
 
 The old man kissed the daughter of his heart and his adoption ; 
 and at once the sorrow passed from her lovely face — quicker 
 than she could wipe away the tears. 
 
 " Sure, thanks be to God, I've heard you say that your own 
 life's in the lease, and sure that's to the good still, and will be, 
 please the Almighty, for many a long day to come. And, 
 uncle dear, maybe the landlord will still renew it, upon years; 
 — and even if he didn't, don't fret on our account, for " 
 
 Before she could finish her sentence there was a loud knock 
 at the cottage -door. Snap, in his eagerness to investigate the 
 character and demands of the visitor, overturned the wheel, and 
 
 Fool. 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 269 
 
 without heeding the mischief he had done, poked his snub nose 
 through an aperture in the post, and growled angrily. 
 
 The visitor opened the door at which he knocked before 
 Burnett had time to raise the latch ; but Grace, as her uncle 
 turned to do so, made time enough to whisper Michael, " If 
 you'll be a good boy, and not repeat what vexed uncle just now, 
 for three days, I'll give you a rosy-cheeked apple, and butter to 
 the potatoes for a week." Mick laughed with delight, and 
 Grace finished her speech just in time to say, " Kindly wel- 
 come," illustrated by a pretty curtsey to the muffled-up stranger, 
 who was now standing in the midst of the apartment. He was 
 a stout, thick-set man, whose blue great-coat, strong brogues, 
 and w^ell -fitting beaver, told of his belonging to the " warmer" 
 portion of the commonalty ; — his " shillelah " was more carved 
 than as it is usually seen in a countryman's hand, and when he 
 poHtely removed his hat, his brown clustering hair curled around 
 a handsome, yet disagreeable countenance ; — at least so Grace 
 considered it — she thought of the simile in the mock sermon 
 she had just read, of " a look being as bad as a process ; " and 
 after dusting a chair with her apron, and pushing it towards 
 him, she waited, expecting that he would speak in reply to the 
 friendly greetings he had already received. He stood, however, 
 in his old position, looking alternately at Burnett, at Grace, at 
 Michael, and then investigating, with curious eye, every article 
 of furniture in the kitchen — the delft neatly arranged upon the 
 dresser — the three deal chairs — the stools and "bosses" — the 
 noggins — the settle — the wheel; that most unusual piece of 
 furniture in an Irish cottage — a small work-table, and a neat 
 book-shelf '•' facing the dresser," — all were scrutinised — until at 
 last Burnett became annoyed at his visitor's rudeness, and in a 
 rough tone said, " he hoped he liked all he saw, for he would be 
 sure to know them again." 
 
 " Ay," repKed the man ; *' hke, to be sure I do — everything 
 
 here is to be liked — and " his eye glanced famiharly at 
 
 Grace — " loved, for the matter of that ; but " he paused, 
 
 and looked round again — and again. 
 
 " It's a wild night, and I'm thinking you'd better take an 
 air of the fire," said Burnett. 
 
 " Thank ye, so I will ; it feels very comfortable," said the 
 stranger, walking under the shadow of the wide chimney, and 
 spreading out his hands to the heat, which Grace had increased 
 by the addition of some " sods" of turf. " The boy— a natural 
 
260 THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 — the dog," he continued, talking aloud, and yet as if to him- 
 eelf — " the dog, the pretty girl — everything exactly as I saw it. 
 It is very strange I " 
 
 '* May I make so bould as to ask what is so strange ?" in- 
 quired Burnett. 
 
 " Everything — everything here," he replied, turning his hack 
 to the fire, and again surveying the apartment. 
 
 " Nothing out of the common, sir, barring Grace's little work- 
 table — a compliment from the carpenter," observed the simple- 
 minded man, while Grace blushed at the allusion to her — (truth 
 will out) — her lover ! 
 
 " Stranger and stranger still," resumed the traveller ; " and 
 that that young lady's name should be Grace I" 
 
 " Young lady I " repeated Burnett ; " she's an honest man's 
 daughter, and a good little girl, but no lady." 
 
 " She's your niece, and that poor fellow's your nephew, and 
 that dog's name is Snap, and your name is Corney Burnett, 
 commonly called Black Corney, or Black Burnett." 
 
 " Holy Mary defend us I " ejaculated Grace, crossing herself ; 
 even Mick opened his large brown eyes ; while their uncle said, 
 *' Why, then, it's known you must be among the neighbours, 
 though you're strange to me, and your tongue's not of this 
 country." 
 
 " I have walked seventeen miles since I entered a house — I 
 was never in this part of the world before — and I was born in 
 foreign parts ; and yet I am as much at home here as if I had 
 lived in the parish all my life I Every stick of your furniture 
 I feel as used to as if it had been my own I " 
 
 Black Burnett crossed himself as he turned to look round his 
 cottage, and Grace slid slily out of the kitchen into her little 
 chamber, and dipping her fingers in the vase of holy water that 
 hung at the head of her humble bed, sprinkled herself with it ; 
 wetting her fingers again, so that on her return to the kitchen 
 she might convey a few drops to her brother's person : her 
 uncle wore a scapular, so she considered him safe. 
 
 " Why, then, may I ask again how you gained your informa- 
 tion," questioned Burnet, as he seated himself opposite his 
 mystifying guest, who, on Grace's return, was seated also. 
 
 " Indeed, you may," he replied, " and, what's not always the 
 case, I'll answer you — I dreamt it!** Upon this tliere was a 
 loud exclamation, and a general crossing succeeded. Their 
 visitor looked round and smiled. " Do not be ashamed of your 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 2G1 
 
 religion, my good friends ; I have been in many countries, and 
 one religion's as good as another, if acted up to ; that's my 
 belief. Cross yourself again, my pretty maid, and you, too, 
 Master Burnett, and I will tell you how it was; but first let 
 me ask, is there not a deep line of sand-pits near this, a hule 
 way off the road leading to the left V " 
 
 " There is ! " replied the uncle and niece together. 
 
 " And — now mark me ! — is there not a very large elm-tree 
 a few perches farther on ?" 
 
 " There is I " responded the same voices. 
 
 " And when you pass that, you descend a steep, green 
 valley ? " 
 
 '' You do I " 
 
 " At the foot of the valley runs a bright clear stream, with a 
 bridge over it ? " 
 
 " There did run a stream there," said Burnett ; " but Peter 
 Pike turned it into his mill-dam, as I told him, contrary to 
 nature and Act of Parliament ; so that now there's a bridge 
 without any water under it." 
 
 The traveller's countenance fell, but it brightened immedi- 
 ately, and he continued : *' And farther down that stream are 
 the ruins of an old abbey ; and under the south window of that 
 abbey stands a broad, flat, marble stone ?" 
 
 '• Ay, true enough," said Burnett ; " I've pegged my top on 
 it many a time when I was a boy." 
 
 " Peter Pike, then, has not turned that stone into his mill- 
 dam," persisted the stranger, smiling ; " and as it remains there 
 — why, my friend, our fortune's made — that's all ! " 
 
 " I don't see — I don't understand — you've not insensed* me 
 into it yet," said Burnett. 
 
 " The time's not come for telling all. I have said enough 
 to prove to you that, without ever having been here before, I 
 knew exactly what I have told, and more too, which, when I 
 have had some refreshment, you shall know." 
 
 What the Irish peasant has to give he gives freely, be it 
 much or little. Hospitality has been called the virtue of savage 
 life ; be it so ; its exercise is delightful to the wayfarer. As 
 the evening advanced, it was evident that, notwithstanding 
 Grace's desire to hear all the stranger had to communicate, he 
 was not disposed to gratify her curiosity, and she and her 
 brother were soon dismissed to their beds. There was a half- 
 * Enlightened. 
 
262 THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 finished closet inside Grace Burnett's little room, which served 
 (if truth must be told) as the nursing-chamber of a pet calf, 
 which she was rearing with more than ordinary care ; for the 
 creature was milk-white, devoid of spot or blemish, and conse- 
 quently regarded with superstitious tenderness. As the stranger 
 was to occupy Mick's bed, the poor natural was content to share 
 the calf s straw ; but when his sister went to cover him with a 
 supernumerary blanket, she found him sitting, his arms enfold- 
 ing the neck of his favourite dog, and his eyes staring with the 
 expression of one who listens attentively. 
 
 " Go to sleep, Michael," 
 
 " Whisht ! " exclaimed the boy, holding up his finger. 
 
 " What's ails you, Astore ? " 
 
 " Whisht I " he again repeated. 
 
 " Lie down, Michael." 
 
 " No, no ! I saw — whisht ! — I saw what Lanty Pike kills the 
 birdeens with, peepin', peepin' in the strange man's breast — I 
 saw the muzzle of it — he ! he ! Uncle's the fool, if uncle trusts 
 him — whisht I " 
 
 The astonishment occasioned by the stranger's story at once 
 faded from Grace's mind ; but if it did, her first impressions 
 returned with tenfold strength. How was her uncle to make 
 his fortune? What connection could he have with the tra- 
 veller's dream, or the broad, flat stone in the old grey abbey ? 
 Her spirit sank within her. A tythe-proctor had been mur- 
 dered about two years before, and thrown into the gravel-pit. 
 Her heart beat feebly within her bosom, and half creeping, half 
 staggering, to the door of her chamber, she put her eye close 
 to the latch-hole, and saw, to her astonishment, her uncle 
 evidently preparing to accompany the stranger out, though the 
 night was dark and stormy ; the traveller was already equipped, 
 and Black Burnett was putting on his " big coat." Nor did it 
 escape the girl's observation, that the whisky bottle was nearly 
 empty, and that, though the stranger w^as perfectly sober, her 
 uncle's cheek was flushed, and his step unsteady. She was 
 about to let them see that she was not gone to bed, and to 
 entreat her uncle not to go forth that night, when she remem- 
 bered that their cottage was *' a good step " from any other 
 dwelling, and that if their mysterious guest intended violence, 
 he could easily overpower a half-drunken man and a feeble girl; 
 poor Michael was always counted as nothing. She saw her 
 uncle take up his spade from out the corner, and, notwithstand- 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 263 
 
 ing the stranger's entreaties to be permitted to carry it, she was 
 pleased to observe he persisted in his determination to bear it 
 himself. A tremor she could not account for came over her, 
 and as they closed the outer door, she nearly fainted. 
 
 Black Burnett and his visitor proceeded on their way in the 
 direction of the gravel-pits. 
 
 " You're sure of the road?" inquired the stranger. 
 
 " Am I sure that this is my own hand?" replied Burnett; 
 " first the gravel-pits— then the bridge— no, then the elm— then 
 the bridge— then the ould abbey— then the flat stone! Ah I 
 what will the neighbours say, when Grace flourishes off to mass 
 on a side-saddle ?^ and to think of your bringing me such news 
 just as I'd got into the doldrums about the lease. Three days- 
 three nights, I mean— since you dreamt of the goold?" 
 
 ''Three, exactly." 
 
 "Under the flat stone?" 
 
 " Ay ! do let me carry the spade ; and see, as we seem to be 
 on the edge of the gravel-pit, had you not better walk next to 
 it ? you know it, and I don't." 
 
 " I thought you said you war up to every turn of the crag, 
 through the drame ?" 
 
 " Ay, to be sure ; but give me the spade." 
 
 " I tell you I won't ; hav'n't you the bag that's to carry home 
 the red goold ? Lord, how they will all stare I Grace shan't 
 put off ould uncle then with a bottle of whisky; I'll have a whole 
 cask ! Whir, man alive ! can't you walk straight, as I do ? you 
 almost had me over the edge of the pit, and there's good six feet 
 wather in the bottom of it. There, just where the moon shines, 
 is the elm-tree, and " 
 
 In all human probabiHty the word v/ould have been his last, 
 for the murderer's grasp was on the arm of his intended victim, 
 but that Michael— the half-idiot Michael— with a whoop and a 
 halloo, bearing a lighted stick in his hand, rushed so closely by 
 them that the sparks of his wild brand starred the stranger's 
 coat ; while Snap, hearing his master's voice, barked either in 
 glee or anger. 
 
 " Hurroo ! hurroo ! Uncle, uncle, here's the hght for your's 
 or the devil's pipe I Hurroo! night-rovers — ill-gatherers I 
 hurroo! hurroo!" and shouting and jumping, Michael kept 
 before his uncle, now tossing his torch into the air, and then 
 whirling it round his head. 
 
 " Send the cub to his den," said the stranger, in so fierce a 
 
264: THE LAST IX THE LEASE. 
 
 tone of voice, that the inebriated Burnett noted the change, and 
 turned to look at his companion. 
 
 ** Send the idiot home," he continued, '' or by the Lord, I'll 
 send him somewhere else!" and, as he spoke, he drew a pistol 
 from his vest. 
 
 The sight of the weapon sobered the old man in a moment. 
 " Stop ! stop ! " he exclaimed, " if you hurt a hair of that boy's 
 head, you'll pay for it — that's all. You're no true man to draw 
 a pistol on such a natural as that; — besides, what use have you 
 for the fire-arms ?" 
 
 "Use!" repeated the traveller; ''why, you know^ your 
 country has not the reputation of being the quietest in the 
 world. So, for my own personal safety " 
 
 '•'Quietest!" repeated Burnett; "I'll trouble you not to say 
 anything against the country. I'm thinking you're not the 
 sort I took you for — to offer to fire at a poor natural, whom 
 every man in the parish would fight to purtect ; and then to 
 abuse Quid Ireland!" 
 
 " My good friend," interrupted the stranger, " let me beg of 
 you to send that boy home ; to trust our secret with an idiot 
 would be absurd in the extreme." 
 
 " As to getting Michael in, when Michael would rather be 
 out, I might as well tie a rat with a sugan.* There's no use in 
 gainsaying the poor natural. So I'm thinking the night is so 
 wild, and that crathur so bent upon watching what I'm after, 
 that we'd better go back ; — to-morrow night will do as well." 
 
 " If you'd just let me frighten him with a flash in the pan, it 
 would send him to bed as gentle as a fawn." 
 
 " Flash in the pan ! God help you^ man alive ! — the whisper 
 of a pistol even would send Michael over the town-land before 
 you could say Bannachar; and he'd have a crowd round us that 
 would beat a priest's funeral to nothing. No, no ; all we've for 
 it to-night, is to back and be aisy." 
 
 Burnett was determined, and his companion was compelled to 
 submit, after trying in vain to impress upon the farmer's mind that 
 as it was the third night after the dream, it was particularly 
 favourable for such an adventure. 
 
 " Sure the goold is there, and if it has stayed there for maybe 
 
 a hundred or two years, what's to take it away now, or before 
 
 to-mcrrow night?" argued Black Burnett; but I much doubt 
 
 if the idea w'ould have influenced him, had not the sight of the 
 
 * Straw rope. 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 266 
 
 pistol awoke his suspicions, or, as lie said himself, if something 
 had not " come over him " that turned him homeward. 
 
 The next morning the stranger lingered about the cottage, 
 making himself familiar with every winding path in the vicinity, 
 and trying, as it is called, to " make friends " with Michael. 
 Michael, however, was true to his first feelings, and eyed the 
 stranger as a shy dog may often be observed to regard a person 
 who has treated him secretly with harshness, and yet would 
 wish to be on outward terms of civility. He offered him 
 gingerbread — Michael threw it in the fire; nuts — he flung them 
 back into his lap. In the favour of Grace, he made no progress 
 either. His compliments were unregarded ; and to complete 
 his mortification, the favoured carpenter came to stay there for 
 a day or two. He could not help thinking tliat the carpenter 
 had been sent for, either by Grace or Michael, as a spy upon 
 his actions. He saw that every movement he made, every 
 word he spoke, was watched, and whatever plan of action he 
 had formed was evidently frustrated for the present. Black 
 Burnett talked to his guest eagerly of the anticipated treasure ; 
 whatever suspicions or fears had been awakened in his mind 
 had passed away with the darkness of night, and his habitual 
 incaution and natural obstinacy tended to make him as easy a 
 prey as a murderer could desire. The next night it blew a 
 perfect hurricane — the sort of storm which a strong man cannot 
 stand in — and the thunder and the lightning sported in their 
 fierceness with the winds and rain. The door of the cottage 
 was forced in more than once ; and as the fire gleamed upon 
 the stranger's face (for he had gathered himself np, silent 
 moody, and disappointed, in Burnett's chimney-corner), Grace 
 could hardly forbear thinking him the incarnation of an evil 
 spirit. If superstition detracts from our wisdom, it adds to our 
 poetry ; it is the high -priest of a poetic mind, and I much 
 doubt if a vivid imagination could exist without it. There is 
 often more genuine poetry in the mind of an Irish peasant than 
 critics would deem possible. The weather was such that no 
 one dared venture out ; and the more terrific the storm, the 
 more Michael rejoiced. He leaped — he clapped his hands; he 
 seemed to his sister as if under the impression that his uncle 
 owed his safety to the war of elements, which shook to the foun- 
 dation their humble dwelling. At intervals the visitor and his 
 host would look out upon the night, but it was only to return 
 with discomfited aspects to their seats. 
 
26G THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 *' Uncle," said Grace, drawing him gently aside, " uncle, 
 darlint, I want to spake a word to ye ; it's about the lase, uncle. 
 Matthew (her lover) has tould me that the landlord himself will 
 be passing through Ross to-morrow, and he doesn't want any 
 of us to know it, because he's always bothered about leases and 
 the like ; and you are sensible* no Irish gentleman in the world 
 likes to be tormented about business of any kind — he'd rather 
 let it take its own course without toil ; but Matthew says, uncle, 
 that maybe, as my mother nursed him, and poor Mike — weak 
 though he is — is his own foster-brother, if I watched and could 
 get a glimpse of him, he'd spake to me anyhow." 
 
 ** I wouldn't be under a compliment to him for the lase," 
 replied Burnett, proudly. '' Maybe, Grace, it's more than 
 himself I'll have one of these days." 
 
 " Sure it's no compliment, if we pay the same as another ; and 
 you were never a galej- behindhand in your life. And, uncle, 
 honey ! if it's trusting to drames you are " 
 
 "You're not going to prache to me, are you?" said the 
 impatient man, interrupting her. 
 
 *' No, not prache, only there's a look betwixt yon man's two 
 eyes that has no mercy in it. Uncle, a-cushla — take care 
 of him ! " 
 
 " You're a little fool — a worse natural than Mike — that's 
 what you are I " 
 
 " But you'll take care — and about the lase ? " 
 
 *' Let me alone, will you ? Grace, you're a spiled girl — that's 
 what you are — and it's myself spiled you," replied Burnett, 
 turning again to look out on the night, which, fortunately for 
 him, was worse than ever. It was long past two before the 
 family retired to rest ; but Grace's head was too full to sleep. 
 She was up with the lark ; a calm and beautiful morning had 
 succeeded the storm. Matthew, her handsome lover, was soon 
 roused from his light slumbers in the barn, and she counselled 
 with him long and earnestly upon her plans. 
 
 " The terror of that strange man leaves my heart when the 
 daylight comes," said the innocent girl, " and yet I don't like to 
 quit him alone with JMike and uncle. Mike thinks he'd have 
 pitched uncle into the gravel-pits, Thursday night, but for him ; 
 to be sure, there's no minding what Mike says." 
 
 Matthew thought differently ; he said he had observed that, 
 at times, her brother evinced much intelligence. 
 
 * Aware. f Quarter's rent. 
 
THE LAST IX THE LEASE. 267 
 
 "The landlord will be in Ross about eleven, you say; and it's 
 a long walk from this. A-weary on the drames ! But lor the 
 dramer, uncle himself would go, I know; — and yet there's 
 truth in them at times — and it was wonderful how hs knew 
 us all." 
 
 Matthew smiled. 
 
 *' Can't I go myself, and you stay here ? " she continued. 
 
 No ; Matthew would not do that. What, let her go alone, aa 
 if no one cared for her, to meet her young and handsome land- 
 lord I — be didn't care about the lease — not he — but to suffer her 
 to go alone! If she thought it would make her mind easy, his 
 brother Brien, the stonemason, should go to work at the New 
 Pier " forenent " the bouse, and he would be a safeguard. 
 
 That was a pleasant proposal ; and in her eager desire to 
 obtain a promise from the landlord that he would grant her 
 uncle a lease of years, she more than half persuaded herself thajt 
 her fears were imaginary. " At all events," she argued, " no 
 harm can happen him in the bames of the blessed sun. I'll be 
 back before night; and if I do but bring the promise — the 
 written promise from the landlord — uncle will be in a good 
 humour ; and then, maybe — maybe — I'd coax him over to give 
 up the drame, and take a fresh oath against the whisky ! " 
 
 Poor, poor Grace I 
 
 She wakened Michael, and telling him to take care of his 
 uncle, promised him some fresh gingerbread if he was a good 
 boy, and kept his pledge ; and having first left the breakfast 
 ready, set off on her adventure, escorted by as true a lover, and 
 as sensible a friend, as ever fell to the lot of a country girl. 
 
 Matthew is a perfect jewel in his way — sober, attentive, and 
 industrious; — fond of his home— of his wife, and children; — 
 worthy to be held up as a pattern to all the married men in his 
 country, whether poor or rich. I honour Matthew, and think 
 him — (and that is saying a great deal) — as good as any English 
 husband of my acquaintance. 
 
 When Black Burnett got up, he was not a little annoyed at 
 finding that pretty Grace had disappeared, contrary to his desire ; 
 and though he well knew the cause of her absence, for once he 
 had the prudence to keep his own counsel, saying only to hia 
 guest that she had gone to Ross. During the early part of the 
 day the visitor walked about as he had done before ; but at 
 noon the mason saw a strange boy give him a piece of paper — 
 a note or parcel — he could not tell which, it was so " squcegcd'* 
 
268 THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 
 
 between their hands ; but something of that sort it certainly 
 was. 
 
 After dinner, the stranger proposed that he should accompany 
 Black Burnett a little way on the Ross road, to meet Grace on 
 her return ; nor did he ol)ject to poor Michael bearing them 
 company. The stonemason (honest Brien) thought, after a little 
 time, he would follow in the distance ; though from the earliness 
 of the hour, and the road being much frequented, he had no 
 apprehension of anything wrong ; keeping, however, his eye on 
 the man he had been cautioned by his brother and his intended 
 sister to watch till their return. The two went, to all appearance, 
 cheerfully, on their w^ay : the stranger was one who had seen 
 many countries; he could make himself very entertaining, and 
 nobody loved a jest or a good story better than poor Burnett. 
 Michael stopped occasionally to gather blackberries, to speak 
 *'to a neighbour's child," to " hurrish " the pigs, or to throw 
 stones at the crows which congregated in the fresh-ploughed 
 fields. The brilliant morning had sobered down into the fine, 
 tranquil autumn day ; the broad-leaved coltsfoot (almost as 
 destructive to the cultivator of Irish ground as the super- 
 abundant " rag-weed ") turned the silver lining of its light-green 
 leaves to the declining sunbeams, and the hedges were gaily 
 decked with rich clusters of the red-ripe hawthorn-berry. 
 
 " I cannot get on any further without something to drink," 
 said the stranger, stopping opposite a wayside public-house, 
 which was adorned by the O'Connell arms, and a most unlike 
 likeness of the " Agitator." " You have treated me ; now I 
 must treat you." 
 
 " I have no objection to a glass of * rale Cork,' " replied 
 Burnett ; " but I must not taste more than one, or Grace, the 
 slut, will haul me over the griddle for it." 
 
 " I tell you what; have some of Cherry's excellent ale, and if 
 that doesn't warm you. you can have sometiiing short afterwards." 
 
 " Something what?" inquired his companion, unaccustomed 
 to English slang. 
 
 " Strong, you know. Come, my pretty mistress, a quart of 
 Cherry's best I" 
 
 The clear and beautiful ale sparkled as, after he received it, 
 he poured a portion into a measure, and turned towards the fire 
 with the remainder, inquiring of his companion, *' Shall I warm 
 it for you ? Would you like it warmed with some sugar and 
 spice, as we do in AVules?" 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 260 
 
 ** No, no, do not put it on the fire ; I would rather have it as 
 it is," replied Burnett ; " Cherry's ale wants nothing but the 
 drinking." 
 
 " You see," said the stranger, turning to the landlady, " \joxt. 
 see he would not let me put aiiijthing in it." 
 
 In an instant the draught was at Burnett's lips; he had 
 walked far, and the heat and exercise had overpowered him. 
 Another moment, and his destiny on this side the grave would 
 have been decided ; but his time was not yet come. Michael 
 rushed into the room, and seizing the cup from his uncle's 
 uplifted hand, drank it nearly to the dregs. 
 
 " Sorrow catch you for an ill " but ere Burnett could 
 
 finish the sentence, his eye rested upon the changed and 
 changing countenance of the stranger. Disappointment, rage, 
 anger, and hatred were painted upon his distorted features ; 
 painted so vividly, that both the landlady and the intended 
 victim exclaimed at the same moment, " It is poisoned!" 
 
 What has taken some time to write, was the transaction of 
 less than a minute ; the villain seized the measure, and attempted 
 to throw what remained of the contents into the fire, but the 
 arm of a strong serving-maiden prevented this purpose. He 
 then rushed to the door ; but here again he was interrupted by 
 the stonemason, who had quickly followed their steps, and poor 
 Mike, who, with the strong animal instinct of hatred, clung to 
 his legs to impede his progress. 
 
 " Fool ! idiot I cursed fool I " exclaimed the ruffian, endea- 
 vouring to draw a pistol from his vest. 
 
 This recalled Burnett to his senses. " My boy I my poor 
 Michael!" he exclaimed; " lay not a finger near him; for if 
 you do, this hour — this moment — shall be your last!" 
 
 "Why do you hold me — what have I done?" inquired the 
 stranger, as his presence of mind returned. " Who talked of 
 poison ? if there loas poison in the ale, the landlady saw that he 
 would not let me put anything in it.'' 
 
 It happened to be fair-day in one of the neighbouring vil- 
 lages, and a crowd soon collected round and in the house. 
 Amongst them — hurried forward by others, without knowing 
 the cause of the excitement, but accompanied by her lover — 
 came Grace Burnett ; on seeing her uncle slie could not resist 
 throwing herself into his arms, and whispering, ** I've seen his 
 honour — I've got the promise, and his honour's own self's 
 coming this way — run out and make your obedience to him." 
 
270 THE LAST IN THE LEASE 
 
 " He's a magistrate, thank God I" exclaimed Burnett, rushing 
 to the door. " Grace, for the love of God, look to Michael !" 
 
 "Michael, what ails you, honey?" said the affectionate girl, 
 turning to her brother. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing, nothing ails me — they're all foolish — 
 nothing ails Mick — nothing ails Mick," he replied, jumping and 
 tossing his arms. 
 
 " Keep aisy — keep aisy," said the landlord. " Sure the 
 doctor's sent for, and will tell us what to do presently." 
 
 When Burnett's landlord left his carriage, and entered the 
 public-house, the look of assurance which the stranger had 
 assumed changed to one of fixed despair — he seemed like one 
 for whom there is no redemption. " What yon, Lawler ! — you 
 accused of such a crime ? Your brother told me you were in 
 Dublin." 
 
 " My brother ought to have done his own business himself," 
 growled the fellow ; " but no one can say I meant to hurt the 
 boy." 
 
 The rest is soon told. A favourite steward had induced 
 Burnett's landlord to promise him, that when the last life in the 
 lease dropped, he should have the farm upon which his heart 
 was set. By bribes and entreaties, he prevailed upon his 
 brother — a man of wild and reckless habits — to undertake the 
 getting Burnett out of the way. His first plan was to decoy 
 him from home, and precipitate him into the gravel-pits : this 
 failed, by the providential interposition of poor Michael, whose 
 idiotcy was strongly mingled with shrewdness. The villain 
 waited another opportunity, knowing he had a strong hold upon 
 Burnett's superstition and his love of wealth ; but that very 
 morning he received intimation from his brother that it must 
 be done quickly, as the landlord himself was talking of passing 
 through and about his farms, and if once the Burnetts "got 
 speech of him," it would be " all up." He at once decided on 
 using poison, and we have seen how it was prevented from 
 taking effect upon his intended victim. Had any evidence been 
 wanting, the remains of arsenic found in a paper on his person 
 — his brother's letter, which the stonemason had seen him 
 receive — the contents of the beer v^dien analysed by a neigh- 
 bouring doctor, «'ho unhappily did not arrive until poor Michael 
 had felt that something more than usual *' ailed" him — were all 
 proofs of his guilt. But it is impossible to imagine anything 
 more vehement, more terrible, than the excitement which pre- 
 
THE LAST IN THE LEASE. 271 
 
 vailed amongst the country-people, while the poor idiot was 
 suffering the agonies of death. It was difficult to prevent their 
 tearing the culprit to pieces. The fact of his wanting to take 
 land over another man's head would have been enough to rouse 
 their indignation ; but when thej^ saw the simple inoffensive 
 creature, whose gentle words, and good-natured though widess 
 offices, had endeared him to every cottager, their wrath knew 
 no bounds. 
 
 '* It's a lesson to the landlord to see after his tenants himself, 
 that I hope he'll not forget," said one. "Sure the God of 
 heaven, if he lifts the dews from the earth, sends it back again 
 in rain ; but everything is took from poor Paddy, and nothing 
 returned I " 
 
 " Lift me to the air, Gracy," whispered the dying boy to 
 his sister : " I know I'll be waked soon ; but let poor Snap 
 have the butter and gingerbread you promised me, for I never 
 preached my sarmon since to vex you, Gracy." The hardest 
 and sternest wept when they saw the poor faithful dog lick his 
 master's purple lips, and saw that master's dying efforts to push 
 from him the thing he certainly loved best in the world, mur- 
 muring, " Maybe t' would hurt him— maybe t' would hurt himl" 
 
 Dread and fearful was the hope of exterminating vengeance 
 which Black Burnett swore against the stranger Lawler and his 
 brother, over the body of the dead idiot ; but it was not needed 
 — the one paid the forfeit of his crime, and was executed within 
 a month after its committal — the other disappeared, and was 
 never again seen or heard of in the country. Black Burnett 
 abandoned whisky, and grew rich ; but never could bear to hear 
 of people finding money under flat stones. 
 
 Matthew and Grace still inhabit the dwelling, though it is 
 far more comfortable than it was; and Snap's descendant cannot 
 find a hole in the door-post to poke his nose through, though he 
 is quite as cross and curious as his grandsire. 
 
 [There are persons now living who remember well the 
 excitement produced in the county in which it occurred by the 
 appalhng event that has formed the groundwork of this story. 
 It was related to me by a clergyman who, under the name of 
 " Martin Doyle," has published a variety of little works upon 
 rural and domestic economy, the value of which, to the Irish 
 farmer and cottager, is greater than pure gold.] 
 
A YEHY WOMAN, 
 
 BY MISS M. B. SMEDLEY. 
 
 "Fertile in expedients I" said Clara Capel to herself, as she 
 Btood alone at the breakfast-table with a spoon filled with tea- 
 leaves carefully poised in her hand on its way from the caddy 
 to the teapot. The life of Sully lay open on the table beside 
 her, and was the immediate cause of her soliloquy. " Fertile 
 in expedients'." thought she, "it is always the same. All 
 great men are so, whether statesmen, or generals, or authors. 
 They don't make a handsome, tidy, comfortable theory in their 
 own minds, and then throw away everything they meet with 
 because it does not exactly suit the place they have got ready 
 for it; but they take the world as they find it, and having got 
 their materials, they improve here and correct there ; they 
 invent this, and beautify that, and combine all, till at last they 
 have built up a great edifice to the glory of God ; and the 
 irregularity and variety, the dreamy lights and doubtful shadows, 
 are, in fact, the beauty of it." (Clara was pleased with her 
 illustration, and so paused to polish it a little ere she proceeded.) 
 *' To give up labouring because the persons or the systems by 
 wdiom and under which you have to labour are not ideally 
 perfect, is very much as if an artist were to give up painting 
 because his oil-colours didn't smell of otto of roses, and were apt 
 to soil his fingers. * Make the best of it I ' — that is the motto 
 of all practical greatness — and what a best it is sometimes ! 
 How infinitely and wonderfully the result transcends the means ! 
 Well, and the same sort of mind which, when the proportions are 
 large, is fit to rule the world, must be necessary, though with 
 small proportions, for the guidance of a family, or a course of 
 
A VERY WOMAN. Zib 
 
 cvory-day duties. Of that I am quite sure. And this is a 
 woman's business, not to sit down as I do, and g^'ieve inwardly 
 because she cannot do what she would, but to do what she can, 
 and that cheerfully. Goethe says, * It is well for a woman when 
 no work seems too hard for her, or too small ; when she is able 
 to forget herself and to live entirely in others.' Why am not I 
 thus? I can be, and by God's help I loill be. Unselfishness 
 and energy, these are the great secrets, and these are within 
 everybody's reach. I may be, if I choose, the life and centre 
 of this home of mine — the one who helps all, the one to whom 
 all appeal. I may bring order and even elegance out of all this 
 confusion, by descending to details, and going to work heartily. 
 Why should I be ashamed to do so? The heroine of a Swedish 
 novel goes into the kitchen to dress beef-steaks for her husband's 
 dinner, and yet is capable of diffusing aesthetics in a manner 
 that few Englishwomen could equal. One would not be less 
 liked and admired " — (here it must be confessed that a par- 
 ticular person was in Clara's thoughts, though she gave mental 
 ufierance to no name) — " for such exertions, but rather more. 
 Men, especially, never think so highly of a woman as when she 
 contributes to the comfort of others; and how can she con- 
 tribute to the comfort of others, if her most active bodily 
 exertion is to dance the polka ? But this must be all real. It 
 must be done, not thought about ; and the disagreeables and the 
 failures which one must needs encounter, must be laughed at 
 and overcome. Then how charming it will be when I see my 
 work, and feel that I hold the family together, and that they all 
 look to me, and have recourse to me ; and that by sacrificing 
 my own particular wishes and tastes I am able to sustain them 
 all, and to make them all happy I" 
 
 Clara clasped her hands together in the enthusiasm avrakened 
 by this idea, and the contents of the teaspoon went fluttering 
 over the white tablecloth, not omitting to sprinkle the open 
 butter-dish which stood near. 
 
 "Isn't my mistress's breakfast ready yet, Miss Clara?" asked 
 a somewhat untidy-looking maid, as she entered the room, 
 carrying an empty tray, and followed by the master of the 
 house and sundry other members of the family ; " she has been 
 waiting for it this quarter of an hour." 
 
 Clara looked bewildered at this sudden summons from her 
 castle in the air. 
 
 "Why, the tea isn't even made I" cried Mr. Capel, indi^- 
 
 T 
 
274 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 nantly. '' Really, Clara, it is very tiresome. Books," with a 
 wrathful glance at the volume of Sully, " are exceedingly well 
 in their way ; but it is one of the worst characteristics of a 
 regular blue-stocking to be dreaming over a book when she 
 ought to be making herself useful. Half-past nine o'clock, too, 
 and the children's breakfast not ready yet. If this goes on, I 
 shall have Julia installed as housekeeper in future ; she may, 
 perhaps, be better, and it's quite certain she couldn't be worse!" 
 
 " I am very sorry, papa," said Clara, meekly, the ready tears 
 gathering in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! it's easy to be very sorry," returned her father, as he 
 sat down and began cutting bread and butter with great 
 vehemence; *' but the fact is, you don't care for such things — 
 you never think about them — your head is full of other matters; 
 and as long as you have your German and your music, it's 
 nothing to you that your mother has to wait for her breakfast. 
 If you gave one-twentieth part of the thought which you bestow 
 on a sonata by Beethoven to the comfort of your family, it would 
 be better for all of us I". 
 
 How unjust we are to each other I and yet scarcely to be 
 condemned, for the action is all we can see ; and when the 
 action belies the thought, how can we form a right judgment ? 
 And who is there so perfectly discipHned that his habitual 
 actions do indeed represent his inward aspirations ? 
 
 Clara was naturally timid ; she attempted no self-defence, but 
 hurriedly and nervously proceeded with the business of breakfast. 
 She made tea, conscious that the water had ceased to boil, but 
 afraid to expose the fact by ringing the bell for a fresh supply. 
 Quietly and silently she provided the children with their bread- 
 and-milk, distributed the steaming cups to her elder brother and 
 sister, and finally placed the strongest beside her father, who 
 vouchsafed no acknowledgment of the attention, his temper not 
 being improved by the discovery that he was spreading tea- 
 leaves upon the bread with his butter. Then, while the servant 
 and tray still waited, she was hurrying out into the garden, 
 leaving her own meal untasted, when her brother stopped her : 
 "Where, in the name of wonder, are you going, Clara?" 
 
 " Only to gather a nosegay, to send up with mamma's break- 
 fast," replied she, apologetically, as she paused on the threshold. 
 
 " A nosegay 1" cried Mr. Capel, with an indescribable mixture 
 of wrath and contempt, while George and Julia could not 
 restrain their laughter, and the younger members of the family 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 276 
 
 observed that restrained and awkward silence natural to children 
 when a disturbance is going on among their elders. " A Nose- 
 OAY ! " upon my word and honour, Clara, you are too pro- 
 voking. Just come back and sit down, will you ? I hate this 
 confused uncomfortable way of having one's breakfast — it is 
 wretched — it puts me out for the whole day. And your mother 
 waiting all this while I She would much rather have a cup of 
 tea than all the nosegays in the w^orld. It will be time enough 
 to think of the graces of life when you have learned a litde 
 better to fulfil the commonest duties." 
 
 This closing sarcasm was quite too much for poor Clara ; and 
 as she resumed her seat and her occupation, her tears fell fast. 
 She tried hard to restrain them, and cautiously screened them 
 from her father's observation behind the urn. Then followed 
 sundry of those small, quiet kindnesses, which are always forth- 
 coming when any member of an affectionate family is in trouble, 
 however deserved. George and Julia exerted themselves to 
 maintain a forced conversation, and the former kept vigilant 
 watch over the sugaring and creaming of his father's cup, in 
 order to repair any oversight, without drawing attention to it ; 
 Emily silently supplied her sister's plate with bread and butter ; 
 and little Annie, who understood nothing except that Clara was 
 crying about flowers, stole round to her side with a rosebud, 
 just gathered from her own garden, soft and fresh as her own 
 smiling lips, and quietly shpped the offering into Clara's hand. 
 
 Mr. Capel w^as angry enough to feel his indignation rather 
 increased than abated by the evident distress of the culprit ; it 
 seemed to reproach him for a severity which justice had entirely 
 demanded, and by aggravating his discomfort, aggravated also 
 his ire. He pushed his plate from him, saying, in a kind of' 
 finale tone of intense disgust, " A wretched breakfast, indeed!" 
 then sharply rebuked Emily for spilling her bread-and-milk on 
 the carpet, and trod hard on the toes of the family spaniel, who 
 spent his life in an abortive attempt to commit suicide by 
 thrusting himself under the feet of each member of the house- 
 hold in succession, but who, being a favourite, w^as generally 
 praised and petted for this, as though the natural place of dogs 
 was wherever human feet were about to be planted ; and if the 
 dog escaped being trauijled on, and the human being escaped 
 a fall, it was a wonderful exercise of skill and affection on the 
 part of the former, and he deserved high commendation for it. 
 Ponto howled aloud ; and Emily, who was very tender-hearted, 
 
276 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 nnd whose nerves were somewhat affected by the preceding 
 scene, burst into a violent flood of tears ; little Annie, as a 
 matter of course, roaring, with all her might, for sympathy. 
 
 The Capels were universally pronounced a very happy family ; 
 nevertheless, this specimen of their domestic felicity was by no 
 means solitary of its kind. 
 
 Mr. Capel could scarcely be blamed for seizing his hat, and 
 rushing forth to his office in a passion ; however, he was by no 
 means a fundamentally ill-natured man, only ahttie uoi-iempered 
 and fussy ; so he came back again in five minutes, and made his 
 peace with Clara, kissing her, and telling her " only to be a 
 little more thoughtful in future, and these unpleasant scenes 
 wouldn't happen." He then patted Emily's head, and bade her 
 not to be such a little goose ; neither did he omit to stroke 
 Ponto, as he passed out for the second time. Poor Clara, with 
 swollen eyes and aching forehead, betook herself, work in hand, 
 to her mother's bedside, there to reflect upon this first specimen 
 of her powers as leader and life of a family. 
 
 I suppose it will be thought that my heroine was a very 
 weak, inconsistent, and self-indulgent young lady, whose good 
 resolutions evaporated in soliloquies, or had just solidity enough 
 for the construction of a castle in the air. We must, therefore, 
 endeavour to give an idea of her character and position, which, 
 as generally happens, were, in the first instance, peculiarly un- 
 suited to each other : whether she ever succeeded in solving 
 the great problem how to bring them into harmony, remains 
 to be seen. She was nineteen years old, and the eldest of seven 
 children : her mother was a confirmed invalid, who never left 
 her bed till noon, and then only to be moved to a sofa ; a 
 gentle, uncomplaining sufferer she was, somewhat weak both in 
 will and intellect, but full of tenderness, and beloved by all who 
 knew her. Mr. Capel was, as we have seen, a good kind of 
 man, hot-headed and warm-hearted, deficient in cultivation, hut 
 not in natural capacity, a rigid disciplinarian by fits and starts, 
 and, consequently, the man of all others, to produce utter con- 
 fusion in his household. Seven children and a sickly wife 
 taxed to the utmost the moderate income which he made as a 
 lawyer in a country town, and the perpetual struggle of a 
 naturally liberal disposition compelled to live and make live 
 upon insufficient means, was quite enough, when not converted 
 by self-discipline iuto a means of improvement, to account for 
 the growing irritability of his character. George, a promising 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 277 
 
 youth of eighteen, and the delight of his elder sister's heart, 
 was intended for holy orders ; he was amiable and clever, even 
 elegant in mind, bnt somewhat irresolute : there was about him 
 a feminine want of self-dependence, combined with an occasional 
 obstinacy of purpose, so sudden and disproportionate that it 
 seemed to arise from a secret suspicion of his particular defect, 
 and a desire to prove to himself that it had no real existence. 
 As it often happens in such cases, he was apt to overdo the 
 cure, and to apply it at wrong times ; he was like a person who 
 coddles himself all the summer when he is quite well, and goes out 
 without a hat on the first frosty morning. Of course he catches 
 so violent a cold that he must needs stay in-doors for the next 
 six months. Julia was a pretty, good-humoured, common -place 
 girl of sixteen, very ready with small-talk, and passionately fond 
 of partners. She was popular wherever she went, and was just 
 the sort of person to be habitually quoted by gentlemen as an 
 example, to prove that it was quite unnecessary for a woman to 
 have a mind. 
 
 The two little boys, Frank and Hugh, had rosy smiling faces, 
 hands never clean, and shoe-strings never tied. They got on 
 very well at the day-school, thought it great fun to call their 
 master " Dick" when he was quite out of hearing ; invariably 
 slammed the doors in summer, and left them wide open in 
 winter; and always had in their pockets a knife, a piece of 
 string, six marbles, two broken slips of wood, a rusty nail, the 
 leaf of a Latin granmiar, an ounce of toffy, some crumbs of 
 bread and cheese, a hard ball, and an apple. Emily was a 
 rather self-sufficient lady of nine years, who thought it great 
 promotion to put back her hair with combs and wear worked 
 collars. Slie was a vigorous stickler for the rights of woman, 
 which she notunfrequently attempted to obtain from her brothers 
 by personal violence, being always ready with the true Enghsh 
 sentiment, "How cowardly to touch a girl I" if the smallest 
 retort were attempted. To say the truth, the two schoolboys 
 suffered many an iustance of grievous tyranny at her hands, 
 which they bore the better because they had not yet opened 
 their eyes to the fact. Little Annie, with her earnest blue 
 eyes, sweet shy manners, and pretty loving ways, was the pet, 
 the plaything, and the sunshine of the whole household. Clara 
 herself was the genius of the family, and as inoffensive a genius 
 as it would be jiossible to find anywhere. Siie had been a 
 precocious child, having learned all her letters before she was 
 
278 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 two years old, and composed a decided rliyme before she was 
 four; neither had her talents evaporated as she grew np. She 
 played very well, and sang with much feeling ; she had a great 
 aptitude for languages, was fond of reading, fonder of thinking, 
 fondest of dreaming. She was very shy, and did not please in 
 general society ; she was uncomfortably conscious that her 
 abilities were overrated, and believed herself to be destitute of 
 those attractions which perhaps most women covet more than 
 ability. In person she was interesting rather than pretty, 
 having much intelligence and sweetness of countenance without 
 regularity of feature, so she believed herself ugly, and tried to 
 persuade herself that she was careless of admiration ; yet she 
 had much grace of manner, a musical voice, and a captivating 
 smile, and if she had not often made herself repulsive out of the 
 fear of being so, she might have been as popular as her sister. 
 She had a most warm, loving, tender heart; a gentle, timid 
 temper ; a strong, though quiet will ; great natural reserve ; 
 great anxiety to be loved ; boundless aspirations after excellence. 
 She was at once enthusiastic and indolent, sadly deficient in 
 continuous energy, yet never slothful. She felt herself useless, 
 and despised herself for being so, and was almost ashamed to 
 set about curing herself of the faults peculiar to what is called 
 a " woman of genius," because she was not certain that she was 
 one. She had all kinds of ideal pictures before her eyes which 
 she was impatient to realise ; but she was obliged to be archi- 
 tect and mason in one, and she did not know the simplest rules 
 of construction. She was the person of all others most likely 
 to be misjudged by those who did not thoroughly understand 
 her; for, with an original and striking character, keen thoughts, 
 and decided opinions, she had so little natural presence of mind, 
 that she often appeared to have no character at all, and she was 
 so self-distrustful that she sometimes disclaimed an opinion 
 almost in the moment of uttering it, lest it should turn out to 
 be wrong. She saw all the evils around her with a perception 
 almost morbidly acute : and she was too busy with self-con- 
 tempt for the sorry part she had played in the family drama, to 
 think for a moment of criticising her fellow -actors. Suddenly 
 she had waked up to the consciousness of all this, having hitherto 
 lived, half-studiously, half-dreamily, indulged in all her incli- 
 nations both by the love of her parents and the pride which 
 they felt in her talents ; and while frequently regretting and 
 feeling teased by the civil disorders of the little commonwealth, 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 279 
 
 contenting herself with the notion that she never could amend 
 tJiem, as it was nseless for her to try to be practical. This, 
 liowever, was but a vague half-expressed thought, although it 
 was very decidedly acted upon, and the evils were perpetually 
 growing, and at last her eyes opened. Sorrowfidly and earnestly 
 hsr heart accused itself before God, and then took refuge from 
 its own reproaches in the intensity of a fresh resolution. No 
 one suspected what w^as going on in her mind, and numberless 
 w^ere the little difficulties unconsciously thrown in her way ; 
 not a few, also, were the helps lent to her as unconsciously. 
 Indeed she began to think that it only depended upon herself 
 to turn every difficulty into a help ; the steeper the path the 
 sooner you reach the summit, if only you have strength and 
 breath for the ascent. Clara thought she had strength and 
 breath ; and should they fail her, she knew where and how to 
 renew them. Her purpose burned within her with a fervour, 
 almost with a passion, which those only can understand who 
 are in the habit of feeling much which they never betray, and 
 who, believing with all their hearts that the will has power over 
 life and circumstance and soul, are yet conscious, even to 
 agony, of its practical impotence. The words " conquer self I " 
 were ringing in her ears, throbbing in her heart and brain, 
 Winding and deafening her for the time to all outward sights 
 and sounds. With an almost terrified hope that she should 
 ensure their fulfilment, she repeated them inwardly as she knelt 
 at the altar on the following Sunday, her whole spirit being (so 
 to speak) in the attitude of a vow, though her lips pronounced 
 no deliberate pledge. And afterwards, during the evening 
 luxury of a walk with the children, when they, bounding away 
 in all directions, left her to solitary meditation, she calmly 
 reviewed and sealed her resolution. How strange and how 
 happy is the effect of even the most transient intercourse with 
 nature upon a heart, wounded and erring, and yet desirous 
 of good ! How it soothes agitation and softens pain, and 
 creates life afresh, and in a nobler mould ! And this work is 
 done not merely by gorgeous skies or lovely moonlights, by 
 bright waters looking up like children into the solemn faces of 
 mountains, or sleeping under the shadowy guardianship of 
 overhanging woods, by the glory and the beauty of earth ; it is 
 done Hkewuse by her simplest and quietest pictures, by her 
 cheapest and most unpretending gifts. The sight of one dark- 
 leaved tree rocking slowly against a dim heaven ; the mere 
 
280 A VERY WOMAl^. 
 
 rspect of one green field is often enough to change and subdue 
 the whole course of thought. Is it not, perhaps, because these 
 creations are fresh and unmarred from God's hands that tliey 
 so speedily affect us; because in this they transcend man, in 
 whom there is so much of personal and of evil that the work- 
 manship of God is, as it were, disguised, and only to be dis- 
 covered by careful search. The blade of grass which we pluck 
 is what its Creator intended it to be ; who shall dare say so 
 much as this of himself, or of any other ? 
 
 Chara was very happy so long as she was busy with reveries 
 of the future, and generalisations of duty ; but she was far too 
 much in earnest to rest in these, and on the Monday morning 
 she determined to begin her new work heartily. She asked 
 herself the question " how ?" and the sublime of thought instantly 
 became the ridiculous of action. She would superintend their 
 very indifferent cook in the preparation of dinner, and she 
 would make herself a gown I Her mother had presented her 
 with one on her last birthday, which lay useless in a drawer 
 because she had not yet been able to save enough out of her 
 scanty allowance to pay the dressmaker. How easy it is to look 
 upon life as a whole — how very difficult to encounter its details ! 
 Clara got up three hours earlier than usual ; and when the 
 housemaid descended to her morning toils, she found the field 
 preoccupied with shapeless segments of calico and unmeaning 
 strips of silk, and a vast array of variously contorted wisps of 
 paper which were afflicted with a mental hallucination, and 
 believed themselves to be patterns. Her young mistress stood in 
 the midst, considerably flushed and somewhat despondent, having 
 as yet achieved no visible end but the scattering of an immense 
 multitude of minute pieces of thread and sewing-silk upon the 
 surface of the drugget. She now submitted, with rather an ill 
 grace, to be hunted from room to room by the much -worried 
 domestic, being finally dispossessed of the parlour only just in 
 time to gather up her museum of materials with all haste, and 
 thrust them at random into a closet, to make way for breakfast. 
 After that meal she resumed her labours, varying them by an 
 occasional excursion into the kitchen, which so amazed the cook 
 that she had not self-possession enough to organise any imme- 
 diate plan of resistance. The confusion of the party was at its 
 height, when a knock at the door announced a visitor, and 
 Mr. Archer entered. This was a gentleman who had been 
 known to the Capel family for some years. He was good, 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 281 
 
 clever, agreeable, and slightly satirical : at thirty -six a confirmed 
 old bachelor in all his ways and thoughts; everywhere much 
 liked, and everywhere a little feared ; a great admirer of Julia, 
 with whom he flirted in the easy, frank, comfortable way 
 peculiar to his class, but by no means so fond of Clara, who 
 was afraid of him, and whom he had never taken the trouble to 
 know. In person he was gentlemanlike and [)leasing, without 
 being handsome; but he was afflicted with lameness, in conse- 
 queuce of a fall from his horse in college days. He assumed 
 complete indifterence to this defect, spoke of it openly, nay, 
 even jested upon it, but in reality, and in secret, he was con- 
 scious of it, even to painfulness, believed himself (absurdly 
 enough) unacceptable to any woman by reason of ir, and, 
 though he never betrayed, by look or manner, the slightest 
 sensitiveness when any allusion was made to it, and though his 
 own freedom of expression rather encouraged such allusions in 
 persons of coarse feeling, yet there can be no doubt that all 
 such words inflicted their wounds, and that the delicacy which 
 avoided them was among the surest claims to his regard. 
 When a man speaks of himself, except it be in the close and 
 holy confidence of a true friendship, wherein falsehood is im- 
 possible and disguise absurd — distrust him ! Either consciously 
 or unconsciously, be sure that he is only throwing aside a veil 
 to put on a mask. 
 
 '' Well, Sappho!" cried Mr. Archer, as he entered the room, 
 and came to a dead halt, in front of a mysterious coil of pink 
 ribbon, upon which Clara had some vague, undeveloped designs: 
 " in the name of wonder, what does this portend ? Private 
 theatricals, of course ? — and you are mistress of the robes ? 
 Wliat costume will you provide for me ?" 
 
 There is no saying how much good Mr. Archer might have 
 done Clara if he had discarded that objectionable habit of calling 
 her Sappho. As it was, in every conversation which took 
 place between them, there was an unhappy little basis of irrita- 
 tion on her part to begin with, which caused her to consider 
 his most innocent remarks sarcastic, and, not unnaturally, dis- 
 posed him to think unfavourably of her temper. She now 
 answered him as gravely as if no joke had ever been made 
 since the Deluge : " Mamma does not approve of private 
 theatricals. I am only making a dress." 
 
 He assumed a demure expression of countenance. *' I beg 
 your ladyship's pardon," said he, with a profound bow, and 
 
282 
 
 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 then turned to Julia, who Ccime forward with laughing cor- 
 diality, holding a book up before his eyes, and assuring him 
 that she had "read it all through — every word of it I" 
 
 Mr. Arclier was in the habit of lending Juha books, which 
 she read, or professed to read, chiefly with the object of dis- 
 cussing them afterwards with him. To say the truth, her 
 reading was a very desultory kind of skimming; but as Clara 
 always studied them in good earnest, her sister generally con- 
 trived to pick up enough knowledge about them to carry her 
 effectively through a conversation, as readers of reviews are 
 often known to pass for proficients in the literature of the day. 
 The present volume had not, however, taxed her powers of 
 endurance very heavily — it was Tennyson's poems. 
 
 He took it from her hand, and turned the leaves: "And 
 which is yoar favourite ?" asked he, " ' Locksley Hall,' of 
 course — everybody chooses ' Locksley Hall ' on a first reading. 
 What a colourist he is ! The Venetian of poets." 
 
 " But I like this very much," said Julia, looking over his 
 shoulder, and laying her finger upon the name, *' Love and 
 Duty." 
 
 He read it — at first carelessly, and as if about to pass from it 
 again ; but the passionate music laid strong hold upon him, and 
 he could not leave it unfinished : — 
 
 " Far furrowing into light the mounded rack 
 Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea." 
 
 He closed the book, uttering the two last lines aloud as he 
 did so with a prolonged emphasis, just a little exaggerated, in 
 order to save himself from being laughed at by making it look 
 as if he were half in joke. ** Just a glimpse of light at the 
 end," said he ; " a promise of dawn — giving one a faint hope 
 that this most unlucky couple might, perhaps, be happy after 
 all. Do you know. Miss Julia, I should not have expected you 
 to choose this poem for a favourite." 
 
 " Why not?" inquired the young lady. 
 
 He looked doubtfully at her. " It is so veri/ sentimental," 
 said he with a half-smile. 
 
 ** I think / am very sentimental," answered Julia, a little 
 affronted. 
 
 " Besides," pursued Mr. Archer, " don't you think the verses 
 are wrongly named * Love and Dutj ?' Would it not have 
 been more in accordance with duty if the young man had held 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 283 
 
 Lib tongue about his love, seeing that, for some reason or other, 
 the obstacles to its prevailing were insurmountable?" 
 
 Julia did not very well know what to say, so she gave him a 
 bright look and a smile which implied that she had a vast deal 
 in her mind on the subject, but thought it better not to ex])res3 
 it. Clara answered bluntly, " That is a masculine view of duty, 
 and therefore, of course, selfish." 
 
 "How so?" asked Mr. Archer. Some special interference 
 of his good genius })revented him from saying Sappho, and con- 
 sequently Clara, forgetting her shyness in her feeling for the 
 poem, replied without hesitation — " Because she could feel no 
 security that she was beloved till she was actually told so ; no 
 woman could : and not to give her that security would be to 
 deprive her of her only comfort in the after desolation." 
 
 Julia looked up once more with her expressive smile : " That 
 is exactly what I think," said she. Mr. Archer answered her, 
 not Clara — thinking the smile a great deal more eloquent than 
 the speech, and giving it full credit for the substance of all that 
 it shadowed forth. *' You are perfectly right," said he, " but 
 it is a new view to me." Then he opened the book once more, 
 and read the lines half unconsciously — 
 
 " Was it not -^ell 
 Once to have spoken ? — it could not but be well ! " 
 
 *' Come, I shall retort upon you. Isn't this a feminine view 
 of duty, and therefore, of course, loquacious ? All women think 
 that it cannot but be well to speak under any circumstances." 
 
 ** What a shame !" exclaimed Julia. Clara went quietly back 
 to her work with a look of contempt. She had not the gift of 
 trifling. Presently, however, she looked up with a brightening 
 face. A new visitor had arrived — Mr. Dacre. (We will inform 
 the reader, in confidence, that we have some reason for sup- 
 posing Dacre to be the name which was left blank in Clara's 
 opening soliloquy.) He was also one among the family -inti- 
 mates, and moreover Clara's especial friend, though there was 
 nothing between them partaking of the nature of Vi flirtation. 
 They had the same tastes, generally the same opinions ; he had 
 considerable genius, which she indisputably overrated ; he was 
 elegant in his modes of thinking, feeling, and speaking, and 
 liked few things better than a conversation with her. As to his 
 cjiaracter, that is, the combination of will, temper, heart, and 
 b.abits which are somewhat more important than mere intellect. 
 
281 A VERY WOMAX. 
 
 it lacked stability, and was without that nameless ascendancy 
 which seems to be the special mark of a high manly nature, and 
 by virtue of which it stands erect, guiding and subduing those 
 whose merely intellectual gifts may perhaps be superior to its 
 own. This deficiency, however, Clara did not feel ; perhaps 
 she was scarcely aware of it : we do not criticise most strictly 
 those to whom we stand the nearest. Clara could speak, and 
 speak freely, to Mr. Dacre of subjects on which, in her own 
 family circle, and among her other acquaintance, silence was 
 practically enforced upon her, not by want of comprehension, 
 perhaps, but by want of sympathy. The shyest and most 
 reserved nature is precisely that which most enjoys the rare 
 privilege of speaking — rare to it because it needs so peculiar a 
 combination of outward circumstance and inward disposition to 
 induce, or rather to enable it to do so. So slight a coldness, 
 so small a sneer, is enough to repulse it, and shut it up for a 
 long while to come. These characters are often boundlessly 
 unjust in their feeling towards others, if not in their judgment 
 about them ; but it is very difficult for them to help it. It may 
 be because we are so very thin-skinned that a touch has 
 wounded us : but while the wound still smarts freshly, we can 
 scarcely be chidden for avoiding a repetition of the touch. 
 
 I am sorry to record that no further progress was made in 
 the construction of the gown that morning. 
 
 In her evening self-examination Clara did not by any means 
 spare her own feebleness of purpose. The next day, and the 
 next, and for many succeeding days, she renewed her efforts 
 with unflagging vigour. " To he practical- " this was the 
 sentence inscribed upon every thought, and prompting it to 
 immediate action. Very troublesome she was, there can be no 
 doubt of it, in the first fever of her undisciplined usefulness. 
 She wore a stern aspect, she was grievously and unnecessarily 
 punctual, painfully energetic, and so abrupt in some of her 
 resolves that it was more than ordinary nerves could endure. 
 She would call in all the bills at unheard-of times of year to 
 the great discomfiture of tradesmen, and introduce an unex- 
 pected charwoman to clean the drawing-room, in the midst of a 
 morning visit. But these natural exaggerations — like the 
 painter's first efforts at art, which, if he have true genius, are 
 often caricatures, o'erstepping, not falling short of, the modesty 
 of nature, exuberant rather than deficient — gradually softened 
 down, as a habit grew out of a succession of impulses. Her 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 286 
 
 many failures became so many lessons to teach gentleness ; iter 
 perseverance was too strenuously vigilant of its own defects to 
 degenerate into obstinacy. She imposed one law upon herself 
 which she never broke, and which perhaps more than anything 
 else tended to her improvement ; namely, that whenever any 
 service, duty, or bntiness was needful in the family life which 
 was of a disagreeable kind, or in any way repugnant to her own 
 taste, she volunteered to perform it. She resolutely ignored, 
 so to speak, the peculiarities of her own character, doing 
 violence to them with a promptitude and energy which was 
 the surest test of the reality of her intentions. No confession 
 of disinclination — no look of reluctance appealed to the unself- 
 ishness of those about her; audit gradually began to be taken 
 for granted that Clara " did not mind'^ doing a hundred things 
 which she did cheerfully, but which perhaps she would have 
 given worlds to avoid. They still called her, with good- 
 humoured bantering, the '* genius," the " blue-stocking," the 
 " unpractical lady," but somehow or other they did not act upon 
 the notion which was too permanently established in their 
 language to be uprooted. 
 
 ** News, Clara, news I" cried Julia, as, squired by Messrs. 
 Archer and Dacre, she entered the room, full of glee and 
 glowing with the exercise of a country ramble. 
 
 Clara looked up ; she was teaching Annie her lessons, and 
 Annie was wilful, and by consequence slow to learn, and Clara 
 had the headache. 
 
 " Oh, we must not disturb Miss Capel," said Mr. Archer, with 
 assumed deference ; " that is one of the awful duties with which 
 our frivolous conversation must not interfere for a moment. If 
 we were to be compassing the queen's death, our treason would 
 not check that running accompaniment. * I, n, in — s, t, r, u, c, 
 struc — t, i, o, n, instruction.' Have I divided those syllables 
 correctly, you poor little victim ?" and he pulled the unreluctant 
 Annie upon his knee, and began to play with her long curls. 
 
 *' I don't know," rejDlied Annie ; " I have not got into four 
 syllables." 
 
 *' That's a pleasure to come," answered her friend ; and 
 opening her writing-book, he volunteered to provide her next 
 copy, and solemnly set down in huge text-hand the words, 
 *' Heaven preserve me from four syllables." 
 
 Clara laughed ; but it was somewhat languidly. " There, 
 
286 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 there, we will release you this once, Annie," said she. " And 
 pray tell me your news, for I am all curiosity." 
 
 Her eye wandered to Mr. Dacre and Julia, who were whis- 
 pering together in the background; but they did not respond 
 to the look, and Mr. Archer answered her, " Mr. Middleton 
 is going to be married." 
 
 Clara was as much excited as any news-teller in the world 
 could wish. Her wonder and interest were great. Mr. Mid- 
 dleton was the vicar of the parish, a sensible, agreeable, middle- 
 aged man, indefatigable in his duties, and supposed by all his 
 friends to be a confirmed old bachelor. She inquired eagerly 
 concerning the lady. 
 
 " To begin with the most important part," said Mr. Archer, 
 **she is very pretty, and she is twenty -five years younger than 
 her husband." 
 
 "Have you seen her?" exclaimed Clara, " and what sort of 
 person is she ? Will she make a good clergyman's wife ? Oh, 
 how anxious the poor will be about her I" 
 
 " She will make a perfect wife," said Mr. Archer; ''she will 
 always look handsome and good-humoured, she will be active 
 and affectionate, and she will never require the smallest mental 
 exertion on her husband's part. It will be a very easy life for 
 him ; so long as he is satisfied with himself, he may feel quite 
 sure that she is satisfied with him." 
 
 *' Mr. Middleton deserves something more than that," ob- 
 served Clara with quiet disdain. 
 
 " Deserves ? Perhaps ; but what if he doesn't want it ? A 
 hard-working man like Middleton doesn't want a spur for his 
 times of leisure — he wants a pillow." 
 
 " And you think a wife is only meant for times of leisure ?" 
 said Clara. 
 
 " And times of sickness," replied Mr. Archer ; " she may 
 nurse him if he is ill, and I think Mrs. Middleton will make a 
 very good nurse." 
 
 Clara's hps curled as she asked, " Will she be a companion 
 for him?" 
 
 " She is the companion he has chosen," answered Mr. Archer, 
 leaning back in his chair and laughing. " A woman's notion 
 of a wife is so different from a man's ! Let her be handsome, 
 good-tempered, warm-hearted, and well-principled, and she ia 
 a fit companion for the greatest man that ever was born, always 
 supposing she is devoted to him." 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 287 
 
 "Without either refinement or intellect?" inquired Clara. 
 
 " Certainly without intellect," replied he ; " intellect in a wife 
 gives one so much trouble. It is rather in the way than other- 
 wise. Let her be positively stupid, dull, slow of perception, if 
 only she looks handsome, and flatters one's vanity, by seeming 
 to be fond of one, you will find a clever man talk to her and 
 busy himself about her for hours together without being weary. 
 And as to refinement, that too may be very easily dispensed 
 with ; one grows accustomed to its absence, and so forgets to 
 miss it. After habitual intercourse with a mind that is not 
 refined, one's whole estimate alters, and a mind that is so, seems 
 prudish, affected, oppressive to us." 
 
 '* Of course you are not in earnest," said Clara ; '"' you cannot 
 realli/ mean that the very highest and closest union of which 
 
 human creatures are capable should but why do I argue 
 
 about it ? It is very absurd." 
 
 " I am not talking about theories," he answered, " such as 
 young ladies cherish in the deep recesses of their hearts ; but 
 about plain matters-of-fact. It may be very shocking that it 
 should be thus; nevertheless, thus it is, and it is useless to 
 attempt to conceal it. But I should like very much to hear 
 your notion of what a wife ought to be, though I think I 
 pretty well know it without asking." 
 
 " Tell me, and I will tell you if you are right," replied Clara. 
 
 Mr. Archer heaved a deep sigh, cast up his eyes, and answered 
 in a low, agitated voice : " She should live only for him ; be 
 his in every word, thought, and feeling; cling to him with the 
 most submissive devotedness ; and have her own way in every- 
 thing." 
 
 Mr. Dacre and Julia, who had joined the disputants, laughed 
 heartily at this definition, but Clara looked cross. " After this," 
 observed she, " I can hardly be expected to state my theory." 
 
 " Oh," cried Mr. Archer, '' I wasn't talking about theories, 
 but about practice. Very few people would like the look of 
 their practice if it was exhibited to them in the shape of a 
 theory." 
 
 " Clara, how can you look so grave ?" exclaimed Julia; " we 
 all know Mr. Archer is not in earnest." 
 
 " Indeed I am," persisted he ; "I never joke. My witticisms 
 (\T0 as lame as my leg. When I introduce Mrs. Archer to you, 
 you will all discover that my theory, at least, suits my practice." 
 
288 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 Six weeks after this conversation, Clara and Julia paid their 
 bridal visit at the vicarage, and were introduced to Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton. She was very pretty, with lively, open manners, and 
 but little of the bashfulness which is generally supposed to be 
 indispensable to a bride. She made the girls feel quite at their 
 ease, walked round the grounds with them to exhibit the im- 
 provements, and dwelt particularly on the charms of a certain 
 new bay-window, which " Mr. Middleton had built for her, to 
 her own little sitting-room." The apartment in question had 
 been a mere closet, but was now the prettiest in the vicarage, 
 with its delicately-tinted walls and white muslin curtains, its 
 flower-strewn carpet, luxurious couch, and low embroidered 
 chairs, its prints, and its books, and, above all, its delicious, 
 half-solitary, half-social window, wdth a charming view of lawn, 
 and ornamental flower-baskets, and winding walks, and cool, 
 shadowy trees in the background. It looked the very temple of 
 pleasant study, dreamy leisure, or intimate caiiserie. 
 
 " What a boudoir I " cried Julia, as they walked home. " It 
 is perfection. I declare, I think I could marry Mr. Middleton 
 for the sake of such a room as that !" 
 
 " And how exactly the lady suits the room I" rejoined George, 
 who had accompanied his sisters; "she is much better-looking 
 than I expected. She has more elegance of person, if not of 
 manners, than Mr. Archer led one to imagine. How blue her 
 eyes are I I do admire blue eyes I" 
 
 " Talking of the bride, of course ?" said Mr. Dacre, joining 
 himself to the group. 
 
 "Yes," answered Clara; " what do you think of her ?" 
 
 " She is exquisite ! " exclaimed Mr. Dacre ; " and so naive 
 and girlish ; she is like one of Murillo's pictures." 
 
 " She is very pretty and pleasant," said Clara ; " but I 
 do wish she had not made Mr. Middleton build that bay- 
 window." 
 
 There was a general outcry, what could she mean ? Was it 
 possible she could not admire it? It was the greatest improve- 
 ment conceivable, &c. &c. 
 
 " Well," said Clara, " I think it is a great improvement in 
 one sense, but not in another. Mr. Middleton used to spend all 
 he could save from his income in charity; and I think a clergy- 
 man's wife ought to help her husband in his self-denials, not 
 encourage him to relax them." 
 
 ** Oh, dreadful ! my dear Miss Capel," cried Mr. Dacre ; " tho 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 28S 
 
 poor clergyman has trials enough out of doors. Do, for pity's 
 sake! let him find comfort and indulgence at home." 
 
 Clara thought it perfectly necessary that he should do so; but 
 she did not think that the wife's devotion to her husband's com- 
 fort implied the necessity of leading him into expense for mere 
 luxuries, and so she said. She said it, moreover, in a very 
 unpleasant tone of voice, shortly and sternly, as if she were 
 sentencing Mrs. Middleton to the galleys, and feeling that she 
 deserved it. 
 
 " My dear Clara," observed George, " I think this is un- 
 commonly like judging one's neighbours." 
 
 Clara felt rebuked. She was never cross to anybody except 
 Mr. Archer ; so, after reflecting a moment, she looked up at 
 George with a frank bright smile, and replied, " It must be 
 very like indeed, George, for I suspect it is the thing itself; 
 and as that is a much worse offence than building unnecessary 
 bay-windows, I will let poor Mrs. Middleton alone." 
 
 " Yes, pray leave her to enjoy her sweet little boudoir un- 
 molested," said Mr. Dacre. " All the bloom and fragrance 
 would be crushed out of life, if duty held it in so iron and per- 
 petual a grasp. A woman's greatest charm, after all, is that 
 she is — a woman ! and that charm Mrs. Middleton possesses in 
 the highest degree." 
 
 He turned to Julia as he finished, and the rest of the walk 
 'he spent in wrangling with her about the colour of her ribbons, 
 and commenting upon the curls of her glossy dark hair, 
 apparently quite as much to his own satisfaction as to hers. 
 He followed them into the house to ask Clara's opinion upon 
 a difficult German passage, discussed it with her for about a 
 quarter of an hour, in a steady, business-like manner, and theij 
 took his leave. 
 
 Shall we admit the reader to another soliloquy of Clara's, as 
 in one of her rare half-hours of idleness she stood at the table 
 arranging some freshly-gathered flowers to decorate her mother's 
 bed-room. ''Charm I" she repeated slowly to herself, "that 
 is what I have not. Mrs. Middleton is captivating ; she may 
 do what she pleases ; she has the gift, the mysterious, enviable 
 gift, of winning that interest and admiration which are sure to 
 ripen into love. Julia, too — it is no matter what she doc% or 
 iayz — she fascinates by what she is. But I ? — people esteem 
 me, and make use of me, and are very much obliged to me, and 
 value me, and so forth ; but for me, for my own self, they care 
 
 u 
 
290 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 nothing. It is the book I discuss, or the sonata I play, or the 
 service I perform, about which they think ; the person who 
 discusses, or pLays, or does what they want, has no interest for 
 them except as a vehicle. Those whom I best love miss me in 
 absence because of what I did for them, not because of what I 
 was to them. I have no gift — I have no charm." Poor Clara I 
 was she not a very woman ? I am ashamed to confess it ; but 
 I suspect she would gladly have changed places with Julia at 
 that moment, for the sake of possessing Julia's mysterious power 
 of attraction. I am afraid that she would rather have been 
 teased about ribbons than consulted about German. Then she 
 resorted to Mrs. IMiddleton and her bay-window, and con- 
 demned herself for censoriousness ; but after all could not 
 manage to bring herself into a right state of feeling about it. 
 Surely it was, without doubt, a deliberate act of self-indulgence; 
 and it was difficult for Clara to be lenient to deliberate acts of 
 self-indulgence in others, when they were just the very things 
 against which she was making so vehement a crusade in her- 
 self. It is so hard to avoid self-consciousness in the voluntary 
 and independent pursuit of duty. 
 
 Clara went up-stairs with her flowers, but was stopped in 
 the dressing-room by little Annie, who came to meet her on 
 tiptoe, and with her finger at her hps. " Mamma is asleep," 
 whispered she ; " I have been sitting to watch her, and she is 
 quite fast asleep now. I gave mamma her dinner. She said, 
 when you came in, I was to be sure and tell you that she wants 
 a new book from the library, and that there was rather too 
 much salt in the broth. I was to tell you — not Julia, because 
 Julia never remembers. I have been hemming a pocket- 
 handkerchief for mamma. Oh, Clara, how happy it is to be 
 useful 1 " 
 
 The little girl's face was radiant with innocent pride and 
 glee ; and she looked up into her sister's eyes for approval and 
 sympathy. *' Do you think," asked she, " when I grow up, I 
 can ever be as useful as you are ? " Clara kissed her, without 
 speaking ; and they went out together to procure the new book 
 for Mrs. Capel. It was quite an expedition for Annie to go to 
 the library, and she was in the highest exultation. As they 
 passed through the garden, they came upon a most busy and 
 tumultuous scene. The next day was Mr. Capel's birthday, and 
 the children were to surprise him with a feast in the summer- 
 house. Emily and the boys had just completed their prepara- 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 291 
 
 tions, wreathing the pillars and pediment with green leaves, 
 and bringing their choicest geraninma to stand on either side 
 of the entrance ; tliey were contempL^ting their finished work 
 with the highest satisfaction. Poor Annie ! She was to have 
 helped in the arrangements, but she had been forgotten. True, 
 they had called her, but she did not answer, for she was in her 
 mother's room ; so they went merrily to work, and never 
 thought of her again. She stood still, tears of anger and grief 
 gathering in her eyes. Some slight sense of wrong they had 
 certainly, but after once saying they were sorry, and it was a 
 pity, they went back to their chaplets, quite at ease, Emily 
 expressing a consolatory hope that she " wouldn't be such a 
 baby as to cry about it." Poor Annie I She had not even 
 been missed, and the gathering tears began to fall. 
 
 " Stay and help them, darling," said the sympathising Clara; 
 "you may fetch the pink gladioles from my garden — and,, 
 hark ! don't say anything about it, but I will send for a parcel 
 from the town, of something good for the feast I" 
 
 0, how quickly the tears changed into sparkling smiles I 0, 
 how eagerly the little labourer hurried to her welcome toil I no 
 sense of slight or sorrow remaining, working with all her might 
 among the others, overflowing with gratitude and happiness. 
 
 And as Clara went forth on her solitary walk, her conscience 
 said to her, " The kingdom of heaven is of little children." 
 
 A year passed away — another note was struck in the scale 
 of life, as it rose towards its final cadence. Who notices 
 enough those solemn sounds — those lonely strikings upon the 
 bell which tolls and then is silent ? — who takes heed whether 
 the note be higher or lower than the last utterance of that 
 grave music, or whether it be unchanged ? Our years, for the 
 most part, are like poor Beau Brummell's valet, who, when- 
 soever his master went forth to a party, remained behind to 
 gather up the "failures'* strewn about his dressing-room, in 
 the shape of some dozen cravats, rejected because the wearer 
 had been unable to attain due perfection of tie. Only the 
 parallel must not be carried too far — for, alas I we very often 
 strew the floor of time with our failures, and go forth un* 
 cravated, after all. 
 
 " JuHa, dear what is the matter ? Won't you tell me f 
 Why are you crying? — are you unhappy about anything?" 
 
 Clara's arms were around the waist of her sister, who wep< 
 
292 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 silently upon her shoulder. After a while she looked up, 
 smiling through her tears, one of those bright, unmistakable 
 smiles which tell of warmth, life, and light, as truly as sunshine 
 does when it falls upon rippling waters, or woos spring flowers 
 to unfold themselves. 
 
 " It is very silly to cry when I am so happy," answered she, 
 after the fashion of Miranda ; " can you guess what has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 Clara looked earnestly into her face. " Yes," said she, " I 
 think I can. Dearest Julia I I have long expected it. Tell 
 me everything as soon as you can speak." 
 
 Clara's tears were flowing nearly as fast as her sister's. It is 
 the way which women have of watering all the young, tender 
 plants of happiness which spring up new in the garden of life, 
 to make them grow. 
 
 " He spoke this morning," said Julia, still hiding her blush- 
 ing face. " And will you tell mamma? for I shall never find 
 courage. Oh, Clara ! it seems so strange — and I never thought 
 he was in love with me." 
 
 " But everybody else thought so," replied Clara. " His 
 manner has shown it for a long time — only, I know it is a 
 matter-of-course that these things are discovered by the lookers- 
 on, and not by the persons whom they most concern. I dare- 
 say you thought he was quite indifferent to you, and rather 
 wondered that he did not pay you more attention." 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" murmured Julia; "I always thought he 
 liked 1/ou the best I" 
 
 Clara felt greatly astonished, for such a blunder as this outdid 
 the ordinary mistakes of young ladies in Julia's situation. 
 " Like me the best ! " repeated she. " What ! Mr. Archer ! " 
 
 *'Mr. Archer!" exclaimed JuUa, kindling into an articulate- 
 ness and decision scarcely to be expected of her, " who was 
 thinking of Mr. Archer?" 
 
 Clara looked at her without speaking. " It is Mr. Dacre," 
 added Julia, holding down her face and relapsing into bash- 
 fulness. 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes, and then Clara warmly 
 renewed her congratulations, and went to tell the news with all 
 possible tenderness to her mother. How did she feel ? It 
 is difficult to say. There was immense astonishment and a 
 momentary pang of something that was neither disappoint- 
 ment nor jealousy, and yet there was a pang, vehemently and 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 293 
 
 instantly chidden into quietness, with a sensation of horror at 
 its selfishness. And then she talked long and gently with her 
 mother, listening to all her doubts and hopes, sympathising 
 with all, dispelling the one by the earnest assurances with 
 which she encouraged the other. And then she told her 
 father, and bore part in the somewhat colder discussion which 
 ensued of ways and means, and future position, times, and 
 seasons, and such like sublunary matters, of which it would 
 have been profane to breathe a word in Julia's presence. And 
 then she w^ent out for a quiet walk with George, and listened 
 and responded to his unmixed delight — all brothers are so 
 pleased when their sisters marry — with a very good grace. 
 And each one of the three with whom she discussed the great 
 event wound up the conversation by saying, *' Do you know it 
 is sK^h a surprise to me I I fancied he liked i/ou." And to 
 each one she answered laughing, ** Oh, how could you dream 
 of such a thing?" 
 
 Her vanity was a Httle mortified— so she told herself in her 
 subsequent dehberations on the matter. Mr. Dacre had belonged 
 to her, and it was not perfectly pleasant to see him appropriated 
 by another. He had from the first courted her friendship, and 
 she was unused to be preferred, and she felt that her belief in 
 her own incapacity for winning affection was strongly con- 
 firmed. She could not escape sundry far from agreeable mis- 
 givings ; she had supposed him to be liking her best when he 
 was only thinking of Julia. How often must she have bored 
 him by her conversation when he wanted to be talking to her 
 sister. ' Her cheeks burned at the idea, and she inwardly re- 
 solved to withdraw more than ever from attention in society ; 
 she must have been vain indeed, far vainer than she had 
 suspected, to have fallen into such an error. She would watch 
 herself strictly for the future. 
 
 The real truth was, that Mr. Dacre had hked her best 
 originally, but had ceased to do so, partly from natural insta- 
 bihty of character, partly from another cause, which may 
 perhaps seem utterly improbable, but which did, nevertheless, 
 exist. Clara's strenuous efforts to be practical and useful ha( 
 impaired her attractions in his eyes. When he first becamt 
 acquainted with her she had been exactly the kind of person 
 about whom he could dream to his heart's content ; there wa3 
 no oppressive reality about her ; no substance of character. Her 
 time was divided pretty equally between study, music, and 
 
294 A VERY WOMAN. , 
 
 conversation — all three very elegant employments, which did not 
 in the slightest degree interfere with the consistency of his ideal 
 portraiture of her. But when she took to darning stockings, 
 the ideal began to fade ; and when she was heard pronouncing 
 decided opinions on matters of fact — when she was seen not 
 merely hurrying, but absolutely bustling, about her household 
 concerns — when she cut short a disquisition on aesthetics to go 
 and assist in putting up the drawing-room curtains — and was 
 too busy settling accounts to come and play Beethoven, he 
 quietly gave her np and betook himself to her sister. It may 
 sound paradoxical, but the truth is, that Julia's uselessness was 
 her great attraction in his eyes. Of course he was unconscious 
 of it, but so it was. In the first place, it enabled her to be 
 always at his beck and call ; no imperative duty thrust itself 
 between them. As she had nothing particular to do, she might 
 just as well be making herself agreeable to him. Moreover, she 
 was never pre-occupied — a great charm to man's vanity — 
 because, in fact, she was never occupied at all except when he 
 occupied her. And the very absence of all that was definite or 
 interesting in her character, while it ensured placidity of temper, 
 gave his restless imagination free play. She was nothing at all, 
 and therefore he might fancy her to be just whatsoever he 
 pleased. There are certain smooth tablets on which you may 
 write whatever you like ; it needs but a wet sponge to efface 
 the whole inscription. It is said that these tablets are made of 
 the skin of an ass, but I would not for the world make an un- 
 civil use of this fact in natural history. 
 
 Clara's next feeling was compassion for Mr. Archer. She 
 was quite sure that he was disappointed, and, in fact, he had 
 reason so to feel. Even a man so free from vanity as he was 
 might have been led to believe himself preferred by Julia's 
 manner. She wondered how he would take it, but could not 
 help laughing when she caught herself devising gentle means of 
 breaking it to him. Soon afterwards he drank tea with the Oapels ; 
 his congratulations were cold, decidedly cold ; Clara was certain 
 that it cost him much to offer them at all. She exerted herself 
 to talk to him, and though he was in a more than ordinarily 
 sarcastic humour, she did not lose her patience, for it seemed to 
 her quite natural. Subsequently she prevailed on her father to 
 forego his intention of asking Mr. Archer to the wedding, and 
 reflected with pleasure that she had at least spared him that 
 pain. As a matter of fact, Mr. Archer, being wholly uncon- 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 295 
 
 scions of the special kindness which dictated his exchision, was 
 a good deal hurt by it, which Clara, happily, never discovered. 
 
 And the wedding came and passed — a commonplace wedding 
 enough. The bride, of course, had never looked so pretty, and 
 the bridegroom behaved admirably. I never yet heard of a 
 wedding at which it was not expressly stated that the bride- 
 groom behaved admirably. Sometimes I cannot help wondering 
 what it can be that bridegrooms are so strongly tempted to do, 
 that resisting the temptation is enough to entitle them to such 
 extravagant praise. The bridegroom on the present occasion 
 looked at least as well as he behaved, being, by good luck, an 
 unusually handsome man, tall and distinguished in figure. 
 There was a great deal of white lace, and a great many tears, 
 and a crowd of people staring at the bride, and prophetically 
 calling her " poor dear " at every third word, and a quantity of 
 flowers to walk upon, which performed their symbolism to 
 perfection, looking bright and fresh when the bride set her fairy 
 feet upon them, but getting crushed and decidedly shabby by 
 the time that the other members of the procession followed ; 
 and there was a priest in white, saying solemn words, and two 
 faint voices slowly faltering their responses, speaking, in fact, 
 with their hearts, which seems to be almost as difficult as reading 
 with the back of one's neck ; and there was a cluster of faces in 
 the little vestry looking like rain -clouds at sunset, so glowing 
 and yet so tearful ; and there was a small collection of auto- 
 graphs made by trembling hands for the benefit of the parish ; 
 and there was hurrying back to the sound of a perfect steeple- 
 chase of bells ; and there was a breakfast wliich was a dinner in 
 a stage disguise which deceived nobody, but just enabled people 
 to call it by a wrong name ; and there were a few desperate 
 struggles at small talk made and then abandoned ; and there 
 were healths drunk and speeches grotesquely pathetic delivered, 
 and a band outside playing *' Hearts of Oak," with a vague 
 idea that it was appropriate to the occasion ; and an agitated 
 toilette, in which it seemed wonderful that the lady's stockings 
 did not get upon her hands, or her bonnet upon her feet ; and 
 a rushing down stairs, and sundry close embraces in the hall, 
 silent and sobbing, as though the form thus passionately grasped 
 were just about to be committed to the executioner; and four 
 horses galloping as fast as four horses ought to do when they are 
 carrying joy away from sorrow : and it was all over. 
 
 Clara felt ver}^ lonely — not that Julia had been a companion 
 
2fjG A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 to her in the highest sense of the word — nevertheless, it seemed 
 as though a completer kind of solitude than heretofore were 
 come upon her life. She had no one but George to whom she 
 could now speak of what she felt, and to him she clung with a 
 fervour of affection absolutely passionate. This was in truth 
 the greatest fault of her character, and it may be described in 
 a single phrase — the need of idolising. That a woman must 
 needs lean and love, who will deny ? But that she should lean 
 helplessly and love immoderately is the evil. Yet never was 
 there a woman in the world, of true woman-nature, to whom 
 this was not a danger narrowdy escaped, an obstacle scarcely 
 surmounted, if indeed escaped or surmounted at all. Clara fol- 
 lowed her brother's college career with proud and joyful 
 devotion ; in a very agony of hope she watched through each 
 crisis of the course, and language is powerless indeed to express 
 the rapture of her thankfulness when the final trial was passed, 
 and the honours of the first class won. With her whole heart 
 she believed that the world had never before owned such a 
 genius as George's. She associated herself in all his pursuits, 
 tastes, troubles, and pleasures, with a touching mixture of 
 reverence and tenderness, and so made him her all, that she 
 could scarcely be satisfied to be less than all to him. The 
 incredulous scorn with which she turned away from sundry 
 intrusive whispers, that he was not quite so steady as he might 
 have been, w^as too lofty to be otherwise than calm. It is little 
 to say that she would have given her life for him. An every- 
 day affection could do thus much out of mere shame, if the 
 alternative were distinctly set before it ; but she gave her life to 
 him, and that is far more. 
 
 His college course was now over, and, in one of those fits of 
 enthusiasm natural to a character of his stamp, he announced 
 his intention of devoting a year to retirement and study, prepa- 
 ratory to his examination for deacon's orders. He talked and 
 felt beautifully concerning the responsibility about to come upon 
 him ; and his sister's warm heart bowed itself before him as 
 he talked, grateful to him for thus realising its highest ideal. 
 There was a painful struggle in her mind when he asked her if 
 the would come with him to the cottage which he had chosen 
 in a retired village on the sea-coast. At first she believed that 
 her duty forbade her this great happiness, and that she must 
 needs stay at home to uphold the system of domestic comfort 
 which she had constructed : but she was overruled in her own 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 297 
 
 favour by her parents. They did not tell her all the motivet; 
 which determined them upon sending her with George, for 
 many reasons ; but the fact was that their experience had by no 
 means encouraged them to a perfect reliance upon his steadines!5 
 and they had so grown into the habit of looking to Clara in all 
 trials, of seeing her arrange all difficulties, endure all annoy- 
 ances, and bring order and comfort out of all confusions, that 
 they felt, as though by establishing her under her brother's 
 roof, they were setting a guardian angel to watch over him, 
 and keep him from going astray. Circumstances, unfortunately, 
 prevented this plan from being put into practice according to 
 their original intention. Little Annie was ill, and Clara was 
 obliged to stay at home to nurse her. George had been more 
 than four months in his soUtary abode when his sister set forth 
 to join him. Long enough to commence to waver in, and to 
 forsake his original resolution, — or to persevere in it till he made 
 a habit of it. 
 
 Clara had never in her Hfe felt so perfectly happy as she did 
 when her brother's arms received her on alighting from the 
 stage-coach. The solitary journey, always a nervous busi- 
 ness, was over ; the warm welcome so long looked forward to 
 was actually being received. She was now with him, in five 
 minutes more she was making tea for him. How comfortable 
 the little room looked in her eyes, with its soiled carpet, gaudy 
 paper, straight-backed chairs, and narrow horse-hair sofa I 
 How delicious was the tea, made with water guiltless of having 
 ever boiled ; and surely never before was such a dainty tasted 
 as the under-done mutton-chop which the good offices of the 
 hostess had provided for the refreshment of the traveller ! If 
 she noticed anything amiss, it was only with the agreeable 
 anticipation of reforming it, and so making him more comfortable 
 than he could possibly have been without her. And she looked 
 greedily at the well-filled book-shelf, and thought how she 
 should make extracts and look out passages for him, and sit 
 by his side w^hile he worked, holding her breath lest she might 
 disturb him ; and how dehghtful it would be when he should 
 look up for a moment to read a striking sentence, or discuss a 
 doubtful argument I He looked a httle pale, he had certainly 
 overworked himself. Now she was come, that could never 
 happen again ; she would beguile him into the refreshment of a 
 walk, or the luxury of a little chat; she could help him in all 
 his labours, and ensure his not overdoing them. 
 
298 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 " You look tired, dear I " was her observation, her eyes fondly 
 fixed upon his face. 
 
 " I was up late last night," he replied ; " and I have a little 
 headache." 
 
 "You will have no more headaches now Jam come," said 
 she. " When I think bed-time has arrived, I shall take away 
 the books, and put out the candles. I have no notion of letting 
 you work so hard in the present as to impair your power of 
 working for the future." 
 
 He laughed. " Oh," answered he ; *' I was not working 
 last night. Wonderful to relate, I was at a party. Three old 
 college friends of mine have taken a shooting-box in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and I dined with them, and we kept it up rather late. 
 They are capital fellows." 
 
 " I am so glad I " cried Clara ; " I was afraid you had no 
 society or amusement at all here, and that must be bad for 
 anybody. You know, love, you mustn't think of me ; I am 
 used to be alone, and rather like it. So I hope you will spend 
 as much time with your friends as you did before I came. 
 Are they studying, too? — how lucky it was that you met 
 them here I " 
 
 ** Not exactly. Very lucky ! " replied George, with a slightly 
 embarrassed manner ; and the next minute he began to talk of 
 home, and they separated for rest, after one of the most 
 delightful evenings that Clara had ever spent. The next 
 morning after a happy tete-a-tete breakfast, she fetched her 
 work, and sat quietly down, anxious not to be troublesome or 
 officious in her offers of service, but ready to work, to wait, to 
 talk, to be silent, to sympathise, with alacrity, as she might tind 
 she was wanted. George produced his books and papers, and 
 took his seat, with a desultory yawn. The length of time that 
 it cost him to find his place, the vague, aimless manner in which 
 he went to work, the parade of new pens and clean paper, 
 might have caused a more suspicious person than Clara to guess 
 that, at the very least, he was resuming an interrupted habit. 
 He had not been employed above an hour, when a note was 
 brought him, and he started up eagerly. " I am going out, 
 Clara, dear, — I shall be back to dinner ; " and he was gone, 
 witliout further explanation. That day he did return to dinner; 
 but the comphment to his sister was not often repeated. Gradu- 
 ally, even her loving credulity was forced to confess that he 
 was idle — even her faith in him, which could have removed 
 
A VEIIY WOMAN 299 
 
 mountains, began to waver. He was scarcely conscious him- 
 self how far he had departed from his own determinations ; he 
 was so resohitely blind to his own defects, that it would have 
 needed a stronger hand than poor Clara's, who, alas I was only 
 anxious to be blind with him, to open his eyes. Moreover, he 
 did work by fits and starts ; and she remembered each day 
 of work with a vigilance more eager than his own, and added 
 it scrupulously to the account, and tried to persuade herself 
 that his relaxations were only necessary, as long as she could. 
 Her sense of her own inferiority to him was so strong, that it 
 was long indeed before she ventured on a remonstrance, and 
 what she suffered, ere she did so venture, can scarcely be 
 described. It was about three weeks after her arrival — he had 
 been out all day, and she was sitting up for him. He came at 
 about one o'clock in the morning, and she heard his voice in the 
 passage, calling vehemently for tea, before he w^ould go to bed. 
 She hurried out to him : '•' George, dear ! come in — nobody is 
 up — I will get you some tea directly." 
 
 He came in — his manner was strange and abrupt — he looked 
 vacantly at her — uttered an oath, the first she had ever heard 
 from his lips — threw himself on to a sofa, and before she could 
 complete her hasty and trembhng preparations, was breathing 
 hard, in sudden, heavy sleep. Even Clara's inexperience could 
 not mistake the symptoms, and, instead of making tea, she sat 
 down and cried — how bitterly, none but those can tell who 
 have believed in, and doated upon, and worshipped an imagi- 
 nary divinity, and then suddenly discovered it to be weaker 
 than ordinary human weakness. To Clara's pure and gentle 
 eyes, this was grievous sin — and, with the painful charity of 
 disappointed affection, she began to devise excuses for what she 
 could not refuse to see ; but, oh ! the bitterness of the new, 
 terrible truth, which made those excuses necessary I 
 
 When George awoke on tlie following morning, he was still 
 on the sofa, and his sister still watching beside him. It was 
 Bome time before he thoroughly comprehended what had passed, 
 and then, half-ashamed, half-angry, he made an awkward 
 explanation ; he had been out all day in the open air, had 
 returned quite exhausted, and a glass or two of wine more than 
 his habit had been too much for him — he was afraid he had 
 frightened her — what a simpleton she was not to have gone to 
 bed, &c. &c. And poor Clara took this scanty balm to her 
 aching heart, and tried to be satisfied with it. 
 
300 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 George was by no means very bad, only Clara had fancied 
 him 80 very good that it was hard to be undeceived. Her 
 influence, patiently, tenderly, trustfully exerted, was not without 
 its effect. And bitter as was her disappointment, she lived 
 through it ; the path which seems perpendicular when you gaze 
 at it from a distance, may toilsomely be climbed when your 
 leet are actually set upon it. Some half-dozen times, in the 
 course of Clara's sojourn with him, the scene which had so 
 bitterly afflicted her was repeated ; but, on the whole, he im- 
 proved. He tried to work more regularly ; occasionally he 
 refused an invitation ; sometimes he laid out a plan for the 
 distribution of his time, and once he kept to it for a whole 
 week. Clara learned to rejoice in things which, three months 
 before, she would have disdained to believe. It is wonderful 
 what love will bear — how perfect is its theory, yet with what a 
 beautiful hypocrisy that theory will accommodate itself to facts, 
 and strive to seem unaltered. The union between this brother 
 and sister was never disturbed : she never spoke harshly to him ; 
 indeed, she was too timid to speak as freely as she ought. But 
 gradually the reproving silence of her quiet sorrow did its work, 
 and the last month that they spent together, resembled, in some 
 faint degree, the portrait of her imagination ; and the time for 
 returning home arrived. 
 
 " Yes, there it is I That is the church tower, George ; how 
 kind of the moon to appear for a moment, and show it me I 
 We are almost at home. In five minutes more, the horses' 
 feet will be upon the stones." 
 
 Their heads were put eagerly out of the carriage windows as 
 they drove up the street, and turned the well-known corner. 
 Soon, by the light of the wayside lamps, they distinguished the 
 small, formal-looking, red-brick house, with its green door and 
 trellised porch, its miniature front garden, some thirty feet 
 equare, with a straight gravel walk up the middle, and a circu- 
 lar border on each side, in the centre of a plot of grass. The 
 upper and lower windows of the house were dark, though it 
 was already two hours after sunset ; suddenly the gleam of a 
 candle was seen ; it passed rapidly from one wdndow to another; 
 then the door of the house was thrown violently open, and a female 
 servant, without bonnet or cloak, rushed out, and ran at full 
 speed up the street, scarcely a second ere the carriage stopped 
 before the swinging gate. Quick, speechless terror came upon 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 301 
 
 George and Clara, and the former was out of the carriage 
 almost before it had ceased to move — sick at heart with name- 
 less fear, his sister followed him into the house. There was no 
 one in the hall. From above-stairs came the sound of hurry- 
 ing footsteps, interrupted by a low moaning and sobbing, as of 
 some one in great agitation, but unable to give it free vent. Clara 
 stood still, appalled. She would have given worlds to know, 
 either at once or never, what was happening. She felt 
 tempted to turn and run away, as if she could so escape what 
 was about to come upon her. In another moment, the loud, 
 unrestrained cry of childish sorrow burst upon her ears, and 
 little Annie came running down-stairs, weeping bitterly, and 
 covering her face with her handkerchief. The brief paralysis 
 which had rendered Clara incapable of thinking or acting, 
 passed away in an instant ; taking the child in her arms, she 
 asked, in low, hasty accents, " What is it, Annie ? — what 
 is it?" 
 
 " Papa, papa ! " sobbed the little girl ; " he has had a fit — 
 he is dying I " 
 
 They stood together, a moment, in the dark hall, closely 
 folded in each other's arms, but unable to see each other's faces. 
 Then Clara hurried up-stairs — but ere she joined the ghastly 
 and troubled group who stood around the bed, all was over, 
 and she was an orphan. 
 
 The course of the great sorrow is common -place enough, a 
 thing of every day. There is the wild incredulity and the 
 unreal composure, half stupor, half excitement ; there is the 
 struggle, more or less vehement, of the will against the adverse 
 power which is labouring to subdue it ; the defeat and the 
 victory, the brave effort, the helpless surrender. There are 
 prayers, such as that prayer which was once wrung from the 
 agony of a great heart, and which is the voice of a new grief 
 fur all time. " Lord I thou hast permitted it, therefore I sub- 
 mit with all my strength."* There is the heavy weariness, 
 and the aching resignation, and the utter weakness, and the 
 deep solemn calm, and the holy strength, and the melancholy 
 peace so sweet in the midst of bitterness, when the vision of 
 heaven dawns upon those eyes which are too blind with tears 
 
 * This was the ejaculation repeatedly uttered by the unhappy Hen- 
 rietta Maria, when she began to recover from the stupor into which she 
 was thrown by the news of her royal husband's murder. 
 
6\J^ A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 to see any longer the beauty of earth ; there is the slow, pain- 
 ful return to old habits and ways, the endeavour, now feeble, 
 now vigorous, the gradual interrupted success, the shuddering 
 recurrence of familiar images and associated sounds, — and the 
 final closing up of a memory into the heart's inmost temple, 
 where it dwells and lives for ever, which the world calls forget- 
 fulness, or at least recovery. And the mourner goes back 
 again to the outer world and common life, like one who has 
 had a fever and is in health again, though somewhat wan and 
 feeble, and needing more than heretofore to be cared for and 
 considered. Sorrows are the pulses of spiritual life ; after each 
 beat we pause only that we may gather strength for the next. 
 
 Mr. Capel's affairs were found to be in great confusion. It 
 often happens that the men whom we have believed to be most 
 cautious and least sanguine are the very men to engage in 
 some sudden rash speculation which results in ruin. Such 
 was the case now. He had embarked what little principal he 
 possessed in a new railroad ; the scheme failed, and his family 
 found themselves literally penniless. The poor widow and 
 little Annie were taken by Mrs. Dacre, whose very moderate 
 income was taxed to its utmost to maintain them. A situation 
 as pupil-teacher in a considerable school was found for Emily ; 
 Clara and George were, for the present, received at the vicar- 
 age. Mrs. Middleton was throughout Clara's chief support ; 
 her warm unselfish kindness amply atoned for any little 
 deficiency in refinement. She insisted upon taking the poor 
 dejected girl to her own home till a suitable position as 
 governess could be found for her, and she interested herself 
 most earnestly in the preliminary negotiations, taking special 
 care that Clara should not " throw herself away in a hurry, 
 which would be perfectly absurd, as the vicarage was open to 
 her for any length of time, and she would not suffer her to 
 leave it unless the prospect were thoroughly satisfactory." As 
 Clara witnessed her life of. busy charity and honest self-denial, 
 she forgave her the bay-window, and reproached herself not a 
 little for her former censorious judgment. Every comfort 
 and help came from or through Mrs. Middleton ; it was she 
 who found the situation for Emily, and assisted Clara in 
 arranging and carrying through the whole affair; it was she 
 too who cheered George when his heart was heavy and his 
 hopes were low, as giving up, of course, his intention of taking 
 orders, he began the wearisome task of looking for employment. 
 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 303 
 
 Aided by her, Clara began gradually to rally from her extreme 
 depression, and to exert herself as heretofore. Her greatest 
 present difficulty, the maintenance and destination of her two 
 younger brothers, was relieved in an unlooked-for and mys- 
 terious manner. In the midst of her first despondency arrived 
 a letter from the master with whom the boys were placed, 
 acknowledging the receipt of a year's payment in advance for 
 his pupils. On inquiry it was found that the sum had been 
 sent in Mr. Capel's name ; but all exertions to discover the 
 source from which it came proved utterly futile. This bounty, 
 come whence it might, came like manna in the desert; yet 
 poor Clara was nearly as much inclined to murmur at it as 
 were the Israelites of old. There was in lier character a 
 strength of natural pride, hitherto unsuspected by herself, 
 mingling a bitterness with her gratitude, of which she felt deeply 
 ashamed. The discipline which she was now undergoing was 
 specially needful to her, and therefore, of course, specially 
 painful ; she had so loved to be all-sufficient in her family, to 
 know secretly, however little she presumed upon it outwardly, 
 that she was the prop, the guide, the guardian of them all. 
 Now she found herself helpless, powerless, useless ; one whom 
 she had well-nigh despised was her supporter, one unknown 
 was her benefactor. She herself was — nothing I 
 
 It was Clara's birthday; no one ventured to congratulate 
 her, and she herself shrank from any allusion to the subject. 
 When we are in much affliction it seems natural to put out the 
 lights. They can but show others what we suffer, or force us 
 to contemplate their tears. At breakfast, Clara received a 
 note from a lady in the neighbourhood, a stranger to her, 
 who required a governess for her children, and requested an 
 interview with Miss Capel. Twelve was the hour appointed, 
 and the writer's residence was two miles distant from the 
 vicarage. With many a good wish and many a salutary 
 caution from Mrs. Middleton, who failed not to remind her 
 again and again, that she had promised not to conclude an 
 engagement without previous consultation, Clara set forth on 
 her solitary walk. As she went, she thought anxiously about 
 George ; he was trying for a situation as mathematical tutor 
 in a scholastic establishment, which had just been founded 
 under somewhat peculiar circumstances. The founder was a 
 man of large fortune, and eccentric habits ; he had reserved to 
 
304 A VERY WOMAN 
 
 himself alone the selection and appointment of the variouf 
 professors, and it was said that he tried the patience of the 
 applicants not a little, in the course of his investigation of their 
 claims, moral, intellectual, and theological. George's college 
 honours had been much in liis favour, and Clara's hopes had 
 been high till a few days before, when he received a letter 
 which appeared to annoy him, and which he did not show her 
 He was a long while composing his reply, and after he had 
 despatched it, he seemed more than usually low-spirited, an., 
 evaded all discussion of the subject with his anxious and 
 vigilant sister. It was not possible to her nature to seek the 
 confidence even of those she most loved, when they withheld 
 it, so she wondered and grieved in silence ; and many a fear, 
 and many a prayer, passed through her heart, in the hours 
 when her aching head rested on a pillow now unfamiliar with 
 sleep. Thus, more than commonly anxious, and with the 
 bitter memory of former birthdays stirring within her, she 
 knocked at Mrs. Bouverie's door, and was admitted into that 
 lady's presence. 
 
 Clara felt too sorrowful to be shy, otherwise the exceeding 
 coldness of her reception might have daunted her a little. 
 Mrs. Bouverie, a tall, lean, hard-featured woman, of fifty-six, 
 with keen eyes, thin lips, and a general dryness of expression 
 perfectly indescribable, slightly bowed, and, without rising, 
 motioned her visitor to a seat. She uttered two civil sentences, 
 which she had learnt by rote, about its being a fine day, and a 
 long walk ; and then proceeded at once to business. She was 
 one of those people who are as chary of small talk as though 
 they were capable of conversation, and as niggard of courtesies 
 as though they were ready with secret kindnesses. Now it is 
 all very well to be reserved when you have got something to 
 hide, but it is really too provoking to see people so careful to lock 
 up empty caskets, and seal blank envelopes. It is an imposition 
 upon society, and ought not to be tolerated. 
 
 We will not weary the reader with the oft-repeated scene of 
 hiring a governess. Suffice it to say, that Mrs. Bouverie having 
 inquired into Clara's qualifications, and examined her testi- 
 monials with apparent satisfaction, proceeded to sum up her 
 own requisitions in the following manner : — 
 
 '* You will have six pupils, Miss Cape], between the ages of 
 seven and fourteen ; you M'ill have the exclusive charge of 
 their education in English and French, and the two elder girls 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 305 
 
 will learn German. The music-master attends once a week, 
 and yon will be present at the lessons, and will very carefully 
 watch — I am particular about this — the practising of each of 
 your pupils daily. Drawing and fancy-work you will of course 
 teach yourself. You will breakfast and dine early with your 
 pupils, and walk with them for two hours a day ; and at eight 
 o'clock, when the younger girls go to bed, I shall expect the 
 pleasure of your company at my tea-table. I always like music 
 in the evening, and shall hope to hear you play and sing with 
 your pupils. You will have perfect freedom, and I hope you 
 w^ill be very comfortable. My housekeeper will settle the 
 pecuniary arrangements with you."* 
 
 Miserable as Clara was, she yet shrank from the future indi- 
 cated by these words. She remembered at a little fishing 
 village on the sea-coast to have seen a mule employed in 
 carrying sand and sea-weed ; the animal had a kind of wooden 
 saddle fitted upon its back, and was sent to and fro between the 
 carts waiting to be loaded and the water's edge, a distance of 
 some eight hundred yards. To and fro, across this measured 
 melancholy space, it trudged doggedly and patiently, pausing 
 at the one end of its journey to receive its burden, and at the 
 other end to be relieved of it, and pausing for nothing else. 
 Clara thought of the nmle when Mrs. Bouverie described her 
 governess's day, and felt glad that she had pledged herself not 
 to decide. She replied quietly and courteously that she would 
 send a definite answer in the evening, as she was bound to 
 consult a friend ere she finally determined. Mrs. Bouverie 
 drew herself up, and Clara became aware that it was possible 
 for her manners to assume an additional coldness — a fact which 
 the strongest imagination could scarcely have conceived before 
 experiencing it. However, Mrs. Bouverie piqued herself upon 
 being always considerate, so she said with grim civility, " You 
 will do what you think best, Miss Capel; and now I need 
 detain you no longer." 
 
 When Clara re-entered the drawing-room at the vicarage, 
 she found George alone. His face was flushed, and his manner 
 perturbed ; he started up, as she came in, with a nervous eager- 
 ness very unusual in him. Not a question did he ask as to 
 the result of her expedition ; he began at once upon a totally 
 different topic. "My dearest Clara, I am so glad you are 
 returned. This is a matter of the greatest importance. Read 
 
 ♦ This trait is from life. 
 X 
 
306 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 this letter : you will soon learn how much depends upon you ; 
 and I am happy, indeed, that it is upon you it depends." He 
 placed an open letter in her hands as he spoke, and Clara read 
 as follows : — 
 
 ^^ Brampton, April 17. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I am most anxious, in circumstances which it 
 must be allowed are somewhat difficult, to act with all the con- 
 sideration towards yourself which is compatible with justice, 
 and with a strict adherence to that determination with which 
 I have already acquainted you. Common fairness requires that 
 you should be the first person to learn the steps I may resolve 
 upon taking. I have, therefore, to inform you that, not con- 
 sidering your exj. lanation of the very painful reports alluded to 
 in my last perfectly satisfactory, I have written to Mr. Middle - 
 ton (who, besides being the clergyman of your parish, is an old 
 and highly respected acquaintance of my own), to say that if 
 he is ready to vouch for your freedom from this pernicious 
 habit, I am ready on my part to appoint you to the vacant 
 professorship. I have the honour to remain, yours sincerely, 
 
 " Richard Brookes." 
 
 Clara looked up wonderingly and full of inquiry. Her brother 
 had scarcely patience to wait till she had finished the letter. 
 "Now, Clara," exclaimed he, "it all depends upon you. Mr. 
 Middleton's conscience, it seems, is very squeamish in these 
 matters ; he heartily wishes to serve me, I do beHeve, but it 
 seems he has made a rule of never becoming responsible for 
 any man on his own assertion merely. But if you will assure 
 him that during the time you kept house for me, you had no 
 reason to believe — in short, I suppose you guess what these 
 confounded reports are. Old Brookes has been told that I 
 drank, and it seems he has a vow not to give one of his pro- 
 fessorships to any man on whom such an imputation rests. 
 You have only to free me from it, and I am secure. These 
 miserable reports refer to the time that we were together ; and 
 Mr. Middleton says that he will pledge himself for me, if you 
 will give him your assurance that he may do so. He is in his 
 study. Go to him directly, there's a good girl, for it only 
 wants an hour of post time." 
 
 The words were poured forth breathlessly ; but Clara stood 
 immovable, clasping her hands together with a look of misery. 
 Then she ran to George's chair, and folding her arms about 
 
A VERY WOMAN. 307 
 
 his neck, covered his face with tears and kisses, as if to atone 
 for the pain she was about to inflict. He half pushed her away, 
 saying impatiently, " Come, come, what does this mean?" 
 
 *' I cannot do it," murmured the sobbing girl ; " you 
 know I cannot. Oh, my dearest brother, what will become of 
 me!" 
 
 George was furious; he affected incredulity, he tried en- 
 treaties, protestations, menaces, ridicule. She could not be in 
 earnest. Would she ruin her own brother, because some once 
 or twice she had seen him when he had been a little impru- 
 dent ? And when he said this, he positively believed that it 
 was but once or twice, and that her scruples were as absurd as 
 they were unkind. Clara wept to agony, but never wavered. 
 It was, indeed, a martyrdom which had more than the bitter- 
 ness of death. And this idolised brother parted from her at 
 last with words which burned indelible traces upon her heart — 
 she did not love him — she was his enemy — she had ruined his 
 prospects for ever. She felt that she had alienated from her 
 the only heart which she had believed to be entirely her own. 
 She sat down in a kind of desperation, and v/rote to Mrs. Bou- 
 verie, accepting the situation, and offering to come to her im- 
 mediately. She did not like to send a servant with the note ; 
 she feared to be prevented from sending it at all if she delayed, 
 and yet she felt that it was the only thing to be done. Inaction 
 seemed impossible, and she hurried out with it herself. How 
 she walked those two miles she did not know. Her head ached 
 to distraction, and her thoughts were all bewildered ; but she 
 left the note, sealed her own fate, and then set forth again to 
 the vicarage. " I shall be very unhappy, always, all my life," 
 said she to herself; "but George will not care! George will 
 not care !" and the words seemed to strike heavily against her 
 brain, and ring dizzily in her ears. She held her forehead with 
 her hand, and stood still, wondering if any woe could go 
 beyond what she then felt, and feeling certain that if there were 
 any such sorrow she should be called upon to endure it. She 
 longed for death, for imbeciUty, for madness — for anything that 
 should obliterate consciousness and destroy the capacity for 
 suffering. 
 
 *' May I speak to you, dear Miss Capel?" said a gentle voice 
 at her side ; " I have so long wished to see you. Surely so old 
 a friend as myself has some privilege." And Mr. Archer took 
 her trembhng hand m his, and then drew it within hia arm, 
 
808 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
 looking earnestly into her face, and adding, " You are ill — is 
 anything fresh amiss ? Can I serve you ? Pray tell me." 
 
 Clara burst into an agony of weeping ; and, as soon as she 
 could speak, tried to put aside his questions, but he was not so 
 to be baffled. He persevered till he had drawn from her the 
 history of what had occurred, which she gave with the less 
 reluctance that she knew him to be already aware of George's 
 misconduct. Indeed, it was a hint received from Mr. Archer 
 which had induced Mr. Capcl to send Clara to his son. Inco- 
 herent and interrupted were her words, but her listener speedily 
 apprehended their meaning. He soothed lier with the utmost 
 tenderness, and once more put hope into her desolate heart. 
 He knew Mr. Brookes well, and had, indeed, recommended 
 George to him ; he would speak to George, and if he found 
 him properly disposed (of which he felt no doubt), he would 
 himself see Mr. Brookes, and endeavour to induce him to accept 
 his (Mr. Archer's) surety for George's future steadiness and 
 good conduct. He entertained no fears. Above all, never let 
 Clara for one moment regret that she had done right in circum- 
 stances so painful. She had probably saved her brother, for 
 this lesson would be one that he never could forget. Clara 
 could scarcely express her gratitude. They walked together 
 for some time in silence, her tears flowing quietly and relieving 
 her over-strained nerves. At last he spoke again : " Do you 
 remember a conversation we had some years ago about Tenny- 
 son's * Love and Duty ?' " 
 
 She looked up in surprise. Yes, she had not forgotten it. 
 
 " You said then," he pursued, " that no woman could feel 
 sure that she was beloved till she w^as actually told it ; and that 
 it was selfishness in a man to keep silence, because, in order to 
 avoid the possible humiliation of a refusal, or the pain of a 
 scene of parting if separation were necessary, he might be 
 depriving her (mark, I only say might) of a certainty which — 
 she might wish to possess. Clara .... I all this while I have 
 loved you ! " 
 
 There was again a silence — Clara's face hidden in her hands. 
 And so, not absolutely discouraged, Mr. Archer told his story. 
 He had loved her all this while — for her charms, for her faults, 
 for her noble struggle against those faults, for her self-conquest, 
 for herself. He believed it impossible that she should love 
 him ; lie had never meant to speak of it. But those words of 
 hers had remained unforgotten; and, at last, he was doing 
 
A VEllY WOMAN. 300 
 
 what, perhaps, ho might ever afterwards repent. Did lie 
 repent it ? He spoke of his defect, he accused himself of 
 presumption, he was ashamed, afraid of what he had done. 
 Reader, did he repent it ? 
 
 Oh, how often did Clara Archer, the happy idolised wife, 
 recur to those days of self-deception when, out of the bitterness 
 of her mortification, in believing that he did not like her, she 
 persuaded herself that she disliked him ! How did she delight 
 to trace the marks of her secret, unsuspected, unacknowledged 
 love, in her irritability towards him, her shyness in his pre- 
 sence, her unsatisfied and morbid cravings after affection, which 
 were, in truth, so many witnesses to that inner sense which 
 was awake indeed, but unconscious and ungrateful. How did 
 she, who had so gloried in her self-dependence, glory now, in 
 owing all to him ! Yes, all I Her happiness, the comfort of 
 her family (for I need scarcely say that he was the anonymous 
 benefactor), the complete reformation of George, who distin- 
 guished himself to her heart's content as mathematical pro- 
 fessor ; and the improvement in her own character, which she 
 verily believed to have been caused, though unconsciously at 
 the time, by her contemplation of his. In her happiness as in 
 her bitter grief, in her weakness as in her strength, in her faults 
 as in her noble quahties, she remained from first to last — 
 
 A VERY WOMAN. 
 
44 
 
 THE TRUST.' 
 
 BY MRS. B U R B U R y. 
 
 " How little is the happiness 
 That will content a child ; 
 A favourite dog, a sunny friiit, 
 A hlossom growing wild. 
 
 " A word will fill the little heart 
 With pleasure and with pride • 
 It is a harsh, a cruel thing 
 That such should he denied. 
 
 " And yet how many weary hours 
 These jo5'ous creatures know ; 
 How much of sorrow and restraint 
 They to their elders owe." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
 And He, that might the vantage best have took, 
 Found out the remedy : How would you he, 
 If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
 But judge you as you are ? Oh, think on that ; 
 And mercy then will breathe within your lips." 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 One of those terrible commercial panics which now and then 
 occur in this country, shaking the credit of the wealthiest 
 houses, and utterly destroying that of others, took place, as is 
 too well remembered., in the autumn and winter of the year 
 before last. Many were the homes destroyed and hearts broken ; 
 and much as English pity goes abroad to look for objects of 
 compassion, there could have been found in the sufferers and 
 victims of this home affliction, quite as deserving, and almost as 
 romantic sufferers, as were ever sent forth by Poland or France : 
 
" THE TRLST." 811 
 
 but it is only with one out of many of these cases we have now 
 to deal 
 
 Mr. Nevillo was a mercnant; one of those who, trading 
 largely with toroign houses, have most of their capital invested 
 either in goods in their possession, or in vessels upon the sea. 
 He was a young man of noble disposition and unsullied integrity ; 
 but somewhat proud and obstinate, so that when he had once 
 decided upon any course, it was a matter of great difficulty to 
 alter or divert his intentions. This decision of character was 
 especially seen in his marriage ; for, regardless of the violent 
 opposition of his family, he chose and wedded a young woman 
 without any earthly recommendation, but high principle, good 
 birth, and some talent. She had not only no fortune, but when 
 he married her was working laboriously as a governess for the 
 support of her family, who after her marriage became, of course, 
 dependent upon her husband. The Nevilles, who were a rich 
 and money-loving race, never forgave either Harry or his 
 wnfe, and for some time would not receive her ; though at last a 
 hollow peace was made up by the means of Harry's youngest 
 sister — a loving -hearted girl of eighteen : and Mrs. Harry 
 Neville, eager for her husband's sake to conciHate his family, 
 accepted the advances which they made, and gladly came for- 
 w^ard with the hand of friendship. But she was not a person 
 w^ith whom such people as the Nevilles could ever be really 
 friendly, for she was too courteous to the poor, too unbending 
 in spirit, and too bitter in her reprobation of mean thoughts 
 and time-serving actions, to render her society greatly coveted 
 by those who were in all things her opposite. Still they kept 
 up a show of affection towards her ; and when the blow came 
 that shattered Harry's fortune, and left him penniless, his wife, 
 judging of his relations by her own heart, and feeling what in 
 a similar case would be her conduct, never doubted but that 
 they would so far assist him as to place him in a position to 
 battle with the storm, and rise again. But she was mistaken ; 
 not only was Harry arrested and thrown into prison, but she 
 was left with two young children, penniless, in a strange place, 
 without receiving a single line of sympathy or pity from one of 
 them. In vain did she write to urge upon them the necessity 
 for assistance, and the cruelty of withholding it ; in vain did 
 «he represent the absolute need for immediate relief: all her 
 appeals were unheeded. At last Beatrice Neville (her hus- 
 band's youngest sister, who was in France) heard of her brother 
 
312 THE TRUST." 
 
 Harry's misfortunes, and wrote to her eldest brother, entreating 
 that for her sake something might be done for Harry's children. 
 She also wrote to their mother, lamenting her inability to offer 
 (until she was of age) any help that might be of real use, and 
 advising her to let her little ones, Blanche and Jessie, go to 
 Mr. Edward Neville's house, where they might be tenderly 
 cared for until something effectual could be done. The same 
 post brought a letter from Mr. Edward Neville, mentioning his 
 sister's wish, and requesting that the two little girls might be 
 sent to him. 
 
 Oh, that poor mother ! who, but the God who watched over 
 her, Ccin tell the intense agony of that hour I When first she 
 read the letters her heart trembled, then seemed to stand still, 
 then beat till its fierce pulsation nearly choked her. She re- 
 turned to them again and again, to see if there was any hope 
 for relief without this horrible separation, or any shadow of 
 invitation to herself. But no ! all spoke the same hard words 
 as before, save that now she saw a postscript which in her haste 
 she had quite overlooked. It was, that, relieved of the burden- 
 of her two children, she might return to her mother, and, 
 doubtless, could earn her living easily in some respectable way. 
 
 She read it over and over again ; her brain was surely wan- 
 dering. It could not be I her husband in a London prison, 
 herself miles, miles away in a country village, and their children 
 separated from both I — she could not agree to it — she would 
 die rather I Her darlings so tenderly nurtured, so fondly loved, 
 with their warm hearts and generous natures, how could she 
 bear to send them from her, to be at the mercy of those hard, 
 cold spirits who could so forget all human love as to propose 
 such a separation ? Even if Beatrice had been there it would 
 have been different ; for she was gentle, merciful, and good, 
 loving God with all her heart, and faithfully following his 
 holy laws. But she was far away, and could not watch over 
 her nieces. No, no I they should not go. But what was to 
 be done ? her purse was nearly empty, and she saw no pros- 
 pect of its being replenished. She sat down, and supporting 
 her head between both her hands, tried to think. \Yhat 
 a chaos was her mind! how one wild thought drove out 
 another I and visionary schemes and delusive hopes followed 
 each other in rapid succession, but all were vain ; upon none 
 could she rely for help. ^Yhere were all her friends — those 
 who had eaten and drunk at her table, and been flattered 
 
** THE TRUST." 313 
 
 by her notice ? As well ask where is the gossamer whicli this 
 morning, with its multitude of borrowed pearls, glittered in the 
 sunshine, but now, since the summer storm, has vanished? 
 She ran over their names : there was not one on whom she 
 dared venture to depend. What could she do ? Her health, 
 which was very delicate, unfitted her for active employment, even 
 if she could have procured any. How was she to obtain bread 
 and the shelter of a house for her children ? Alas ! alas I she 
 knew not. Their merry voices sounded on the stairs, and she 
 covered her ears with her hands, and crushed them violently 
 that she might not hear their laughter ; for it seemed to her 
 that if the tones reached her brain she must go mad. She 
 dreaded lest they should come in — those darling children whom 
 she loved better than her heart's life I She feared to see them ; 
 but they turned away, some fresh trifle had caught their fancy, 
 and they passed the door. Then there was a silence, and she 
 listened with painful and straining earnestness to catch a sound 
 of their voices — something to assure her that they were still 
 near her. This horrid stillness was a foretaste of that lasting 
 bereavement which threatened her. At last a shout of joy 
 broke the silence, and she sank back in her seat, exhausted 
 with conflicting emotions. 
 
 The children had no idea of the cause of their father's 
 absence, and still less imagined why their fare was altered and 
 their comforts curtailed : for it was the bright, gay spring- 
 time ; and so that they could wander in the country lanes, 
 gathering violets, and making round cowslip balls, and had 
 at home their mother's smile and sympathy, they cared 
 very little for the change. Tenderness and love, the willing 
 kiss and ready interest in their joys and sorrows, were more 
 to them than the costliest house and most luxurious table. 
 Children love the people they live with, not the appliances 
 around them; a stately house and splendid wardrobe are no 
 compensations to them for the unloving eye and careless voice. 
 This very ignorance and innocence rendered the proposed step 
 more difficult to accomplish ; for how could their mother chill 
 their warm young hearts by prison tales : and if she did not 
 tell them, how could she ensure that the terrible truth would 
 be gently spoken, and that their spirits might not be crushed 
 by the knowledge ? No, no ; they should not go ; and so, for 
 this day, she comforted herself. But the next, and the next, 
 brought the harrowing details of poverty still closer ; and she 
 
314: ** THE TRUST." 
 
 knew that not only would it bo impossible to keep the frightful 
 truth from her darlings, but that her power to provide even 
 their frugal means would soon be at an end. 
 
 Could she bear to see them want food ? — and to that it was 
 coming faster and faster. Had she a right to keep them from 
 the comfortable home offered by their uncle, to starve with her ? 
 Both alternatives were horrible I God help her I what should 
 Ehe do ? There was another thought, too ; this offer had 
 evidently been made, presuming upon her well-known motherly 
 devotion ; they knew, or thought they knew, that she would 
 never consent to part w^ith her children, and the fact of her 
 having thus declined their charity, would afford an excellent 
 plea for refusing to assist Harry. God forgive the hearts that 
 could thus speculate upon a mother's agony I 
 
 It were a weary task to tell all the misery which Mary 
 Neville endurecl, before she gave up the charge of those whose 
 life and happiness were dearer to her than her own. But the 
 day at last came when they were to leave her. She had 
 determined to tell them nothing, and let them go as if for a 
 visit. How glad little Jessie was I — children love a change — 
 and she remembered the large garden and gorgeous peacocks 
 at her uncle^s, and the last huge piece of cake he had given 
 her, and her cousins' playthings, and she was wild with glee 
 to see them all again. But Blanche was older by three years, 
 and her mother's pallid face and choked voice, and the intense 
 gaze of agony that the child often caught fixed upon herself, 
 struck her as something strange and wrong ; and the promised 
 visit lost its charms, for, without knowing or guessing why, the 
 child's instinct of danger told her that some sorrow was at 
 hand. 
 
 Beatrice had enclosed a note to Mary for the expense of the 
 journey with the children, and she had therefore determined 
 to take them herself to their uncle. The day was fixed ; and 
 the night before, Jessie, who had tired herself with running 
 about, went early to bed ; but Blanche petitioned *' to sit up 
 a little longer, she would be so good and quiet, and not disturb 
 mamma a bit." So Mary and the child sat together in the 
 twilight till evening deepened into night, and the heaven was 
 bright with stars. The mother's heart was breaking ; there 
 was a long, heavy silence ; for even Blanche's young spirit 
 trembled at the stealthy approach of evil, which is ever most 
 terrible when, as to her, neither its shape nor form is known, 
 
" THE TRUST." 315 
 
 and we only learn from what quarter the blow is coming, when 
 it has been struck. At last Mary said, in a voice which sounded 
 strange to the child, for it had, till lately, been singularly sweet 
 and cheerful — " Blanche, my child, listen to what I say, and 
 try always to remember it. You and Jessie are going to your 
 uncle's to-morrow. I shall not be able to stay with you, but 
 I hope you will be as good as if I were always present — pray 
 remember this, because your happiness will greatly depend ou 
 your conduct. Never disobey your uncle or aunt, be affec- 
 tionate and friendly with your cousins, and never, never forget 
 to pray night and morning to God. Pray to Him, Blanche," 
 she said, with a terrible earnestness, fixing her eyes, in the 
 pale star-light, upon the child, *' for He is your true and only 
 friend : in sorrow or trouble go to Him ; pour out your heart, 
 and He will hear you. He will be always near, though I am 
 away. And dear little Jessie ; Blanche, Blanche, will you " 
 
 The sentence was unfinished ; for, overcome with the in- 
 tensity of her feelings, Mary fell senseless from her chair, and 
 the little girl who had hitherto, in similar attacks, seen her 
 mother attended by numerous and loving hands, now knelt by 
 her alone. 
 
 The next day, at four o'clock, the chaise which conveyed 
 IMary Neville and her children from the railway, stopped at 
 Mr. Edward Neville's door, and he himself appeared to receive 
 them. He kissed each of the girls, and handing out his sister- 
 in-law, left her to enter his house alone, while he debated with 
 the driver about an extra sixpence. 
 
 Mrs. Edward Neville was the exact reverse of Mary ; she 
 had possessed a large fortune, was of parvenu extraction, and 
 though by no means ignorant, was certainly not a well-educated 
 woman. She had, during Mary's prosperity, been rather afraid 
 of her; had envied her ease and repose in society, and the 
 higher tone of everything about her, for, try as she would, she 
 could never attain Mary's perfect quietness of manner. 
 
 Her dinners were as good, often, as far as quantity was con- 
 cerned, better ; but somehow they never went off so well, 
 because from her love of money struggling with her love of 
 show, she had always inexperienced servants, who, on " party 
 days," were running over one another all about the house, 
 looking for queer things in queer places, and causing the well- 
 drilled waiters and cooks, hired for the occasion, the utmost 
 perplexity ; while their mistress, who had quite sense eAniougb 
 
316 " THE TRUST." 
 
 to see that something ^Yas wrong, fidgeted and fussed, tried to 
 talk to her guests while she directed the whereabouts of dishes 
 with her eye ; stopped suddenly in the midst of a conversation 
 to listen (as she thought unobserved) to whether the next cover 
 was coming, and tormented herself, and perplexed everybody, 
 until, what should have been a pleasant social meeting, was 
 to her a toil and a heartburning, and to her guests either a 
 source of sly amusement or of pity. All this mortified her, 
 because she saw that, with a smaller house and fewer atten- 
 dants, the dinners and evening parties over whicli Mary pre- 
 sided, not only were conducted so quietly that the awkward 
 machinery of the thing w^as never displayed, but that the 
 hostess while tendering her hospitality (not forcing it) upon 
 her friends, was as gay and free from anxiety and care, as the 
 merriest person in the room. It was acknowledged by their 
 mutual acquaintance, that while nothing could be better than 
 Mrs. Harry Neville's parties, nothing could be much worse 
 than Mrs. Edward's. 
 
 This was all remembered now, and though she was not 
 wicked enough to rejoice in Mary's misfortunes, yet the idea 
 of patronising one who had been the object of her secret envy, 
 was certainly very pleasing to her self-love. In accordance 
 with this feeling, she only rose from her chair and made two steps 
 forward to meet Mary and her children, as they entered. But 
 in Mary's sad face and eyes there was something so beseeching 
 and sorrow-stricken, that her stateliness gave way, and she 
 came quickly from her place, and shook hands with her sister- 
 in-law cordially ; while Mr. Neville, who had saved the sixpence 
 by out-talking the coachman, now entered in high glee, and 
 gave the children a very hearty, though not very elegant, 
 welcome. 
 
 Dinner was soon served, and as it happened to be Mrs. 
 Neville's birthday, all the children dined with their parents. 
 Oh, how anxiously did Mary watch her darlings, lest they 
 should do or say anything which might offend I Gaiety, even 
 in childhood, and a preference for one dish or taste over an- 
 other, is a sin and presumption in the poor ; but Jessie w\as 
 habitually too well behaved, and Blanche watched her mother's 
 eyes too narrowly, to permit them to do very wrong. And 
 when the cloth was withdrawn there had not been a single 
 particle of gravy spilled upon the spotless damask, nor an atom 
 of potatoe left upon either plate, to call a frown to the face of 
 
*' THE TRUST." 317 
 
 their aunt, who, though indifferent, to a most lamentable degree, 
 respecting all such things when " they were alone," was pain- 
 fully particular ** before people." 
 
 The hour was drawing near for Mary to depart, and she 
 sought an interview with Mr. and Mrs. Edward Neville alone. 
 She had so much to say to them, so much to deprecate and 
 beseech. And the children having left them, Mr. Neville said, 
 filling his glass — 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Harry, and what does your husband mean to 
 do when he gets out ? With my family and expenses, and 
 now in addition the charge of his two children, I can do 
 nothing more to help him, of course. He can't expect it." 
 
 " I hope you will see Harry " 
 
 ** Oh, no, quite impossible. I went once, you know, but the 
 place is so horribly uncomfortable. I could not go again ; it 
 could do no good." 
 
 ** Yes, it might ; because I cannot but hope that if you were 
 to see him now, something might be proposed which would 
 answer for you both." 
 
 " Answer for us both ! My dear lady, you never were much 
 of- a calculator, — how could you be, seeing that until you 
 married you had never overmuch to calculate, — but surely you 
 must have learned enough now to know, that an insolvent means 
 a man without a shilling, and how any connection with such 
 a man can answer to another, I confess I don't see." 
 
 Oh, what unwelcome words of stern and bitter truth were 
 gathering upon Mary's lips ! But she thought of her children, 
 and was silent. He went on : — 
 
 " I am out of patience with Harry ; but it is just what one 
 might have expected, living in the extravagant way he did, 
 and holding himself so high and mighty. It won't do, Mrs. 
 Harry, especially when other people have to be at the expense. 
 I suppose he thinks nothing of the cost of these little girls, but 
 takes it all for granted, as if money was to be picked up in the 
 streets." 
 
 Mary's hps quivered, and but that she remembered the Scrip- 
 ture precept, " A soft answer turneth away wrath," she would 
 have uttered, with indignant and contemptuous eloquence, such 
 terribly unanswerable truths, as would have silenced, if not 
 fchamed him. Fast upon her memory came those words of 
 God's apostle, — " If a man say, I love God, and hateth his 
 brother, he is a liar. And this commandment have we from him, 
 
318 "the trust." 
 
 that he who loveth God, love his brother also." And again, 
 — ** Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer, and ye know 
 that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him ; but whoso 
 seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of 
 compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him ? " 
 All this flashed vividly before her spirit's eye, and trembled 
 on her tongue, but for the sake of Harry and those dear 
 children, she resolutely held her lips closed, and was silent. 
 And at last her reward came, as, charmed with the impression 
 he fancied his eloquence had produced, and having exhausted 
 all his brotherly invective, he became silent too, and for awhile 
 neither spoke. 
 
 But time wore on, and the latest train by which Mary could 
 return, w^ould, she knew, start in two hours ; therefore she was 
 compelled at last to break the heavy silence, though in a voice 
 so husky with the tears she tried to suppress, that her words 
 were nearly inarticulate. 
 
 *' You will write to me very often — once a week — will you 
 not?" 
 
 *' Oh, yes, if I have time ; but there can be nothing to say : 
 I hope you won't fidget yourself," replied Mrs. Edward. 
 
 ** Oh, sister ! " exclaimed poor Mary, using that sacred name 
 for the first time, " my children are my life, I would die for 
 their sakes, and this separation has all the bitterness of death ; 
 but I hope it is for their good — I trust in God that it is I " 
 and she looked up in agony, to heaven, " and, therefore, for 
 them I bear it ; but if I am not to hear of them, at least, 
 weekly, I cannot bear it : I shall then surely die ; we have 
 never been separated. Oh, think what I shall suffer, alone, my 
 husband in a prison, my children away ; and, for God's sake, 
 as you are a wife and mother, do as I implore you ! " 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Harry, this is very strange, you are so ex- 
 citable ; it is such a serious thing to promise. I might be out, 
 or busy, or ill, or " 
 
 "Nonsense, Kitty I" interrupted her husband, who was 
 touched by the mute agony of the mother's face ; " you shall 
 hear every Sunday — no, I can't write on Saturday ; but I will 
 on Sunday — every Monday you will have a letter ; so if my 
 wife can't write, I will." 
 
 " God bless you I " exclaimed Mary, clasping her hands. 
 ** You will tell me everything, every little ailment or sorrow ? 
 It may seem troublesome ; but you will have pity upon my 
 
"the trust." 319 
 
 anxiety. Think of your own children, and act by me, as 
 you would have me, in a similar case, do by you. And, oh I 
 be kind to them, consider how young they are ; and if they 
 offend or displease you, be gentle and tender to their infancy, 
 remember that they are motherless. You have sought the 
 TRUST — oh, fulfil it faithfully, as you will answer to God at the 
 last, terrible day ; for if they come to harm, either of body or 
 of soul, while in your hands, I can never forgive you while I 
 live, and, dying, I w^ill appeal to God for vengeance I Yon 
 have sought the trust, I say again ; and for your own soul's 
 sake, look well to its performance. But if, in brotherly love and 
 holy Christian charity to my children and their father, you 
 have undertaken it, may all the blessings of God be on you and 
 yours for ever ; and for every happy hour, every joy your care 
 gives to these orphans — for w^hat else are they — may years of 
 happiness be repaid to you her?, and endless bliss hereafter." 
 
 She had risen, and now^ fixed her large, blue eyes upon the 
 face of her brother-in-law, who gazed, half indignant, half pity- 
 ing, and entirely puzzled, upon this unlooked-for energy in the 
 thin, fragile creature before him. 
 
 " I really don't know what you mean, Mrs. Harry ; I offered 
 to take the children to please Beatrice, and because I wished to 
 relieve you from the burden." 
 
 *' Burden ! — my children a burden I — what burden are the 
 flowers to the earth ? " exclaimed Mary, impetuously. 
 
 " Well, well ! I did not mean that ; but you are so hasty, you 
 do not give me a chance. What I intend is this — to take Blanche 
 and Jessie off your hands, so that you and Harry may be free 
 to take situations, or do what you think best for yourselves ; 
 they shall fare the same as my own children, and be brought 
 up in the same w^ay " (he did not add, that Beatrice had promised 
 to repay him when she came of age). " I. always liked them, 
 and they shall have as kind a home as I can make them ; and 
 beyond this I can promise no more. I think what you said in 
 your letter about the children not knowing of their father's 
 extravagance and imprisonment, is nonsense, because nothing 
 would be so hkely to give them a wholesome dread of careless- 
 ness, as to hear of his misery. But still, as it is your whim, 
 why it must e'en be so ; and they shall never learn it from me. 
 Are you satisfied ? " 
 
 " Yes. The promise is now registered in heaven, and God 
 as well as their earthly parents wull require at your hands an 
 
yzo 
 
 THE TRUST. 
 
 account of how it has been kejjt. Therefore look heedfully 
 to your trust ; a mother reckoning for her children will be no 
 easy creditor to baftle." 
 
 Blanche and Jessie had been a year with their uncle, when 
 the reader is next introduced to Mr. Edward Neville's house. 
 With the miserable details of the poverty-stricken life of Harry 
 and Mary during those twelve months, we will not pain him ; 
 but pass them over with a sigh that in Christian England, such 
 grief should daily cry to God, for the relief denied to it by man. 
 It was a hot wet day in May, the air w^as oppressive both with 
 heat and damp, and people could hardly breathe in the close, 
 stifled atmosphere. It was one of those days which make even 
 cheerful hearts gloomy, and gloomy ones desperate. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Edward Neville were standing in the breakfast-room of 
 their handsome mansion, listening with a painful, frightened 
 earnestness, to the carriages as they drove past on the high 
 road. They were fearing an arrival. Every moment they 
 turned a glance upon the costly French clock which ticked 
 upon the chimney-piece, and compared it W'ith their watches, 
 but neither spoke, until Mrs. Edward exclaimed — 
 
 " I do so dread her coming ; it seems but yesterday that she 
 left them, and w^arned us of her return. Oh, how I wish we 
 had never taken them I Beatrice, too, is so angry that I am 
 afraid we have lost all her interest for ever." 
 
 " Yes, and no wonder. If I had know'u how things were 
 going on, I should have interfered long ago ; but, of course, 
 I thought that you w^ould do all that was right by the children, 
 and I saw them so seldom that I had no opportunity to remark 
 the change. I would not have had it happen for a thousand 
 pounds ; what will the world say ? " said Mr. Neville, walking 
 angrily about the room. 
 
 At this moment the footsteps of the physician were heard 
 descending the stairs, and Mrs. Edward cried — 
 
 " Oh, there is Dr. Lewis, do not let him go ; she wall be here 
 directly, and I dare not meet her ; beg him to stay." 
 
 Her husband went out to obey these entreaties, and as he 
 was talking to the doctor, a fly drove furiously up, and Mary 
 Neville (Harry was in Wales) sprung out and rushed into the 
 house. The physician, who knew her well, came hastily for- 
 M^ard, and throwing open the dining-room door, began — 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Neville, pray come " 
 
" THE TRUST." 321 
 
 " My children, my children ! " cried Mary. 
 
 " Do come in here for a moment," said Edward, offeiing his 
 hand to lead her into the room ; but spurning it, with a gesture 
 of disgust, she fixed her eyes upon him, and replied— 
 
 '' I am here, as I told you I would be, to demand a reckon- 
 ing for your trust. God help us both, if it has been betrayed." 
 
 "Pray let me speak to you for one instant," said Dr. Lewis, 
 pitying the agitation of Edward, as she uttered these words in 
 a hard, bitter tone. She gazed into his face a moment, and 
 read something there which paralysed her strength; then, 
 glancing through the door to the windows of the room before 
 her, she saw that they were darkened, and with a cry of agony, 
 BO utterly desolate and appalling, that even the practised 
 physician shrank back in terror, she fell heavily upon the marble 
 floor. Not long did this happy insensibility befriend her ; 
 misery was too busy at her heart to suffer it to remain un- 
 conscious long, and in a few minutes she revived; and with a 
 sudden energy sprang up, and seizing Dr. Lewis's arm, said, 
 in a hissing whisper — 
 
 "Dead— both dead?" 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " Which ? " and as she spoke, she shivered from head to foot, 
 while her eyes glared upon the sympathising physician with 
 such a fearful expression that he could not choose but reply — 
 
 '' Jessie." 
 
 A deep, terrible groan answered him, as the painful clasp 
 with which she held his arm was relaxed, and her hands fell 
 listlessly by her side. Then, after a minute, she said in the 
 same shrill unnatural w^hisper — 
 
 " Blanche, where is she ? " 
 
 ** L"^p-8tairs ; but I must prepare you to find her very ill." 
 Mary's hands clasped each other convulsively, and her lips 
 opened without a sound ; " but you must be calm ; pray, do 
 not agitate yourself." 
 
 " Calm ! " she repeated with a scream ; '' calm . — my heart is 
 frozen I I am ice ! " 
 
 "Pray, pray, Mrs. Harry "began her brother-in-law; 
 
 but at his voice she started as if stung by a serpent, and ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " If you would have me keep my senses, and not go mad 
 before you, be silent. I have not seen my dead and dying 
 children yet, when that is done I will talk to you. Let me go 
 
 Y 
 
322 " THE TRUST." 
 
 now, Dr. Lewis," and with a bend of her head, and action of 
 her hand, as if to deprecate all further speech, she passed the 
 physician and her brother-in-law, and went ont into the hall, 
 in which, listening with a trembUng frame and blanched cheek, 
 stood Mrs. Edward Neville. Upon seeing her sister-in-law 
 she would have escaped, had it been possible ; but her fears of 
 recognition were needless. Mary never seemed to see her, and 
 crossing the hall without a word, ascended the stairs, foUowed 
 by the medical man. 
 
 When they reached the upper landing. Dr. Lewis passed his 
 companion, and going forward, opened a bedroom-door opj)o- 
 site to them, and in a minute the mother was in the chamber 
 of death. On a little bed, from which was stripped all curtains 
 and drapery, to allow the air to play freely around it, lay 
 Blanche Neville ; but so sadly altered that even her mother 
 could scarcely recognise her. Her eyes, round each of which 
 was a frightful circlet of black, were closed, and her breathing 
 was laboured and heavy ; she was not asleep, but the stupor 
 of death seemed gathering over her. Mary staggered as the 
 terrible sight met her gaze ; but, recovering in a moment, 
 approached the bed. Kneeling by it, and discovering when 
 she raised her face, the grieved features of indignant sorrow, 
 was Beatrice Neville ; she rose as Mary came up, and shrink- 
 ing back she cried — 
 
 " Do not hate me, do not hate me ! I have travelled day 
 and night since I heard of this ; and God knows " (and she 
 raised her eyes to heaven) " I would have saved their lives 
 with my own. Since I came I have never left this room : and 
 this morning, this morning " — but, overcome with the recollec- 
 tion, she turned away, and burst into tears. The sound of 
 voices aroused Blanche, and opening her eyes, they fell upon 
 her mother. In an instant it seemed as if Hfe and health had 
 come back to her, for springing up in bed with a strength of 
 which no one would have thought her capable, she held out her 
 arms to Mary, and cried — 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma I mamma ! '* 
 
 Before the words were half uttered, mother and child held 
 each other in a close embrace ; and after a few minutes, 
 Blanche paid, holding her mother's hand between both her own 
 Wasted ones — 
 
 *' You will not leave me here, again, dear mamma ? — do not 
 ' — pray, do not ! " 
 
" THE TRUST." 323 
 
 " Never, my darling, never ! I will stay with you, and when 
 I go, so shall you." 
 
 " Mamma, Jessie is dead ! we have been so unhappy ! oh 1 
 why did you not come before ? And papa, he is not so wicked, 
 is he ? Can't he come, too ?" said Blanche, in a laboured voice, 
 for her breathing was very painful. 
 
 "Yes, darling, he will be here soon." 
 
 " I thought so, I knew it was not true ; Aunt Edward said 
 that he was wicked, and shut up in prison, and that if we were 
 troublesome we should be shut up too." 
 
 Beatrice groaned, but Mary clenched her hand until the nails 
 were buried in the palm, and said, quietly — 
 
 " Never mind, Blanche, dearest, you shall not be shut up, and 
 papa is now, I dare say, coming to see you ; he has only just 
 heard of your illness, so you must try and get well, to see him." 
 
 " I shall never be well again," said the child ; " I know I 
 never shall : I have been ill so long, and Aunt Edward said 
 it was all fancy ; and that you would never come to see us, 
 because we fretted ; and she was angry with us, and made us 
 go to school ; and told our governess we were obstinate, idle 
 children, and could do our lessons if we chose. And she said 
 we were charity-children, and ungrateful, and wicked ; and we 
 should come to want, as you and papa had done." 
 
 *' Blanche, Blanche ! " cried Beatrice, imploringly ; but the 
 mother sat, seemingly unmoved, while the child gasped out its 
 tale. Only her eyes spoke, and their language was frightful. 
 
 " Are you there. Aunt Beatrice ? " said the sufferer : " I love 
 you ; if you had come before, we should have been happy. 
 Why did you not come ? Oh ! how poor Jessie and I used 
 to cry ourselves to sleep, wishing for mamma and you ! But it 
 was of no use, you never came, you had forgotten us.* 
 
 " My own, my own ! " cried Mary, folding her child to her 
 heart. 
 
 " Mamma, why did you leave us ? Oh I why did you leave 
 us to be so very miserable ? " 
 
 Mary rose suddenly. She could not breathe ; her heart 
 
 seemed swelling till it threatened suffocation : and Dr. Lewis, 
 
 eeing the terrible expression of her face, came from the 
 
 window, where he had stood to conceal hLs emotion, and said, 
 
 in a gentle, pitying voice — 
 
 "Blanche, darling, if you love your mamma, do not distress 
 her so ; see how ill she is : she will not leave you again, if you 
 
324 " THE TRUST," 
 
 are good ; but, if you talk in this way, I Bhall not let her stay 
 to nurse you." 
 
 " Oh ! do not go — I will "be fo good — do not," faltered tho 
 child ; and, overcome with the excitement, she fainted 
 
 All that weary day and night, Mary and Beatrice watched 
 by the bed of the death-stricken child whose piteous delirium, 
 revealing as it did the miseries of the past year, rendered them 
 nearly incapable of performing the duties of their agonising 
 post. 
 
 How quiet was that usually noisy house ; the very f jorfall 
 of the inmates, as they moved about, could not be distinguished 
 until they had reached you. The muffled bells, and trebly- 
 carpeted passages, the hushed and whispering voices, alike 
 betrayed the awe which was upon them all. And well might 
 they tremble and fear, and still their very hearts, to listen to 
 the sounds in the sick-room above, for the avenger was at hand : 
 the awakened and sleepless wrath of the betrayed and be- 
 reaved mother, was watching by her child. Good need had 
 they all to dread the reckoning, if that last one died. 
 
 And now, in as few words as will serve to do so, we will give 
 a sketch of the circumstances which, in a year, had robbed 
 Mary of her treasure. 
 
 Blanche and Jessie were singularly graceful and elegant 
 children, gentle and refined in manner, and delicate in health. 
 Not sickly or troublesome, but, like all beautiful things, re- 
 quiring tenderness and care. In this they were the very oppo- 
 sites of their cousins, who were noisy and ungovernable, full 
 of the enjoyment of ab-'indant health and animal spirits ; and, 
 as may be easily euppocied, the occupations and games which 
 gave joy to the one were, invariably, either too tame or too 
 riotous for the other. Now, this difference in the style of the 
 children was, in itself, irritating to Mrs. Edward Neville, 
 especially as people always noticed and encouraged the timid, 
 retiring, little strangers, much more than their boisterous 
 cousins ; so that she strove to lessen the favourable impression 
 they made, by telHng every one, in a tone of compassion, that 
 they were ** poor Harry's children, and that they had taken 
 them out of charity ; but, really, their mother had so indulged 
 and spoiled them, bringing them up in all sorts of whims and 
 extravagancies, that they were a source of continual trouble, 
 always fancying or refusing something. It was a sad thing, to 
 be sure; but Mr. Edward Neville was so benevolent and good. 
 
" THE TRUST." d'ZH 
 
 that, dreadful as his hrother's conduct had been, and sadly aa 
 he had disgraced the family, he had taken his chiklren, and 
 clothed and fed them just as if their fcxther had behaved credit- 
 ably, instead of being such a reprobate." 
 
 Indignantly did the hearts of tho humbled and insulted 
 children often swell at such words fs these, and stidiously did 
 they try to hide themselves from notice. But Mrs. Edward 
 liked to play the good Samaritan, and parade her unhappy 
 little nieces to the world ; so, day after day, they were exhibited 
 to the visitors, till their altered looks and faded beauty called 
 forth exclamations of pity instead of admiration. Their cousins 
 w^ere far from being ill-natured or cruelly-disposed towards 
 them, and never really intended to distress them ; but they had 
 no sympathy with their- delicate health and gentle tastes ; and 
 now, hearing repeatedly from their mother of the worthlessness 
 of uncle Harry, and the extreme charity of their father in giving 
 his daughters shelter, they learned to look upon the sensitive 
 and peace-loving children as interlopers, and butts for their 
 practical jokes. Beatrice, in her frequent letters of inquiry 
 respecting her nieces* welfare, had strongly urged upon her 
 brother the necessity of educating them carefully, with a view 
 to their future independence, promising, upon her coming of 
 age, herself to defray the expenses. At first Mrs. Edward 
 demurred at this ; but Beatrice insisting upon it, she hunted 
 out a cheap day-school at the village, a mile from her house, 
 and thither, in wet weather or dry, in heat or cold, did the 
 poor delicate children walk twice a day. In vain did they 
 comJ3lain of fatigue ; in vain did their aunt see, first their appe- 
 tites, and then their bodily energy, failing ; she told herself, 
 and them, that it was perverseness and idleness, and that to 
 yield to their request, that they might stay at home, would 
 only make them more delicate and fanciful. 
 
 Who now can tell, but the pitying angels w^ho bore them 
 invisible company in their weary life, the hopeless tears of misery 
 those poor children shed, as, day after day, they rested at short 
 intervals along their walk to school ; and how they wondered 
 why it was they were so desolate and deserted, and if they were, 
 indeed, as their aunt said, quite forgotten ! And often calHng 
 to mind their mother's injunctions, Blanche would strive to 
 cheer her darling little Jessie ; and w^hen the poor child sobbed 
 till her heart beat painfully from weakness and grief, she would 
 conjure up bright hopes for the future, joyful visions of their 
 
S26 " THE TRUST.' 
 
 mother's return, and in this way calm for a time the misery 
 which was wearing her young life away. Thus the evils in- 
 creased, till the sad, frightened little things — those petted dar- 
 lings of their parents whose earliest years had been unbroken 
 sunshine — became spiritless, heart-crushed, and feeble. At last 
 a low contagious fever broke out in the school, and Blanche and 
 Jessie were soon attacked by it. For the jEirst day or two they 
 were mocked and laughed at, told they were fine ladies and 
 fanciful, and must not play truant; but on the third, Mrs. 
 Edward was startled by seeing a chaise drive slowly up to her 
 door, and her nieces lifted out from it, the youngest in a state 
 of perfect insensibility. The governess, who felt deeply for her 
 gentle, patient, little pupils, had accompanied them home, and 
 now urged, in very indignant terms, that Dr. Lewis, the lead- 
 ing physician in the neighbourhood, should be sent for ; and 
 so much alarmed was Mrs. Edward that she eagerly agreed to 
 the suggestion. He came, and she shrank terrified from his 
 look and tone as he said — 
 
 " If these children's parents are alive, and ever wish to see 
 them again on earth, let them be summoned instantly. I have 
 little hope of saving them ; they are so enfeebled and reduced 
 in stamina that there is scarcely a shadow of chance for their 
 lives." 
 
 Mr. Neville was immediately summoned from his counting- 
 >iouse, and, though himself far from blameless in the matter, he 
 vehemently upbraided his wife with her cruel and heartless 
 neglect of their sacred charge. Neither of them dared to send 
 for the mother, whose confidence they had so recklessly be- 
 trayed ; but they wrote to Beatrice, who had just returned 
 from the Continent, to come to them as speedily as possible, at 
 the same time informing her of the reason for which her pre- 
 sence was required. As soon as Beatrice received this letter 
 she set off, only delaying long enough to write to Mary, begging 
 her to lose no time in joining her at *' The Lodge." When she 
 arrived she found Jessie dying. Throwing off her travelling 
 dress, she waited for no interview with her sister-in-law, nor 
 explanation of the cruel scene she was called upon to witness, 
 but at once took her place by the sinking child, and never left 
 her until God, in mercy to her sufferings, sent His angel to put 
 an end to them for ever. 
 
 Before she died, Beatrice had the unspeakable joy of seeit 
 her loving eyes rest in recognition upon her, and of receiving 
 
" THE TRUST." 327 
 
 from lier dying lips a fond message of devoted affection, to be 
 conveyed to her mother. It was fortunate that the patient little 
 sufiferer had been so impressed by her aunt, during the last year, 
 with a conviction of the extreme improbability of her ever seeing 
 her parents again, that now, in this desolate hour, she never 
 pined for or expected them. It would have distracted her 
 broken-hearted nurse if that misery had been added to her 
 already overflowing cup ; but she was spared it, and Jessie 
 Neville died in her arms, with a smile upon her emaciated face 
 and words of love upon her lips. The death-spirit had breathed 
 softly upon her heart, and its pulse was stilled. No convulsion, 
 no terror or pain, left its impress upon those lovely little features 
 to make them terrible. Quietly, as if to sleep, the sinless soul 
 resigned itself to God ; and, as if the answering smile with which 
 it greeted its happy sister-angels lingered still upon its lips, the 
 face which had so long been sorrowful was now brightened with 
 a calm and holy joy. 
 
 Morning was breaking heavily over the rain-soddened earth ; 
 the birds chirped gloomily, as if the long-continued wet had 
 made them hopeless and sad, and they despaired of seeing the 
 glad sunshine again. Beneath the shrubs the water had washed 
 away the gravel, and laid bare the white stones ; and tiny rivers 
 were coursing their way below the grass-raised edge of the 
 lawn, and down the walks, while a warm thick fog, almost pal- 
 pable to the touch, steamed up from the earth. What a terrible 
 atmosphere was this for fever to riot and thrive in ! And 
 Beatrice and Mary knew, when the struggling light, breaking 
 through the thick low clouds, revealed the melancholy prospect, 
 that all hope from the benefit of fresh brisk air and a lightened 
 atmosphere was over for that day. 
 
 Very early, long before half even of the busy people of the 
 world were up, Dr. Lewis stood again by his patient. A great 
 change had taken place, and the fever had spent its fury ; and 
 as if satisfied with the misery it had wrought, and the beautiful 
 prey it had already seized, seemed playing coyly with the 
 stricken and helpless Blanche. Inflammation, that covert and 
 energetic foe, was subdued ; and the sleep into which the child 
 had sunk since daybreak, was more deep and quiet than any 
 which had blessed her with its balm since she had been attacked. 
 Now, for the first time, the physician had hope ; and when Mr. 
 Berry^ his able and active colleague^ joined iiim for their con- 
 sultation, they agreed that the case wore a more cheering aspect 
 
328 "the trust." 
 
 than it had yet done, and that, if previous to the attack the 
 child's strength had not been most cruelly undermined, she 
 might even now battle successfully for her life. Early in the 
 morning she awoke, and taking the nourishment offered by the 
 trembling hands of the mother, after a few minutes fell off again 
 to sleep, being too much exhausted and too drowsy to talk. 
 
 By about midday Harry NeviDe, to whom Mary had sent 
 Beatrice's enclosure and note, arrived ; and the brothers, who 
 had never met since they had dined togedicr on equal terms in 
 the house of the younger, now stood face to face. The insolvent 
 and the miUionaire, the betrayed and the betrayer. 
 
 Not one single word did Harry speak ; but there was a stern 
 look in his eyes w'hlch made his guiliy brother tremble, as his 
 own sank before them. It was the resolute gaze of one who 
 would be fooled no longer, of one who knew his wrong, and was 
 come to punish it. There was no anger, no passion or fury, but 
 a calm determination. The father had come for his children, to 
 reckon for their usage ; the trusting and the faithless were at 
 length confronted. For rage, and violence, and upbraiding, 
 Edward Neville w^as prepared ; but this deep, passionless, word- 
 less indignation, w^as something so unlooked-for, and impossible 
 to escape from, or explain aw^ay, that the w'orldly man, the rich 
 and prosperous merchant, whose banking-book and ledgers ^vere 
 the glory of his heart and the envy of his rivals, cow^ered like a 
 slave before the gaze of his father's son. And he felt that he 
 would have given all the money of all his race, dearly as he 
 loved it, for the power to stand erect before his fellow-man, and 
 give a fearless account of his trust. But it was in vain ; the past 
 was telling its own tale, and its work had to be reckoned for. 
 
 When Harry had seen his child, he came down into the room 
 where his brother sat, and walking up to him, said : — " When I 
 was in prison, and she was destitute and alone, you induced my 
 wife, in peril of starvation, to yield her children to your care — 
 do not speak," he continued, weaving his hand, as he saw Edward 
 about to answer ; " Like the generals of old, who starved into 
 subjection the garrisons they cotild not conquer, you played upon 
 the mother's agony, to rob her of her children ; and, with a 
 strange refinement of cruelty, would have separated her from 
 me also, setting at nought those holy laws which are ^Yritten 
 upon the very hearts of all Christian men. It would seem as 
 if you had all along hated her, and, coward-like, exulted in the 
 misery which brought her so low as to accept charity from yoU; 
 
" THE TRUST." 329 
 
 tliougli, as I know now for the first time, Beatrice had made 
 herself responsible for the food and clothes you only bestowed 
 as her almoner. To gratify yourself, you took my children ; 
 had it been to serve me, or with even a shadow of the holy 
 charity you feigned, you would have doled out some little pit- 
 tance to have kept husband and wife, parents and children — 
 placed in such relationship by God — together. But no, that 
 would not have served your purpose ; you would have given 
 joy instead of misery to those you loved to humble, and have 
 lost the daily pleasure of parading your brother's charity children 
 before the eyes of the world. You chose your path, have fol- 
 lowed it, and now, at its end, must give up a plain and true 
 account of how you have walked. Two healthy, happy, loving 
 children were given to your care a year ago ; one of them is 
 dead. How? by what means? Did God smite her in the 
 midst of joy, and take her from the care of loving hearts ? Or 
 was her life w^orn away by the slow, unfaiHng poison of petty 
 cruelty and neglect ? Was not her heart crushed and saddened 
 by being held up as a burden upon your household ? And 
 when at last her tender body sank, was she not even then 
 taunted with her own feebleness and her father's follies? The 
 blood of Abel, slain by his brother, cried not to God for venge- 
 ance more loudly than does that of your victim, and it must be 
 answered. 
 
 " Now listen to me : Position, wealth, a fair name, are all and 
 each your idols, and for these you have bartered your soul to 
 the w^orld. But you stand upon a tottering steep ; let but my 
 last child die, and far and wide as the human language is spoken 
 the story of your treachery and hypocrisy shall be told. You 
 shall no longer stand in the sight of God and man the living lie 
 that you have hitherto appeared; but by my hand, with my 
 voice, the cloak of seeming shall be torn away, and you shall be 
 proclaimed the heartless, mercenary despiser of God's laws that 
 you are I If my child lives, though I will never own fellow- 
 ship with you again, but, rich as you are, spurn your friendship 
 as I would that of the loathsomest wretch on earth ; yet, in 
 gratitude for God's mercy, I will spare you. I will recollect 
 that you are my father's son, and that once you were innocent. 
 / will remember, though you forget, that once we played to- 
 gether ; that the same mother nursed us, and that the same 
 home sheltered us. For my dead mother's sake, for the honour 
 of my father's name, and for the memory of their death -beds, 
 
830 " THE TRUST.** 
 
 when we were left as cliildren to cling to and cherish each 
 other, your reputation shall escape. But do not believe that, 
 because I am silent, the world will be so. No ! your sin will 
 find you out ; and from the grave of your tortured victim will 
 rise the spirit which shall whisper in men's ears the crime that 
 lies buried there ; and it will be your misery and punishment, 
 on earth, to feel that every man you meet knows you for the 
 heartless brother and faithless guardian that you have proved 
 yourself. And now, until my child's fate is decided, we meet 
 no more." 
 
 A few hours after this interview between the brothers Beatrice 
 sought one with Edward, the result of which will presently ap- 
 pear, and then returning to the sick room, resumed the place 
 which for three weeks she had never quitted, except for a brief 
 slumber upon the mattress by the bedside. How much, during 
 those anxious hours, did the sisters-in-law find in each other's 
 heart to love ! Watching by the same couch, praying from the 
 same holy book, and resting their hopes in the same Almighty 
 and pitying Father, it is no wonder their former differences were 
 forgotten, and that, purified in the sacred fire of affliction, these 
 fellow-wanderers in a world of trial at last became sisters in love 
 as they had so long been in name. 
 
 For many, many days, did Blanche's spirit hover upon the 
 brink of the unseen world ; and so calm was the child, so sub- 
 dued was all the frenzy and delirium of the fever, that one would 
 have thought her soul was even then holding communion with 
 the white^robed angels, who bent their radiant heads to whisper 
 to her of the awful glories and joys of her future home. All 
 was so peaceful, that surely if she were to die, the bitterness of 
 death was past ; and from this idea, half pain, half peace, the 
 watchers strove to take comfort. The weather still continued 
 sadly against their patient, for the rain, which fell incessantly, 
 engendered a wet, oppressive atmosphere, most injurious to a 
 weak and fainting invalid ; but, contrary to all expectation, after 
 a week's incessant anxiety, they saw Blanche begin visibly to 
 amend. Her progress to health, though very slov/, was still 
 constant ; and Dr. Lewis told Mary he might now venture to 
 say that, with God's blessing, her child was out of danger. 
 
 Of all the glad hearts made so by this announcement, not one 
 experienced the deep thankfulness and joy of Beatrice Neville. 
 Widely different in disposition from both her brothers, thoughtful 
 yet loving, gentle yet firm, careful yet Uberal, and gifted with 
 
" THE TRUST. ' 331 
 
 no common intellect, she had seen with grief the unholy 
 selfishness of her eldest brother. And while every sympathy of 
 her woman's heart gathered round the bereaved parents, she 
 dreaded the extreme of unchristian requital into which, if their 
 last child died, their utter desolation and agony might hurry 
 them. For there was no question (so Dr. Lewis told her in 
 confidence) that the death of Jessie — and if she perished, that 
 of Blanche, too — was caused by the unfeeling and injudicious 
 treatment they had experienced; which, by reducing their 
 strength and destroying the energy of life, had first predisposed 
 them to low fever, and then rendered them powerless to struggle 
 against it. Often and often, as she sat by the bed, in the early 
 days of Blanche's illness, she shuddered indignantly at the piteous 
 words the poor child seemed, in her delirium, to be repeating to 
 her sister, and the beseeching tones and plaintive expressions 
 which appeared but too familiar to her lips ; and very, very 
 thankful was she to Mary that, when with quivering lips and 
 ghastly face she listened to these cruel evidences of her child's 
 misery, she refrained from upbraiding her with having entreated 
 and forwarded the project which had ended so deplorably. 
 
 The day came when Blanche was lifted from her bed and 
 carried into another room ; and, though exhausted by the 
 fatigue, she soon rallied, and smiled eagerly upon the three 
 loving faces — those of her father, mother, and aunt — who stood 
 by her. 
 
 It was the 11th of June, St. Barnabas' day; and the sun, so 
 long a stranger to the earth, broke suddenly through the cloudj? 
 with majestic glory. From all corners of the rain-wearied earth 
 went up to heaven the songs and incense of praise ; and as the 
 party who were gathered round the sofa gazed out upon the 
 thankful earth, the sweet chiming voice of the holy church-bell, 
 calHng the people to the daily prayers, rose cheerily on the 
 air. Surely, surely, God, their Father, sent that sweet tone, 
 and softened their hearts, as, listening to its music, it recalled to 
 their minds the prayers that all over the Christian world were 
 then going up to Him, to be laid upon the mercy-seat of His 
 omnipotence. Blanche's eyes (for she had been sleeping) opened, 
 and she said to Beatrice — 
 
 " Dear aunt, say a prayer — the Lord's Prayer ; you are too 
 late for church, so let us pray together here." 
 
 They all knelt reverently by the child, and complied with 
 her wish ; and certainly the voices of each Hngered over the 
 
332 " THE TRUST." 
 
 petition, " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive tliem that 
 trespass against us," longer than over any other sentence of the 
 prayer. But, as they rose and resumed their seats, neither 
 spoke on the suhject to the otliers, till at last Beatrice said, 
 gently — 
 
 *' I have long wished to speak to you, Harry, upon your 
 prospects for the future ; and a feeling that I cannot define 
 urges me to do so now, telling me that I shall be successful iu 
 ohtaining my wishes." 
 
 She looked anxiously at her brother, to read, if possible, in 
 his countenance, what impression her words made ; but no 
 feeling, except that of surprise, was written there ; so she went 
 on : — 
 
 " For all that has passed during the last fifteen months, Harry, 
 I dare not offer any excuse ; my own heart too loudly tells me 
 that nothing can be pleaded. What is past can never be 
 recalled ; and I fear" (here her voice became husky with emo- 
 tion, while Mary's tears fell fast, and even Harry covered his 
 eyes) " never, never repaired. But the future, or at least the 
 present, is our own ; and I am authorised to say, that whatever 
 plan or wishes you may have formed shall be gratefully for- 
 warded, at any sacrifice." 
 
 As she spoke Harry sprang from his chair, and a vehement 
 and wrathful ejaculation burst from his hps ; but Beatrice rose, 
 too, and laying her trembling hand upon his arm, and gazing 
 into his face, while her own was bedewed with tears, said, 
 beseechingly — 
 
 " Mercy, Harry, mercy ! Have you forgotten our mother ? 
 What would she have said to hear such words from your lips, 
 her darling and best-loved child ? " 
 
 The angry man cast down his eyes ; his mother's name was a 
 'spell against which he could not struggle. Beatrice saw her 
 advantage, and continued : — 
 
 " Pity and forgive them, Harry, as God has pitied and for- 
 given i/ou. You cried to Him for mercy on your child, and He 
 spared her. The other " — and she bent her head upon his 
 shoulder to support her frame, which trembled like one palsied 
 ■ — " is in heaven ! Jessie is at rest." 
 
 Mary's sobs had now become convulsive, and she couW 
 ecarcely breathe ; while the emotion of her husband was nearly 
 lis distressing. 
 
"THE TRUST. 6od 
 
 " Forbear to urge me, Beatrice," said he. " Do i/ou have 
 mercy. Why do you name my poor murdered child — slowly, 
 heartlessly lorlnred to deafh by my own brother? Do you 
 think I iiave forci^otten ?" 
 
 " 1^0 ! no I God knows that is impossible for any of us ; but 
 you may forp^ive." 
 
 *' Never, Beatrice, never ! I will leave his house in peace. 
 I will not cu.rse him; but I will shake off the dnst from my 
 feet, and see him no more till we stand together before 
 God." 
 
 " * Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass 
 against us,' " murmured the sweet, low voice of the child. Ilarry 
 started; the feeble tones seemed unearthly; and in his excited 
 and ovcr-wrongiit state, a natural occurrence appeared almost 
 a mira(:ulons one. He sat down and wept. 
 
 *' Dear Ilarry," pleaded his sister, ** listen to the voice of 
 innocence. If you, at the great day of which you speak, will 
 stand in need of mercy, render it now to your offending and 
 guilty brother ; and as you do to God's erring creature here, it 
 shall be done to you hereafter." 
 
 Mary spiang up, and, throwing herself upon her husband's 
 neck; exclaimed — 
 
 " Forgive ! forgive ! /do, with all my heart." 
 
 " My wife! my darling Mary !" said Harry, weeping, as he 
 pressed her wasted form close to his heart ; " they would have 
 robbed you of both your children — and do you plead for 
 them ? " 
 
 " God has spared one, and the other is with Him," she said, 
 gasping ; " let us bless Him for His mercy, and sacrifice our 
 revenge as a thank-offering. He might have taken l)oth, and 
 yet He had mercy ; let us not, then, be harder to soften thai? 
 our offended Master, lest, in His anger. He turn again and 
 smite us." 
 
 " * Father, forgive them,' " murmured Blanche, softly, using 
 unconsciously the holy words of our Redeemer. 
 
 She scarcely knew for what she pleaded, but it was something 
 for which her darling mother and aunt were weeping ; and hef 
 gentle heart went wdth thjm in their prayers. 
 
 " God help me ! this is a hard trial," said Harry. 
 
 " For my sake, if you love me," urged Mary. 
 
 " Mary, Mary, what would you have me say ? " 
 
«g^ " THE TRUST.** 
 
 "That from your heart you forgive your brother I" she 
 
 rerlied. ^ ^ .. „ 
 
 «* I DO " he answered, slowly, " for yonr sake, my wife. 
 " And for God's sake," whispered Mary and Beatrice together, 
 
 as they clung, in tears, to his neck. 
 
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