■jf V 
 
 (■M..'.:'-f.' -1 ■' ■
 
 MRS. GEO. A. LYMAN. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 P" 

 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 By HAMILTON AIDE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "RITA," "THE MARSTONS," &c., &c. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 (late TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,) 
 
 124 Tremont Street. 
 1S73.
 
 Boston : 
 stereotyped and Printed by Rand, A very, &" Co.
 
 A.t>i>\ 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 -♦♦V- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 After a long interval, and much delib- 
 eration, I am resolved to write a record of 
 my very early life. This memoir will stop 
 at my twenty-fourth year, after which there 
 has occurred nothing in my monotonous 
 existence (as some would call it) which tlie 
 world would care to hear. 
 
 But will it care to hear that which I 
 am minded to tell ? Has it not had a sur- 
 feit of autobiographies, with all their 
 maudlin intros]iection, their insufferable 
 egotism and self-analysis ? Can it be edi- 
 fied by learning aught of my career? I, 
 ■who am neither scholar nor deep thinker ? 
 not in any sense, I lear, as these pages 
 will show, a wise or verv fjood man ? Yes : 
 I may be deceiving myself; but I believe 
 the confession of folly and error may be 
 useful to some, perhiips not wholly unin- 
 teresting to any ; and this is one reason 
 why I write. But there is another. 
 
 Do you know the game of '• Russian 
 Scamhd?" where ever-increasing inexacti- 
 tude transforms a story which is passed 
 from mouth to mouth into something which 
 bears but the faintest resemblance to the 
 original statement? I defy the rolling- 
 stone of gossip to gather more mud in St. 
 Petersburg than it does in London ; and I 
 have suffered as much as any man thereby. 
 Certain parsages in my liiii, grossly dis- 
 t(jrted, were bruited abroad long ago. Ujion 
 a substratum of fact, stories affecting the 
 cliaracter of one person in particular were 
 built uj<. To clear these away is one of 
 my objerts in the narrative I now under- 
 take. The secret springs that set in mo- 
 tion mucli that seemed inexplicable, even to 
 
 my closest friends, are now, for the first 
 time, laid bare. 
 
 But these memoirs will not be published 
 until one who plays a prominent part in 
 them is no more. I will not wound the 
 living ; * but why sliould the dead fear the 
 truth ? What reck tliey who are gone to 
 tlieir last account, that the world knows 
 and judges their misdeeds? I am well 
 aware that I shall be blamed : the step I 
 am taking will be resrarood as unnecessary 
 by some, as reprehensible by others ; but 
 such considerations as these have never in- 
 Huenced me. When I have once decided 
 that a certain course is justifiable, the opin- 
 ion of no man living would turn me from it. 
 
 I was born on the last day of June, 1835, 
 at Beaumanoir, my father, Mr. Penrud- 
 docke's, house in Dorsetshire. He and my 
 mother. Lady Rachel, had been married 
 four years at that time ; and their only 
 other child, Raymond, was three years my 
 senior. 
 
 No two boys were ever more dissimilar. 
 My brother was pale, weakly, and beauti- 
 ful ; I was no beauty, but ruddy and ro- 
 bust. All his tastes were sedentary ; all 
 mine active. He had a remarkable capa- 
 city for learning ; I was incorrigibly idle, 
 and could hardly read at nine years old. 
 But I knew every fox-covert and eveiy 
 rabbit-hole on the estate ; while Raymond 
 could nevQr be persuaded to mount a 
 pony, and shrank from tlie report of a gun. 
 
 j\Iy mother loved her first-born better 
 than any thing in Ihh world : but her af- 
 fections were supposed to be chitifly ab- 
 
 * I have bocn careful ti) altor the names of pco- 
 pie and places, so that only tlio actors themselves 
 will recognize the scenes in which they have played 
 parts. — Ed. 
 
 3 
 
 775550
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 sorbed by another. So said tlie Rev. Mr. 
 Putney. Of Ua^uiond, liuwever, of his 
 beauty, his abilities, his unvarying doeihty, 
 she was coniessedly proud ; and, as it was 
 not in her nature to give or to demand any 
 great dL•nlon:^tralions of devotion, liis jilaeid 
 temperament suited her far better than my 
 impetuous one. I remember trying to 
 clamber upon her knee, and being gently, 
 but firmly, set upon tlie gi'ound ; and, if I 
 atti,'in])ted to hug her, my arms were (jui(;t- 
 ly disengaged, and I was dismissed with, 
 '• I'here, that is enough, my dear." 
 
 On the other hand, I was my father's 
 f.ivorite. He it was who taught me to ride, 
 wlio look me out fishing and shooting with 
 him, wiio came into tlie schoolroom, and 
 begged for half-holidays for me, who, after 
 his own fashion, took infinite pains to in- 
 struct me. And he was not only a keen 
 sportsman, — he was a keen lover of na- 
 ture. He knew by heart the haunts and 
 habits of every bird of the air, every fish in 
 the deep brown pools of our stream, every 
 inhabitant of the woods, from gossamer- 
 winged moths upwards. He was not a 
 clever man, nor a worldly-wise one, — apt 
 to set business, and all other disagreeal)le 
 subjects, aside ; prone to leave things to 
 my mother, and to yield to her decision in 
 nearly every case. But if not the wisest, 
 he was the pleasantest, the kindest, the 
 cheeriest of mortals, who won more of love 
 pt'rhaps than i-espeet while he lived, but 
 ■was not the less regretted when he died. 
 
 1 was then twelve years old : it was my 
 first grief; and I date a great change in 
 myselt ti-om that time. I "put away child- 
 ish ihiiigs:" I grew opinionated, wilful, 
 and ii^patient of control. My father had 
 always been more of a companion to me 
 than my brother could ever be ; my only 
 friends now were the gamekeeper and the 
 head-groom. I was glad when my mother 
 told me I was to go to school. Raymond, 
 on account of his health, was to remain at 
 liome until the time should come for him to 
 be entered at Oxford. 
 
 The old tutor, who had so efficiently di- 
 rected my brother's studies hitherto, had 
 with difli(;ulty instilled the rudiments of 
 Latin and Greek into me. I ought to have 
 been sent to school two year^ before ; but 
 whenever my mother broached the subject, 
 my father would say, — 
 
 •• Oh ! time enough : since Ray isn't to 
 go, let the boys remain together a little 
 longer." 
 
 And, as my father could always keep me 
 in order when my tutor failed, my mother 
 had yielded the point. 
 
 But now things were difl'erent. I needed 
 a stronger hand than old Aldridge's to curb 
 me, a stronger incentive to the mastery of 
 
 Greek verbs than the wearisome iteration 
 of my brother's attainments. The com- 
 pany of grooms and keepers was perni- 
 cious ; the contact with other boys would 
 be wholesome. My mother wisely saw all 
 this, and resolved that I should go to school 
 forthwith. Five weeks after my father's 
 funeral, I was sent to Doctor P 's fa- 
 mous school .at East Siiecn. 
 
 As I have absolutely nothing to tell of 
 those school-days, which extended over the 
 next lour years, 1 will take this opportu- 
 nity to speak of my mother, and of our 
 family connections, on both sid«s, some of 
 lliem being intricate, and demanding a 
 careful ex[)lanalion. 
 
 My mother's beauty was remarkable — 
 such as could scarcely f:\il to infiucnce the 
 judgments of those who came under its 
 influence. So faultless a face I have never 
 seen : Grecian in its purity of outline, with 
 eyes more sole and chastened than brilliant ; 
 a skin like alabaster; the lips, perhaps, a 
 thought too thin. She was tall, and her 
 carriage had the dignified humility of an 
 Esther — a gentle queenliness that accept- 
 ed, as a matter of course, all the homage site 
 received, and made slaves of nearly every 
 one who approached her. Her hand was 
 large, but well-formed, and always, even in 
 the hottest summer day, as cold as marfjle. 
 Her fieet were her worst point : they were 
 undeniable clumsy. She never gave in to 
 the fashion of short petticoats : her garments 
 were always long and trailing, as befitted 
 so majestic a woman. 
 
 She was in her thirty-fourth year when 
 my father died ; but neither then, nor for 
 many a long day, did sorrow or anxiety im- 
 pair her matchless beauty. Whatever she 
 may have felt, it was in her nature to re- 
 press all emotion ; the delicate ivory mask, 
 which time neither stained nor sharpened, 
 testified nothing. Her manner was the 
 most sell-contained of any woman's I have 
 known. It was generally difficult to tell 
 what she thought, felt, or meant at times 
 when, with ordinary women, the expression 
 of the countenance would have supplement- 
 ed much that was unuttered. This Sphinx- 
 like calm was her most notable character- 
 istic to a casual observer. Even when 
 superficially moved by laughter, — a rare 
 occurrence with her, — one never lost the 
 sense of remote repose underlying it Like 
 a lake whose surface is stirred by a ripj)le, it 
 never reached the mysterious de])th of still- 
 ness below. 
 
 She had married my father when she was 
 seventeen; and, being Lord Berbrooke's 
 si.\th daughter, I apprehend there was not 
 much choice in the matter. He was a i)00r 
 nobleman, and his only other married dauj;h- 
 ters had made but sorry matches. Osmund
 
 PENRDDDOCKE. 
 
 Penruddoc-ke of Beaumanoir, with £15,000 
 a yt-ar, who saw her at her first county 
 ball, and proposed six weeks afterwards, 
 was not hkely to be rejected. My lather 
 used ji)kin'j:ly to say, — 
 
 " 1 should never have had you, my dear, 
 if you had ever set your foot in Ahnacks." 
 
 He worshipped her with a blind adora- 
 tion; he thought that the world did not 
 contain a woman coiujjarable to his wile tor 
 beauty and viji-tue and wisdom. She un- 
 derstood him ])erfectly, and made him, on 
 the whole, very happy. She never gave 
 him cause for jealousy; she never worried 
 him about trifles ; she managed every thing ; 
 and, though wise enough not to assert her 
 supremacy too openly, never yielded an 
 inch when she was so minded. Under her 
 velvet paw were powerful claws; and she 
 held iiim firmly by them. 
 
 My grandfather. Lord Berbrooke, died 
 when I was a child. Between his eldest 
 son and my mother there was no great cor- 
 diality ; but her next brother, Levison Kich, 
 was often at Beaumanoir. He was the 
 scapegrace of the family, and by far the 
 pleasantest of them all. He was in the 
 Life Guards, and a man of fashion ; his nor- 
 mal condition one of debt ; his obligations 
 to my father frequent and consideraijle. 
 To this fact I attribute liis constant visits 
 to what must have been to him a very dull 
 house,where neither gambling, horse-racing, 
 nor smart ladies were to be found. 
 
 He had always a room wiih us, and he 
 constantly ran down for two or three days ; 
 but he scorned our hum-drum county 
 society, — the small-big people who came to 
 stay for three davs : he used to supplicate 
 my mother not to invite them whde he was 
 at Beaumanoir. In vain she tried to direct 
 his attentions to more than one nicish heir- 
 ess, who might, peihaps, have consented to j 
 be the humble instrument lor retrieving the 
 handsome I/evison'sfo. tunes. He discussed 
 their •' points," and invariably ended by de- 
 clarin'j; they would be dear at the money. 
 I always liked him ; though — it is aston- 
 ishing how early that sort of intuition comes 
 — I never should have thought of going to 
 him for advice in any serious emergency. 
 But then serious emergencies arise but 
 rarely ; whereas the decision of a thorough 
 man of the world, in the small matters of 
 every day, is not without its value. He was 
 not clever ; but he had a vast and varied ex- 
 perience of what was " the right thing " to 
 be done — fi-om a mvuidane not a moral 
 point of view, be it well understood — 
 undermost circumstances; and, therefore, 
 though it seemed a strange contradiction, 
 he was one of the very few whose o])inion 
 my mother thought worth asking. She did 
 not always follow it. She knew that he 
 
 had been foolish in the conduct of liis own 
 affairs, and she reprobated the lite of dissi- 
 pation he still led ; still, he was " a man of 
 the world," which neither my father nor 
 any one else belonging to us was ; and she, 
 who combined the wisdom of the serpent 
 with the ostensible innocency of the dove, 
 felt that (for her sons especially^ the views 
 of such a one were worth hearing, at all 
 events. 
 
 It is essential to the understanding of my 
 story that I sliould give a brief sketch of 
 the Penruddocke family, beginning with 
 my great-grandfatlie", Iliuuphrey Raymond 
 Penruddocke — a gentleman who commit- 
 ted sundry crimes, lor which those who be- 
 lieve in vicarious retribution, may hold that 
 some of his descendants have been punished 
 in the third and fourth generations, since the 
 ohi sinner himself died [leaceably in his bed. 
 
 I need advert but to one of liis offences 
 against the laws of God and man, which was 
 fraught with grave consequences to me, and 
 to others of my family. Mr. Penrud- 
 docke eloped with the wife of a Capt. 
 Dunstan,in 1762, and by her had one son. 
 In giving birth to him, not many months 
 after the bill for her divorce had passed the 
 House of Lords, this lady died ; and it was 
 questioned whether she had been married 
 to my great-grand liither in the interval. 
 The fatlier hated his son, and never spoke 
 of him as his legitimate heir. He was 
 brought up at Beaumanoir, it is true, but 
 treated with great cruelty ; and having a 
 high s]iirlt, the ([uarrels between him and 
 his father were frequent, until in liis eigh- 
 teenth year he ran away, — it was supposed 
 to America, — and all trace of him was 
 lost. Towards the close of his life, old Mr. 
 Penruddocke was reported to have felt 
 remorse for his conduct, and to have ac- 
 knowledged that the boy had been born in 
 wedlock, and was, consequently, his legiti- 
 mate heir. If this was true, it was probably 
 not known to more than two persons, and 
 the sincerity of his repentance could, not be 
 tested, for the missing man never appeared ; 
 and, at my great-grandfather's death, he 
 was succeeded in the estate by his eldest 
 son by a second marriage. This son, my 
 irrandfather, always angrily denied the 
 truth of his half-brother's legitimacy ; and, 
 strange to say, between him and his own 
 younger brother, Osmund, a coolness arose 
 in consequence. The latter seems to have 
 possessed unusually tenacious alfections, 
 and clung to tlie memory of the ill-used 
 Humphrey, whom he had loved as a child. 
 He never would admit that his father's eld- 
 est son was base-born ; he never would be- 
 lieve that he was dead. To the day of his 
 own death Osmund expected the missing 
 Humphrey to return, and it was his con-
 
 6 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 stantly reminding my grandfather of tlie 
 insecure tenure of the estate, which es- 
 tranged the two brothers. 
 
 Tlie son of this great uncle of mine, 
 Humphrey JMark Penrucklooke, has phvyed 
 wliat I may term a sub-prominent ])art in 
 mv life; yet I never sa»v him till I was 
 eighteen. My fatiier held no connnunica- 
 tion with his cousin. There had been no 
 quarrel ; but the coolness wliich had sub- 
 sisted between their respective fathers had 
 frozen into a wall of ice between the sons. 
 Humphrey Mark was an old bachelor of 
 independent means at the time I first saw 
 him. He had been educated for the 
 bar; had even "eaten his dinners;" but 
 lie had never held a brief He was said 
 to resemble his fiither in many ways, — 
 tenacious in his fancies, im])lacable in his 
 resentments ; a man who had made few 
 friendships in the course of a long life. 
 He ha<l one niece, as will be seen by the 
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 respective relations clearer; but he had 
 conceived a great dislike to Mrs. Hamleigh, 
 and had not seen her for many years, so 
 that he cut himself off from the -only close 
 tie he possessed. The widow, whose desire 
 to conquer the prejudice she knew existed 
 against her was perhaps not wholly dis- 
 interested, failed in every eiibrt to ai)proach 
 her old uncle. She belonged to our fac- 
 tion, and he would have none of her. 
 
 ]\Irs. Hamleigh lived in a small cottage, 
 forty miles distant from us, in the New 
 Forest. Circumstances had thrown her 
 and my father together in early life ; and, 
 after Ids marriage, she became my mother's 
 most intimate friend and enthusiastic ad- 
 mirer. Was she a toady ? I often thought 
 so then, and in after-years, when her sub- 
 servience to Lady Rachel angered me 
 past all patience. But I now lielieve her 
 worship of my mother to have been a gen- 
 uine feelinj, due to the ascendencv of a 
 strong intellect and will over a weak and 
 amiable, though obstinate nature. This, 
 and her devotion to her only child, were 
 the two sentiments that leavened her whole 
 existence. Perhaps the secret of the bond 
 that united the two kinswomen lay iu the 
 unlikeness of their characters. However 
 this may be, my mother, would have the 
 Hamleighs at Beaumanoir, when she would 
 ask no one — not even her own sisters. How 
 far she confided in her " dear Belinda," I 
 am unable to say ; but one thing is certain, 
 she confided in no one else so much. 
 
 In pei'son, Mrs. Hamleigh was tall and 
 slight. But for her teeth she would have 
 been pretty. Not that they were otherwise 
 than white and even ; but they were too 
 large ; and in the smile which sat habitual- 
 ly upon her face, the gums were constantly 
 visible, in a way which was extremely dis- 
 agreeable to me. I remember, as a child, 
 having seen the picture of a wild cat grin- 
 ning, which I thought was like Mrs. Ham- 
 leigh ; and I could never dispossess my 
 mind of the image. I used to watch her 
 mouth with a sort of curious fascination, 
 and wonder how much more of it I should 
 be able to see this time. Her manner, too, 
 was worrvins; ; fraught with an i"-noble 
 assiduity to please every one, but chiefly 
 my mother, which led her to assent to al- 
 most every proposition that was advanced. 
 
 In short, Mrs. Hamleigh was never a 
 favorite of mine as a boy, and but for my 
 intense love for Evelyn, I fear I should 
 often have been rude to her mother. Her 
 devotion to her child, I am bound to admit, 
 was untiring : in that one relation of life 
 she was beyond all praise. Too poor to 
 afford a governess, the manner in which 
 she slaved to supply this need for her 
 daughter the weary evenings she spent
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 over French lessons that were to be taught 
 the next niorninpj, the terrible hours over 
 Cramer's Exercises, when she I'elt as 
 though her head would split, and yet nev- 
 er give in, — all this deserved the recogni- 
 tion it met with at her little daughter's 
 hands. Evelyn knew that she was her 
 mother's first object in life, for whom she 
 was ready to make any sacrifice ; and she 
 repaid this devotion by the tender thought- 
 fulness whereby she tried to lighten her 
 mother's burthens. 
 
 She was a slight little creature, with 
 eyes like a fawn, large and wistful, and 
 lashes some shades darker than her abun- 
 dant light brown hair. She had not high 
 spirits ; except when with me, she was al- 
 most unnaturally quiet and silent for her 
 age. And she was not clever: of her even 
 a doting parent could record no smart say- 
 ing, no wonderi'ul mnemonic achievement. 
 But she had very strong affections ; and, 
 under her gentle and timid exterior, possess- 
 ed a reserve-fund of strength and tenacity 
 remarkable in a girl of fourteen. Her likes 
 and dislikes, though seldom openly pro- 
 nounced, were not the less decided. 
 
 There was three years' difference be- 
 tween us, and sinee infancy we had been 
 playmates. I loved her better than any 
 thing in the world: all my present joys, all 
 my future hopes and ambition, centred in 
 her. When she was at Beaumanoir, we 
 two were constantly together. Raymond 
 considered our amusements beneath him, 
 and rarely joined us. He walked out with 
 Mr. Aldridge, when they discussed zoolo- 
 gy, hydrostatics, and other light and airy 
 suijjects ; while I took out my bag of fer- 
 rets into the sandy rabbit-warren, under 
 the old Scotch firs, Evelyn watching my 
 exploits with a halt-lrightened curiosity ; 
 or flogged the patient stream, while she sat 
 beside me on the bank, fragrant with 
 meadow-sweet; or went a nutting with my 
 little companion down crooked dingles, 
 where the overhanging branches nearly 
 touched our heads. 
 
 I told her horrible stories that made her 
 hair to stand on end ; 1 drew for her mar- 
 vellous pictures of robbers, and distressed 
 damsels, and a rescuing knight (who was 
 always supposed to be myself) ; I retailed 
 descriptions that I read in books of travel 
 of the wonders of the deep ; and then, in 
 imagination, we voyaged together, and 
 discovered lands beyond. the seas, and even 
 went the length (after a little faint remon- 
 strance from Evelyn) of being wrecked 
 upon a desert island, like Paul and Vir- 
 ginia. Of course I am describing the 
 amusements of our actual childhoocl, not 
 of the tiuie when 1 returned from school, a 
 youth of seventeen. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The house at Beaumanoir has now been 
 so much altered that those who remember 
 its dear, dull old face a few years since, 
 would fail to recognize it ; but its noble 
 position remains unchanged. The sea of 
 timber, and the lake through which the 
 trout-stream runs, the Vale of Blackmore 
 in the distance, belted with blue hills on 
 the horizon, — the eye still sees all this 
 from the portico, beyond the lawn and 
 gravel sweep ; and the heart of man can 
 desire nothing to " improve " it. The wild 
 downs rise behind the house, the stumpy 
 little tower of the church is seen among 
 the shrubs that mask the garden to the 
 right ; the stables and a long line of out- 
 houses stretch, tailwise, to the left. 
 
 At the time of which I am writing, the 
 exterior was, no doubt, ugly in the eyes of 
 those who were critical in architecture. A 
 plainer frontage of gray stone, unrelieved 
 by architrave, cornice, or balustrade, was 
 never seen. Eight holes pierced in the 
 wall, ran along the bedroom floor, above 
 which no roof was visible ; only two stacks 
 of chimneys. Under it was the portico in 
 the centre, and three windows on either 
 side. The garden front had not even the 
 portico to break its monotony ; a shoi-t 
 flight of steps led from one of the drawing- 
 rooms to the lawn, which was intersected 
 with serpentine walks, masses of rhodo- 
 dendron, and queer-shaped flower-knots, 
 after the taste of the beginning of this cen- 
 tury. 
 
 The interior of the house was comfort- 
 able but not very large. We had only 
 eight spare bedrooms ; yet even these 
 were rarely filled. There were not many 
 whom my mother cared to invite, except 
 from motives of obligation or expediency. 
 Her grooves were narrow ; she cared little 
 for general society, which, considering the 
 admiration her beauty never failed to elicit, 
 was a matter of wonderment to many. So 
 the house amply sufficed for her require- 
 ments. There were big dinners in the 
 great dining-room, periodically (we habit- 
 ually used the breakfast-room when alone), 
 and the covers were taken off the crimson 
 satin in the drawing-room, on such occa- 
 sions. We slipped about on glazed chintz, 
 when we sat there every evening, with our 
 books, round the table, my father snoring 
 by the fire, my mother's fingers moving 
 with exquisite precision over some fine era- 
 broidery. I was the only member of the 
 family who was ever disposed to be garru- 
 lous ; and I did not meet with much en- 
 couragement. 
 
 What else shall I say of the interior ?
 
 8 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 My own bedroom I shall have to speak of 
 by and by. The library, where so many 
 happy hours '^ere passed, with a man who 
 holds a prominent plaee in these pa'^es ; 
 and the hall, lined with stuffed birds in 
 glass eases, its walls adorned with barbaric 
 implements of war, and the gigantic horns 
 of elks (the spoils of my grandfather in 
 foreign lands), — these were my favorite 
 rooms. In the latter, was a billiard-table, 
 and we played — Evelyn and 1 — at battle- 
 dore and shuttlecock on wet days in the 
 holidays. 
 
 Soon after I left home, my mother began 
 to think that Raymond was " getting be- 
 yond Mr. Aldridge." He was not a man 
 calculated to enlarge the mind of a lad 
 brought up like my brother. His intellect 
 reminded me of a tightly-packed drawer ; 
 the learning stowed away there was so 
 compressed as to have lost all power of ex- 
 pansion ; layer upon layer of facts, crushed 
 flat, and no room for a deduction, or an 
 orio-inal idea. He stated : he never dis- 
 cussed, or doubted, or theorized. 
 
 My mother was too clever not to see that 
 it would be well to transfer her favorite 
 son to the care of a tutor of more mental 
 vigor, and conversational delightfulness. 
 Uncle Levison had hinted that her dar- 
 ling was " a prig." Might not some little 
 failing in this direction be due to his be- 
 wigged old tutor? So two gentlemen in 
 succession came, who, either in tact, or 
 ability, or submission to Lady Rachel, were 
 found wanting. Neither of them remained 
 three months. Then it was, one morning 
 in my holidays, that, coming into the draw- 
 ing-room, I heard my mother say to Mrs. 
 Hamleigh, — 
 
 " It is impossible to speak more highly 
 than Lord Wylde does of this person." 
 
 " Lord Wilde is a — hm ! — eh, dear ? " 
 
 " A Catholic ? Yes ; and so is this Mr. 
 Francis." 
 
 " That is — hm ! — a disadvantage. Don't 
 you think so ? „ 
 
 " 1 do not think it of much importance. 
 I shall, of course, interdict the subject of 
 religion ; and Mr. Putney will look after 
 Ray's theology." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, — Mr. Putney ; — I forgot ; 
 and the dear boy is so far beyond his 
 years ! You are right, dear ;- it is of no im- 
 portance, in this case." 
 
 " I do not say it is of no importance, 
 Belinda. You know my own strong feel- 
 ings about Papistry. But the testimonials 
 in this man's favor are so exceptional, — he 
 is described as so very remarkable and de- 
 lightful a person, — that, after all the 
 trouble and difficulty I have had, I feel 
 tempted to overlook the one drawback." 
 
 " The one drawback, — exactly so. I 
 
 quite feel as j'ou do, dear. There can be 
 no danger of dear Ray's going over while 
 his sweet mother is at hand. No Mr. 
 Francis's influence could be as great as 
 yours." 
 
 " I think his ideas are settled," said my 
 mother calmly ; '• but of course, I shall 
 be vigilant. He takes after me, and 1 have 
 no taste for polemical discussion. No Rich 
 ever changed his religion ; and Ray is 
 more of a Rich than a Penruddocke." 
 
 I was at the farther end of the room, 
 and they had not heeded my entry. 1 
 wondered a good deal, what this Mr. Fran- 
 cis would be like. Never, to my know- 
 ledge, having seen a member of the Church 
 of Rome, and my ideas being gathered 
 mainly, from Foxe's " Book of Martyrs," 
 and a religious '• tale for the young," in 
 which a saturnine Jesuit played a most 
 corrosive part, 1 pictured a dark-eyed, lan- 
 tern-jawed man, listening behind doors, 
 and stealthily disseminating his abomin- 
 able doctrines. 
 
 He came, and I could scarcely believe 
 my eyes. My brother's new tutor had a 
 face full of strength and pleasantness, a 
 spare, firmly-knit frame ; words well-chos- 
 en, without pedantry; manners highly 
 courteous, without servility. He was 
 under fifty, and might still be called hand- 
 some ; but the strong-curling hair above 
 his massive brow was iron-gray. He had 
 kindly eyes, which never appeared to be 
 penetrating, and yet which saw every 
 tiling above and below the surface ; though 
 in society, it sometimes annoyed me that 
 he seemed purposely to abstain ti'om using 
 them. He would look down upon his plate, 
 or- at the wall opposite, for ten minutes at 
 a time, when at the table conversation was 
 going on, in which he was not called upon 
 to bear a part. But before he had been 
 in the house a fortnight, I felt more drawn 
 towards this new inmate than I had ever 
 felt towards a man before. Though I 
 could not argue out my convictions, I had 
 acute perceptions for a lad of my age. I 
 watched him, I listened to him, and I pro- 
 nounced him to be a "brick." The more 
 I saw of him, the more was the impression, 
 that he was not only a delightful, but a 
 wise and good man confirmed. 1 noted 
 the admirable tact wherewith he avoided 
 giving needless offence, as men of less 
 delicate intellectual fibre, and of less sound 
 judgment, would have done ; how often, 
 like David, he held his peace, even from 
 good words, until directly appealed to. 
 Then he never hesitated. Though his 
 opinion ran directly counter to my moth- 
 er's, even to the length of holding for un- 
 just some act of hers, he gave it straight- 
 tbrwardly, and without compromise; and
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 his influence, therefore, over her soon grew 
 to be remark;>l)l(^ I :iin not quite sure 
 that she liked hiui ; but he was the only 
 man whose approval I ever saw her take 
 great pains to secure. Every one else 
 bowed down to her, — Mr. Francis did not. 
 Had he made tlie least eilbrt to lessen the 
 respectful distance between them, his 
 power would have been gone. But in nay 
 mother's presence he was always more re- 
 served than at other times. It was then 
 that I chiefly noticeil the lowered eyelids, 
 an abstraction which I grew to understand 
 as indicating the rigid line he had marked 
 for himself on entering the house. It was 
 as though he had said, " I am your sou's 
 tutor, and you are a proud woman, — I 
 know my exact position. With my boys I 
 expand ; here I cannot. Call upon me for 
 intbrraation, or for an opinion, show me, 
 unmistakably, that you wish me to take 
 part in your conversation, and I will do so, 
 — never otherwise." 
 
 Who that knows a country neighbor- 
 hood can fail to suppose that there were 
 not wanting good-natured persons to sug- 
 gest that Lady Rachel Penruddocke would 
 end by marrying her son's tutor ? He was 
 so good-looking, so gentlemanlike, and so 
 charming, how could she do otherwise ? 
 They little knew her; and hini they knew 
 less. In his youth I have no doubt that he 
 had loved and suffered ; but that was a 
 tale of the past. It was no longer in wo- 
 man's power to inthrall Iiim ; and the possi- 
 bility, had such existed, of captivating a 
 great lady, would have presented to him 
 no attractions. He read my mother, as I 
 now know, through and through; but he 
 judged her, as he did ail women, with foi'- 
 bearance. 
 
 A circumstance occurred one Christmas 
 holidays which forcibly illustrates the char- 
 acters and relative positions of these two 
 persons. 
 
 Certain donations of beef and blankets, 
 red cloaks and groceries, were given out 
 by my mother every Christmas Day, with 
 much ceremony, to some fifty old women, 
 and other poor. This had been* called, 
 ever since I could remember, " Lady Rach- 
 el's Bounty." The sum expended each 
 year was seventy pounds ; and it was under- 
 stood to come from my mother's privy purse. 
 There was a dinner in the hall to the 
 school-children ; and another elsewhere for 
 all the well-conducted laborers in the pai'- 
 ish. The rector nominally selected the 
 recipients of this " bounty ; " but, of all my 
 mother's slaves, Mr. Putney was the most 
 abject; and her prejudices he invariably 
 indorsed. Now, as she went a great deal 
 about the village, walking into cottages 
 without knocking, and demanding, in her 
 
 silvery voice, imperative questions which 
 the good wives, perhaps, did not always 
 care to answer, it came about that she had 
 favorites, and those against whose names 
 she set a black mark. It used to make me 
 mad to see a plausible, mealy-mouthed old 
 woman, like Mrs. Houndsfield, whose two 
 sons never did a day's work when they 
 could help it, get a share of the loaves and 
 fishes; while poor Bill Strutt, who was 
 one of our best laborers, and whose young 
 wife was brought to bed regularly once a 
 year, got nothing, because he had a rough 
 way of answering, and had once resented 
 some interference of my mother's. But 
 the rector declared he drank (he had once 
 been rather festive at a harvest-home, I 
 believe), and, " for the sake of example," 
 it was held necessary to deprive his wife of 
 the good things she saw distributed around 
 her. 
 
 Now, Mr. Francis had a taste for archae- 
 ology, and for examining folios of musty 
 documents, many of them appertaining to 
 county histories, to genealogies, and other 
 family records, with which a corner of the 
 library at Beaumanoir was filled. No one, 
 to my knowletlge, until he came, had ever 
 pulled out one of those old tomes from their 
 shelf. In papers relating to the Penrud- 
 docke property, wherein various acquire- 
 ments and behests were <luly set forth, it 
 seems that he came upon one which stated, 
 that, in 1710, Dame Elinor Penrudilocke 
 beqiicathed the sum of seventy pounds, to 
 he distributed among the poor of the par- 
 ish each Christmas Day. Her effigy, good 
 soul, stared at us, from under its mon- 
 strous canopy of marble, every Sunilay in 
 church. Why had her name been suffered 
 to drop into oblivion, and my mother's been 
 suljstituted ? Mr. Putney, of course, knew 
 how inalienable, and independent of the 
 reigning lady's will and pleasure, was this 
 legacy ; but he had been rector here five 
 and twenty years, during which I am sure 
 he had never been so indiscreet as to hint 
 at the possession of such knowledge. The 
 " oldest inhabitants " knew, that, as long aa 
 they could remember, " the lady " had dis- 
 tributed her largesse at Christmas ; and, 
 no doubt, they regarded it in some sort as 
 their right, but still one dependent upon 
 the liberality of the existing mistress of 
 Beaumanoir. Now, as Mr. Francis had 
 discovered, such was clearly not the case; 
 but it was no business of his; and, but lor 
 the circumstance I am about to relate, it 
 would never have transpired. 
 
 There had been a disturbance in the 
 parish, arising out of a rick of ours being 
 set on fire, one 5th of November, as I 
 always believed, accidentally from a bon- 
 fire. My mother, Mr. Putney, and all her
 
 10 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 courtiers, hoTvever, took an opposite view : 
 it was a malicious act, and they left no 
 stone unturned to discover the delinquent. 
 Then was the jiarish divided aixainst itself; 
 then ensueil accusations and recriminations, 
 open (juarrels and underhand tale-bearing ; 
 and it was during this state of things that, 
 just at the beginning of my Christmas holi- 
 days, the following little s<'ene took place 
 at luncheon. Mr. rutney had been read- 
 ing Paley with Ray that morning, and so 
 chanced to be present. 
 
 '' Have youseen \\'illiam Strutt? " asked 
 my mother. " Does he still continue obsti- 
 nately to decline to give any account of 
 himself on the night of the fifth V " 
 
 " 1 am sorry to say he does," replied the 
 rector, with almost a groan; ''and I am 
 told he speaks of your ladyship in the most 
 unbeconung way, declaring that he is not 
 bound to account for his time to you, or to 
 n?.e, or to any one. It is very grievous. I 
 am afraid there can be no doubt lie is 
 inixed up in this scandalous aflt'air." 
 
 " It's not fair to condemn a fellow with- 
 out proof," I struck in. 
 
 " Be quiet, Osmund," and my mother 
 looked at me with a mild severity. " At 
 all events, Mr. Putney, as long as the de- 
 linquents in this affair are screened, I 
 shall not consider myself justified in doing 
 what I have hitherto done at Christmas." 
 
 '• Certainly, Lady Rachel, without doubt. 
 After all your ladyship has done for them, 
 such black ingratitude passes my compre- 
 hension. They all declare they know 
 nothing, — at least, it is most difficult to 
 bring it liome to them " — 
 
 "It may be difiicult," said my mother 
 slowly, " but it must be done. I have it 
 from several sources that the men are known 
 who fired my rick. Until their names are 
 given up, I shall restrict my customary 
 ' bounty ' to those who have shown a real 
 regard for my interests. This state of the 
 parish — drunkenness, quarrelling, incen- 
 diarism — is really disgraceful. I am sure 
 you will agree with me, Mr. Francis," — 
 and she turned her beautiful eyes to him, — 
 " that I ought to mark my sense of disap- 
 proval at this season by less indiscriminate 
 donations V " 
 
 My brotlier's tutor paused. 
 
 " If you appeal to me, Lady Rachel, I 
 must ask whether you are a free agent in 
 this matter? I fancy not." 
 
 " I do not understand you, — of course I 
 am," — my mother here flushed slightly. 
 •' I ask your opinion as to whether circum- 
 stances like these ought not to aifect my 
 customary charities." 
 
 " Your ladyship's private charities — yes. 
 But ' Dame Elinor's Bounty,' unless I am 
 mistaken, cannot be withheld. Mr. Put- 
 
 ney has no choice but to see that seventy 
 poiuids are expended upon the poor of his 
 parish." 
 
 The rector looked positively alarmed at 
 the tutor's audacity. He bent over his 
 plate, and made an unnecessary clatter 
 with his knife and fork. My mother gave 
 a short, dry cough ; but she was not dis- 
 concerted. After a moment or two slie 
 said, with measured calmness, — 
 
 " Of course the money would be givea 
 sooner or later. The question is, whether 
 I should not rightly withhold a portion of 
 it for a time. I conceive I am perfectly 
 justified in doing that?" 
 
 She waited, I am sure, to see if he would 
 reply ; but, with his customary reticence, 
 Mr. Francis forbore from further remark. 
 He had been directly appealed to ; and 
 the words extracted from him were all that, 
 in conscience, he felt bound to utter. Mr. 
 Putney, with his mouth full of ale and po- 
 tatoes, tried to say something, I believe ; 
 but no one listened : and then my mother 
 rose, swept the crumbs from her lap, and, 
 with her wonted meek dignity, led the way 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Never again was there any talk of her 
 " bounty " being curtailed ; and, somehow 
 or otlier, the next day she had grown to 
 regard the parish delinquencies with more 
 leniency. 
 
 It was after this that I observed indica- 
 tions, at times, of my mother's being a little 
 afraid of Mr. Francis, though she showed 
 no resentment at his conduct on this partic- 
 ular occasion. She recognized the full worth 
 of his uncompromising character ; and, 
 though her personal satisfaction in his soci- 
 ety may not have increased, she was too 
 clever, too conscious of the value of such a 
 companion for Raymond, not to submit to 
 some discomfort for tlie sake of retaining 
 this advantage. That there was sacrifice in 
 this, none will deny ; for can discomfort be 
 greater to a woman like my mother than 
 that of living in the daily presence of one 
 who will not submit to be blinded ? 
 
 My brother's abilities were really great 
 in a certain line ; but the reflective powers 
 were stunted, and, to the enlargement of 
 these, Mr. Francis devoted his attention. 
 He was not contented with Greek Alchaics, 
 and the classification of geological speci- 
 mens : he tried to make my brother think ; 
 and this was not eas}^ Raymond had one 
 of those minds which learn and retain, ac- 
 cept what has been so taken in as proved 
 beyond dispute, and strike no new thoughts 
 for themselves. He was dogmatic and ob- 
 stinate, like all such natures : my mother 
 had said rightly that " his ideas were set- 
 tled." Had Mr. Francis been a second St. 
 Augustine, I doubt if he could have changed
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 11 
 
 their current, or kindled in him one spark 
 of religious enthusiasm. To become a con- 
 vert, there must be some restless longint;, 
 unsatisfied within the pale of tliat church 
 where the soul, tossed with doubt-, is vainly 
 struggling ; but Raymond was incapable 
 of doubts or longings. As it was, however, 
 the subject of creed was one his tutor 
 always carefully avoided. When I, who 
 was much more impressionable, came under 
 Mr. Francis's influence, it was years before 
 he ever permitted me to approach the 
 topic. INIy mother had early satisfied her- 
 self upon this point ; and she felt that if Ray- 
 mond's character was ever to be formed, so 
 as to fit him tor the prominent position in 
 the county he was destined to fill, no one 
 was so well calculated as Mr. Francis to 
 arouse a healthy ambition in him, and in- 
 fuse the life-blood of energetic purpose into 
 veins that seemed to be prematurely dry. 
 
 There is no use in mincing the matter 
 — I never loved my brother; our natures, 
 from first to last, were antagonistic. I used 
 to do all manner of things to try and 
 aggravate him ; if I could only once have 
 got him into a good rage, I should have 
 liked him better forever after ; but he sel- 
 dom expressed any personal liking or dis- 
 like, and was never aroused, unawares, 
 into rapture or reprobation. He had my 
 mother's sweet smile, and the same meas- 
 ured way of speaking. Indeed, he was 
 very like her in face, though less well-look- 
 ing. Cold blue eyes, and a thin, straight- 
 lipped mouth destroyed the attractiveness 
 of a handsome outline ; and, though tall, 
 he was ill-made, with large hips and slop- 
 ing shoulders. Of course he was awfully 
 well-behaved ; even in the nursery he never 
 had been known to do any thing that was 
 wrong ; and now, by my mother's satellites, 
 he was spoken of as a model of all the vir- 
 tues. To that negative morality which 
 consists in a blameless life, where there is 
 no temptation, he could, indeed, lay claim ; 
 and, inasmuch as he would never have to 
 battle with strong passions, the probabili- 
 ties were that his career at Oxford would 
 be as exemplary as his boyhood had hith- 
 erto been. 
 
 The rector, who regarded me as a child 
 of Belial, was one of Raymond's most 
 devoted flatterers. 
 
 " 1 cannot but grieve, my young friend," 
 he said to me one day, " to see how frivo- 
 lous are all your amusements. Now, there 
 is your brother, — it is really quite deliirht- 
 ful to be with him, — so elevated in all his 
 tastes, so very superior a youth in every 
 respect." 
 
 " Ray will do all the superior business 
 of the family, Mr. Putney. Being the 
 eldest, it's right he should." 
 
 " T cannot but say it is fortunate that 
 the responsfibilities of this great pro])erty 
 will not devolve upon you, Osmund," 
 sighed the rector. " What does the poet 
 say V — ' Life is real, life is earnest.' It is 
 not made up of ferreting and fox-hunting 
 and so forth." 
 
 " No," said I, as I climbed a column of 
 the veranda, jerking my sentences down 
 upon the rector, while I swung my legs 
 about, " I wish it was : there's lessons 
 and all manner of bosh. No, life ain't all 
 a good run, without a check." 
 
 " The check comes Avhen we least expect 
 it,"' groaned Mr. Putney. " Ah, Osmund ! 
 we should none of us forget that we are 
 but worms." 
 
 " But even the worm will turn," I cried, 
 striking out my legs in the direction of his 
 shovel-hat. " Preaching is like treading 
 on me — I can't stand much of it, ]Mr. Put- 
 ney — beg your pardon — look out tor your 
 head — I'm coming down." 
 
 He shook his dull old pate at me with 
 an ostentatious sigh, and went straightway 
 to my mother, pouring forth a windy jere- 
 miad over my juvenile delinquencies, and 
 <lrawing a comparison between her sons, 
 which he knew was not displeasing to her. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The four years I was at school wrought 
 a great change in me, — a change which 
 would not have been effected at home ; for 
 I had learnt in class and playground alike, 
 in emulation and success and defeat, how 
 to " give and take," which, to a boy natu- 
 rally strong and intolerant, was an invalu- 
 able lesson. At home I was surrounded by 
 those who bowed down to my mother, — I 
 could not but be cogniznnt of how well 
 cringing "answered." There was a thin, 
 impalpable atmosphere of flattery and de- 
 ception which pervaded our autocracy, from 
 nurseiy to cellar ; and it was well for me 
 that I was removed timely from this un- 
 wholesome air to the bracing coiiunonwealth 
 of school, where no arrogance was tolerated, 
 and flattery was unknown ; and where a 
 mean action, which, in the keen sight of 
 boyhood, sophistry could not gloze over, 
 was punished with the scorn of the entire 
 community. 
 
 Raymond lefl for Oxford, when I return- 
 ed home ; and I took his place as Mr. Fran- 
 cis's ])upil. jMy mother's j)lan, after a 
 consultation with my Uncle Levison, was 
 that I should work at home for a year or 
 two (and as my scholarship was si ill i)ack- 
 ward, it was hoped Mr. Francis might per-
 
 12 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 form some miracle w'ltli me in this line), 
 diirini^ wliifh period 1 was to decide my 
 own iuture for myself. My mother used to 
 say it was essential 1 sliould learn the value 
 of money. Liku most <;L'nei-ous lads, I was 
 recklessly liberal. For this reason, I inui- 
 cine. she wisely lce])t fiom me the amount of 
 fortune which would be mine on attainino; 
 my majority. I of course knew that my 
 father iiad left nie an indei)endence ; but, 
 in truth, I had no inclination to be idle. 
 Mv mother once or twice spoke to me about 
 goin;j; into the (luards ; and 1 remember, on 
 one occasion, lier saying there were " rea- 
 sons which rendered it vei'y desirable " I 
 shotdd do so. I am nearly positive that she 
 said nothing more definite than that ; but 
 my name was j)ut down tor a commist^ion. 
 1 did not greatly lancy the idea — 1 should 
 have preferred the Line and ibi't'ign ser- 
 vice ; but 1 did not say much about it, tor 
 my mind was not made up : one day I fan- 
 cied one thing, the next day another. In 
 the mean time she, and those who saw 
 through her eyes, regarded me as a wild, 
 harum-scarum lad, diflicult to hiHuence, 
 impossible to control, and giving grave 
 cause for anxiety as to " iiow he would turn 
 out." 
 
 " Belinda," said my mother, one morn- 
 ing to Mrs. Ilamleigh, " tliere is a woman 
 in the village who wants to give a lecture 
 on phrenology in the schoolroom. She asks 
 my permission and patronage. Shall we 
 go ? It might be rather amusing." 
 
 '• Rather amusing, certainly, dear. My 
 darling Evelyn, I will have your head felt." 
 
 Evy looked alarmed. 
 
 "What will she do ? Oh, please not, 
 mamma." 
 
 " Do you know anj^ thing of phrenology, 
 Mr. Francis V " asked my mother. '• Do you 
 attach much importance to it as a science V " 
 
 " Yes, if taken in conjunction with others ; 
 but the body affects the brain largely ; indi- 
 cations of character are spread all over a 
 man's frame, and often contradict each 
 other. The face, the hand (have you ever 
 seen the curious book on the subject, by a 
 Frenchman V *), the walk, all have their 
 tale to tell. The f;iult with most specialists 
 is that they ignore every thing outside their 
 own narrow field." 
 
 The village schoolroom was full when we 
 entered, soon after eight o'clock ; and it 
 rose, as if for Royalty, when my mother 
 made her way to the front row of chairs. 
 A stout woman, wearing a strong-minded 
 jacket, and a crop, appeared on the plat- 
 form, a moment afterwards, from behind a 
 screen. She carried her lecture in one 
 hand ; in the other, a small plaster head, 
 
 * M. Deebarolles. 
 
 phrcnologically mapped out. She began ; 
 we all glanced at each other, my mother 
 pressed her lips tight, a curl of contempt 
 played upon Ray's, Mr. Francis's eyes twin- 
 kled. That the lecturer was a grossly- igno- 
 rant woman, one of those peripatetic hura- 
 i)ugs who affect remote villages where only 
 they can obtain a hearing was clear in the 
 first dislocated words that fell li'om her lips. 
 Rut that she was not without shrewdness, 
 enabling her to make some happy guesses 
 at character, was apparent by and bv. As 
 long as her windy and priitentious utter- 
 ances were confined to an exposition of the 
 science, however, there was nothing to re- 
 deem the '-lecture," except its incredible 
 vulgarity and absurdity. If I had not kept 
 notes of it, — for, knowing there is nothing 
 like the exercise of writing to prevent laugh- 
 ing outright, and thereby greatly scanda- 
 lizing my mother, I scribbled as much as I 
 could into a pocket-book, — I would not 
 trust my memory to reproduce any portion 
 of it. It was thus she designated some of 
 the " orgins," upon the j)laster head before 
 her. 
 
 " 'Ere's 'ope, ladies and gentlemen. Di- 
 vine 'ope I 'Ope? as springs eternal in the 
 'uman breast. What would Sir John Parry 
 in the Pol-lar regins 'ave done without 
 'ope V There's nothink as makes people 
 bear all the hills of the flesh, like 'ope. And 
 now, there's hinecolence ! What a fust- 
 rate attribute is binevolence ! I once felt 
 a gentleman as 'ad binevolence so large that 
 'e become responsible for the debts of a 
 young man as afterward run away with a 
 large sum of money, and the gentleman was 
 redooced to beggary. Now that come of 
 'is not understanding phrenology. 'Ad 'e 
 studied this noble sci'nce, 'e would 'ave seen 
 the absence of the moril qualities in the 
 young man. 'Eres Conlenlmenf. Now, 
 there was a gentleman as wrote up outside 
 'is door, ' An estate to be given away, to the 
 first man as will declare 'e's contented.' 'E 
 'ad a application, before long, you may be 
 sure. ''Aire you quite contented?' the 
 gentleman asked. ' I ham,' 'e replied. 
 ' Then why do you come 'ere f ' You see, if 
 'e'd bin contented, 'e wouldn't 'a wanted 
 the gentleman's money, so the gentleman 
 'ad him there. 'Ere, ladies and gentlemen, 
 you 'ave Veneration. Veneration is the 
 orgin as makes us venerate things. Now, 
 it's a curious thing that the great Vaultair 
 as was a athiest, and the mighty iMaraboo, 
 the evil genius of the Revolution, both 'ad 
 this bump largeh" developed. 'Ow do you 
 account for that ? 'Ere, above the heye, 
 is Form. Most sculptures 'ave form. Har- 
 tists 'ave color, but sculptures have form. 
 Then conies Toone and Time. A man who 
 'as toone will 'um a thing easily; and one v/ho
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 13 
 
 *as time '11 never be late for dinner. Ami 
 this U'iuls me nat'rally, ladies, to the orgin 
 of G u.-ila ceousness, usiuily largely developed 
 amunj; the gentlemen. I'd advise the la- 
 dies to know 'o\v to roast and bile, if they 
 wish to keep their lovers' 'earts. Let 'em 
 be ever so beautiful, the road to a man's 
 'eart is 'is stomiek. Without a proper at- 
 tention to the morils. this orgin is likely to 
 lead to 'arm. There was an English king 
 and several Roman emperors as died of it. 
 No (l(iul)t their 'eads would 'ave showed a 
 bum]) like a crown-piece, just 'ere. Concin- 
 tratlon makes a man fi.x all 'is thoughts on 
 one object. Sir Isaac Nooton 'ad this 
 bump so large that, when be was courting 
 a lady, 'e sat beside her smoking, and think- 
 ing of science, and forgetting all about the 
 lady, though 'e 'ad 'old of 'er 'and, till at 
 last he used her finger for a tobacco-stopper I 
 That was concintration. I see it now, 
 plainly developed, in the beautiful and 'eter- 
 ogenius 'ead before me, which is a mountain 
 of all the moril qualities." (Here she 
 waved the dirty white glove in the direc- 
 tion of ray mother, who bore it Avithout 
 wincing.) "Benevolence sits enthroned 
 there, and all the 'nir of the 'ead can't 'ide 
 it — begging her ladyship's pardon ibr mak- 
 ing so free. Is there any one as would like 
 to come up and 'ave 'is 'ead felt V Would 
 either of you young gentlemen, or the young 
 lady, step up ? " 
 
 They all looked at me, knowing that I 
 was more likely to accede to her request 
 than any one else ; and, as I thought it 
 would be go.>d fun to see what she said, I 
 did jump on the platform, having got my 
 laughter tolerably under control by this 
 time. There was a great deal of excite- 
 ment, and some tittering in the back- 
 benches, at seeing young Muster Osmund, 
 wdio was, I may say, a tiivorite with most 
 of them, in this position ; and when she 
 pulled off the dirty white glove, and began 
 kneading my head with her punchy little 
 fingers, I could see all the necks craning 
 forward, and a broad grin of delight on the 
 universal assembly. 
 
 " It's a fine 'ead," she began. " I don't 
 know as I ever see a much finer 'ead." 
 (Of course we were all prepared i'or that ; 
 but some one of the farmer's sons at the 
 back cried out. " Brayvo ! ") "There's 
 condjativeness, which, when combined with 
 the moril qualities, is a glorious hattrii)ute. 
 And justice! — I never did see anything 
 like the justice in this 'ead. And hobstina- 
 cy — that's very strong — would be a'most 
 too strong (though it's a fine hattribute), if 
 it warn't for this 'ead bein' open to impres- 
 sions, I see. The perceptive orgins is 
 large. ;ind so is amativeness, and philopro 
 Genesisness — that's what makes a man a 
 
 fijst-rate 'usband and father. (Laughter 
 and cheers. "So is reticule; but reticule 
 is a dangerous gilt, for it makes people sar- 
 caustic." (Here it seemed to me that she 
 pinched my head viciously ) '• Only in 
 this 'ere 'ead I'm sure it's kep' under re- 
 straint by the moril qualities. I wouldn't 
 believe it, if I was tole to the contrary. So 
 about the origin o? Destruclivencss, which is 
 unusual large. If it wasn't for Conslien- 
 siousness, which is well-developed, it might 
 leail the possessor of this 'ead to com- 
 mit murder. As it is," she continued, find- 
 ing this contingency was not received with 
 satisfaction by the back-benches — "as it 
 is, ladies and gentlemen, you must remem- 
 ber that all the great 'eroes — the Dook of 
 AVellington, and Boney Party, and the rest 
 of 'cm — 'ad destructiveness — they could- 
 n't 'a' done tvhat they done without de- 
 structiveness. This young gentleman is 
 likely to become an 'ero " (it sounrled like 
 •' a Nero," but I am disposed to hope she 
 didn't mean it), " from 'is 'ead ; which, 'e no 
 doubt, in'erits the virtues of the illustrious 
 lady I see before me, tlie perfections adorn- 
 ing which lofty sphere 'as made her notori- 
 ous. And, tendering 'er my 'umble thanks 
 tor her gracious condescension, and all of 
 you, my kind friends, for the flattering at- 
 tention you 'ave paid my words, I wish you 
 all, in the language of the Swan of Haven, 
 ' a sweet good-night.' " 
 
 For days afterwards, this oration and the 
 diagnosis of my character, were a source of 
 unfailing delight amongst us. If Evelyn 
 was helped twice to pudding, I declared I 
 saw the bump of " gustaveousness" visibly 
 increased. When Ravmond tried to wall z, 
 1 told him he had neither " toone nor time," 
 to which he naturally responded that " ret- 
 icule " would be my bane through life ; and 
 as to my combativeness and destructivc- 
 ness, they became by-words in the family. 
 The " moril qualities," I fear, were tacitly 
 denied me ; otherwise the lectttrer was held 
 to have been very happy in her psychologi- 
 cal portrait. 
 
 " Osmund's justice is without mercy, even 
 towards himself," said Mr. Francis with a 
 smile, when he beat me thi-ee games run- 
 ning at chess. " I point out the tolly of a 
 move, and offer to let him take it back. 
 He sternly refuses. Ah ! my young Aristi- 
 des, as life goes on, you will see the folly 
 of such a course. Retrace every false step 
 you can, when the opportunity offers ; and 
 mete out the same leniency, full measure, 
 and running over, to others." 
 
 Long afterwards those words, spoken half 
 in jest, used to recur to me. Long after- 
 wards, when sorrow and bitterness and death 
 had come between us, the memory of" those 
 " merry days when we were young," and of
 
 14 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 that burlesque on phrenolofry which caused 
 us so uiuch lau;j;hter, returned to me with 
 sad distinctness. Tliat was the happiest 
 Christinas 1 ever passed. Tlie snl)er liap- 
 piness of hiter years is anuther, I suppose 
 a belter thing: ; but, after the hardening 
 contact with the worUl, that " wild fresh- 
 ness of niorninp; " of wliich the poet sings, 
 can never return. 
 
 At seventeen 1 had the keenest sense of 
 enjoyment. My home was not what would 
 be called a particularly cheerful one ; nor 
 was I insi'nsible to the inlluence of my 
 mother's and brother's peculiar characters. 
 But I was blessed with high spirits, with 
 strong lungs, stout limbs, and an indomita- 
 ble hope ; I loved and reverenced Mr. Fran- 
 cis cordially ; 1 worshipped Evelyn, who was 
 often with us, and spent hours of the mad- 
 dest pleasure on the back of my father's 
 old Irish hunter " Blarney," which had 
 descended to me. Whatever I may have 
 done in the way of study or reflection, never 
 interti;red with my digestion. I was not 
 addicted to despondt'ucy or gloomy fore- 
 bodings. I heard and saw many things 
 that gave me momentary annoyance, but 
 my buoyant temper quickly recovered. 
 (X-rtainly few boys of my age were hap- 
 pier. I remember a little circumstance 
 one day, unimportant in itself, but which 
 seemed to me pregnant with meaning when 
 I I'ecalled it long afterwards. 
 
 It was a wet winter's day, — I was about 
 sixteen at the time, — and I had been 
 teaching Evelyn billiards in the hall, until 
 she declared she was tired. Then we 
 sat down on the oak window-seat, and 
 watched the rain making a broad rivulet of 
 the centre of the road through the park, 
 the cattle huddled up together under the 
 solid shelter of the old yew-tree in the hol- 
 low, the fog creeping up to us from the 
 lake below. The out-look was dreary 
 enough ; I turned to an old chest filled with 
 rubbish, and opened it in search of materi- 
 als to help us in a charade which Mr. 
 Francis was writing for us. I forget what 
 we found, except this — a small brass cur- 
 tain ring, which, as it just fitted Evelyn's 
 third finger, I insisted should remain there, 
 declaring that now she was my wife, and 
 nothing could separate us. Her mother, 
 who was y)assing through the hall at that 
 moment, came forward with her galvanized 
 smile, and took the ring from her little 
 daughter's hand, saying, — 
 
 '• This is really a most silly game, here, 
 my dear children. Pray, do not put such 
 silly nonsense into Evy's head, my dearest 
 Osmund. " She is never going to leave 
 me ; are you, my darling ? Never leave 
 dear mamma — eh ? " 
 
 " Never! but Osmund can come and live 
 
 with us, by and by, when he is a man, 
 mamma, can't he ? " 
 
 " Oh ! he is going to be an officer, and 
 guard the queen. He would find it dull 
 work to live at the cottage with us — hem 
 
 — yes, very dull." 
 
 " Perhaps I should," was my blunt re- 
 joinder ; " but officers have wives." 
 
 " \Vives ? Oh, oh ! — here she laughed 
 spasmodically — '• what an idea ! Why 
 you, a younger son, mustn't think of mar- 
 r}ing lor — for — until you've made your 
 fortune. You're not like Ray, remember : 
 he can marry when he likes." 
 
 " Evy doesn't care for fortune, — do 
 you ? " said I nettled. " And she wouldn't 
 have such a muff as Ray, if he asked 
 her ! " 
 
 " Good gracious ! what nonsense you do 
 talk ! " here Mrs. Hamleigh glanced ner- 
 vously behind her. " Such children as you 
 both are should leave such subjects alone. 
 I must beg — hem, do you understand me ? 
 
 — that you won't go on with all this non- 
 sense, my dear boy, or I shall have to take 
 Evelyn away. There now, come along, my 
 child." 
 
 And from that day forwards, I observed 
 that Mrs. Hamlei2;h was glad of an excuse 
 to separate Evelyn and me, whenever she 
 could do so. This was notably the case 
 when Raymond was at home. She made 
 obvious efforts to throw Evelyn in his way ; 
 but he treated her, as he would have done 
 any other little school-girl, with frigid con- 
 descension, and I rubbed my hands with 
 glee to see how distasteful these enforced 
 tete-a-tetes were to the child herself. 
 
 I had been at home a year and a half, 
 when a circumstance occurred which affect- 
 ed my whole after-life. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Your mother has had a deuced disa- 
 greeable letter this morning," said my 
 Uncle Levison to me, as we stood in the 
 veranda, smoking our cigars, after lunch- 
 eon. " I don't see the use of making a 
 mystery of it, for the thing must come out 
 if the fciol goes to law ; and as Ray isn't at 
 home " — 
 
 " What's up ? — Who's going to law ? " 
 I asked impatiently. 
 
 " Well, a fellow has come over from the 
 ' States,' saying that he is the son of your 
 o-reat-uncle, — the fellow who ran away, 
 and was never heard of again, you know. 
 It may be true, or it may not ; but, any- 
 way, the fellow hasn't a leg to stand on, for 
 the fact of old Penruddocke's first marriage
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 15 
 
 — your great-grandfather — was never 
 proved." 
 
 " But -what do you mean by liis not hav- 
 ing a leg to stand on ? What docs he 
 want ? " 
 
 " Want ? — why, he wants to turn you 
 all out of the property, — that's all." 
 
 I burst out laughing. 
 
 " Cool, upon my word I Why, it hap- 
 pened nearly a century ago, didn't it?." 
 
 " Not quite that ; but long enough, I 
 fancy, fully to prevent Ray's title to the 
 property being disturbed under any circum- 
 stances whatever. The most annoying 
 part to j'our mother is that the prime mover 
 in all this is one oi your branch of the fami- 
 ly, — okl Humphrey." 
 
 " What ! — my father's first cousin ? 
 Confound hiin ! Is it he who writes ? I 
 wish my mother would show me his let- 
 ter." 
 
 " I'll ask her ; but she hasn't much opin- 
 ion of your head, my boy. However, I told 
 her you ought to know, as the only son at 
 home ; and these people may be making a 
 descent here some day. She has written 
 to Little, and he'll be down here to-morrow 
 or next day." 
 
 Little was the family solicitor, in whom 
 my mother placed the utmost confidence. 
 She was closeted with him for some hours 
 when he arrived. In the course of the 
 afternoon he met my Uncle Levison and 
 me, when the Ibllowing conversation en- 
 sued. First of all, however, let me give 
 Mr. Humphrey Mark Penruddocke's curi- 
 ous letter, which my mother consented to 
 let me see. 
 
 Cheyne Walk, March 2, 1852. 
 
 " Dear Madam, — A strange thing has 
 come to pass. After seventy years, we have 
 lit upon the son of my uncle and namesake, 
 Humphrey. 
 
 " 1 like dealings above-board, so I take 
 the earliest opportunity, after convincing 
 myself of the truth of Mr. John Penrud- 
 docke's story, to transmit it to you. Of 
 course you will not believe it, — or, if you 
 do, you will deny the claim he is prepared 
 to advance upon the Penruddocke estates. 
 Well, that is a matter for law to fight 
 out. I do not for an instant imagine that 
 any ' amicable arrangement ' can be come 
 to." 
 
 " A friend of njine was in America a few 
 months since, and chanced to meet, in a 
 very wild, remote district, this John Pen- 
 ruddocke, a widower, living on a small 
 farm, with an only daughter. Struck with 
 the name, my friend questioned him, and 
 learnt tliat he was the son ol" Humphrey, 
 who had died a few years since, at the age 
 of seventy. Papers in his jjossession prove 
 
 the truth of this ; and a portrait of his 
 grandmother (the unhappy Mrs. Diinstan) 
 confirmed my friend's suspicion that he had 
 found the long- lost heir of Beaumanoir. 
 He was himself wholly ignorant of his 
 claim. His father had never willingly re- 
 ferred to his youth, or to his family, declar- 
 ing that he never wished to heiir of them 
 again ; and the inference is that Humphrey 
 believed (what he had always heard from 
 his fixther) that he was illegitimate. 
 
 " Now, we hope to prove that this was 
 not so. That is the first point. The 
 second is to establish, that, by fraud or de- 
 ception, Humphrey Avas never cognizant 
 of the fact that he was his liither's heir. 
 Certain it is that my grandfather neither 
 advertised, nor took any other step to re- 
 call the son he had driven from home. 
 What little was done in this way, was done 
 by my own father, years afterwards, with- 
 out effect. 
 
 " If your legal advisers like to look at " 
 the documents in Mr. John Penruddocke's 
 possession, they can do so. We wish to do 
 all that is fair and open. Mr. John and 
 his daughter are now my guests. I don't 
 wish to deceive you, — they have come, at 
 my urgent solicitation, to prefer their 
 claims. Justice is justice. I don't wish 
 you and your sons any harm ; but I like 
 every man to have his own. 
 
 " I am your ladyship's faithful servant, 
 
 Humphrey Mark Penruddocke." 
 
 " The old gentleman has placed the mat- 
 ter in a very clear light," said j\Ir. Little. 
 " Supposing that Mr. Penruddocke's mar- 
 riage to Mrs. Dunstan could be established, 
 any claim made by a son of that marriage 
 would be barred by time, unless fraud or • 
 deception can be proved. The registers 
 hei-e, I find, are destroyed prior to 1780, «• 
 so that probably no record of the marriage 
 (if it ever took place) exists, nor of the 
 boy's baptism. At the very threshold there 
 are two very grave obstacles to be over- 
 come." 
 
 " Simply insurmountable," said my uncle. 
 " What a pestilent old fellow this Humph- 
 rey is, creatiiiij this disturbance, — for it is 
 evidently all his doing." 
 
 " Well, although it is against us," said I, 
 " I can't but admire his phick in the cause 
 of what he believes to be justice. Of course 
 they will soon find it is no go, — eh, Mr. 
 Little?" 
 
 " As to that I cannot say," returned the 
 old man of law. " I must see what docu- 
 ments they have. I understand there is a 
 letter of the grandfather's addressed to his 
 son, after some violent altercation between 
 them, in which he distinctly asserts that the
 
 16 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 son has no lop;al claim on him. If tlii« lie 
 s-o, it will 1)0 made a <i;roat ])oint of, as prov- 
 ing: that the lad's k'uitiinacy was concealed 
 from him. They will hunt throuch all the 
 chuix'li rciiisters in London to try and find 
 the marriage, which they have an idea took 
 place there. 1 am afraid they may give us 
 a good deal of trouble." 
 
 " But my grandfather, who had certainly 
 better means of knowing than we have, 
 always denied his lather's fu-st mar- 
 riage ? " 
 
 '' Ah ! " said Mr. Little, with something 
 very like a smile playing round the corners 
 of his month, "that may be; but then his 
 brother Osmund, on the other hand, al- 
 ways believed in the marriage. I am afraid 
 that goes for v«ry little." 
 
 Mr. Little returned to London, and kept 
 my mother informed, from week to week, 
 of the progress of affairs. ' At first the sub- 
 ject was rarely alluded to in our general 
 circle ; but I was too eagerly curious to hear 
 the last news of the enemies' movements 
 not to break down the barrier of reserve 
 which edged my mother round, and I got 
 her at last to tell me the contents of Lit- 
 tle's letters. That she was consumed by 
 inward anxiety, under the mask of calmness, 
 I couhl not doubt. The dark circles un- 
 der her eyes, the hectic spot upon her 
 cheek, betrayed her ; but she evinced no 
 emotion, — neither anger, nor disquietude. 
 nor fear. 
 
 AVeeks went by : midsummer came. 
 The opinion of counsel had beeu taken. 
 Every octogenarian who remembered my 
 great grandfather had been examined; 
 but no additional fact of importance had 
 been brought to light. The case for the pros- 
 ecution was still ridiculously weak ; and, in 
 Little's opinion, the bill which had been 
 filed by the claimant must be withdrawn, 
 unless some unlooked-for evidence in his 
 favor turned up. 
 
 One day it occurred to me, when alone 
 ■with Mr. Francis, to ask him whether, 
 among the old volumes of papers which 
 he had fished out of a corner of the libr.uv 
 two years smce, he had ever lighted upon 
 any thing that affected the question now 
 pending. 
 
 He was readintr, and did not raise his 
 eves for a muiute, so that I thought he had 
 not heard me, and was about to repeat my 
 question, when he looked up and said, — 
 
 " Yes, I did come upon something that 
 related to this matter ; hut, as it is no busi- 
 ness of mine, I conceive it is my duty to be 
 silent on the subject." 
 
 Of course I urged him to tell me, prom- 
 \<\n'T him that whatever he said should iro 
 no further. 
 
 " Well," he said, drawing out of his 
 
 pocket a black memorandum-T)ook, which 
 was liis constant companion, " what I found 
 was this, the design and inscription lor a 
 tablet to your great grandfather's first wife, 
 
 — the lady about whom there is so much 
 discussion. I supjiose the taV)let never was 
 erected ; but this rough draught had all 
 the appearance of a genuine document." 
 
 " ^\'here is it ? Do find it lor me, Mr. 
 Francis." 
 
 " I cannot — it has disappeared." 
 
 " Disappeared ! Who can have taken it." 
 
 " That I cannot tell," said he, looking 
 down, and drawing with his pen on the 
 blotting-book before him ; '• ]jerhaps a 
 housemaid has lit the fire with it. At all 
 events, it is gone. I searched all the MSS. 
 through some weeks ago." 
 
 " Strange ! Do you remember how the 
 inscription ran ? " 
 
 " Distinctly ; and here are the dates, 
 whicli I wrote down at the time." He 
 turned over the leaves of his pocket-book. 
 " I had heard the question of this marriage 
 mooted, and therefore the paper had an 
 interest for me it would not otherwise have 
 had. The inscription ran thus: 'To the 
 memory of Caroline, wife of Humphrey 
 Raymond Penruddocke of Beaumanoir, 
 in the county of Dorest, Esquire, who was 
 married on the 13th day of June, 1764,* 
 and died on the 30th September, 1765, in 
 giving birth to a son." 
 
 " You don't mean that ? Why, if so — 
 if — if this was really true ! If this paper 
 exists " — 
 
 '* It does not exist. I feel sure of that 
 
 — and if it did, it would have no legal 
 value. It is only the design for an inscrip- 
 tion to be erected — by whom ? Perhaps 
 by your great-uncle, Osmund, whose fanat- 
 icism on the subject may have carried him 
 even this length." 
 
 " It isn't likely," said I resolutely. " It 
 looks uncommonly ugly — as if there really 
 was something in it. It would regularly 
 crush our case, for they have quite enough 
 evidence to prove that Humphrey was kept 
 in ignorance of his rights." 
 
 " There is no use speculating on that, 
 my boy. I merely name the fact to you as 
 curious. It has no real weight." 
 
 " It has a moral weight — with me, at 
 all events. I don't see what interest it 
 could be of any one's to forge such a com- 
 position — I mean, to invent all those 
 dates. It is very odd. I should like to 
 tell my mother : she's awfully keen, and 
 scents a thing c[uicker than any man, Mr. 
 Francis. She " — 
 
 * The (late of a marriage upon tomb or tablet, 
 though unusual, is not witliout precedent, even 
 where no special reason has existed, as in this case, 
 for recordiug it. — Ed.
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 17 
 
 " Never mind. I forbid you to namo the 
 subject to her. She mifrht justly say I liad 
 been ])ryin'^ and meddling in family mat- 
 ters whieh in no way concern me. Re- 
 member. I liold you to your promise not to 
 name this thing to any living soul." 
 
 I said no moi'e, but puzzled over the 
 matter by myself for some days, when an 
 announcement reached us which startled 
 me by its connection with the subject of 
 the foregoing conversation ; and startled 
 my tutor, too. I feel sure, though he said 
 very little. This announcement was to the 
 effect that John Penruddocke's emissaries 
 were on tiie alert, having learnt fi'om an 
 old laborer, that, when my grandfather 
 made a new family fault, an old one under 
 the church had been walled up ; and more- 
 over, that lie remembered a tablet in the 
 church — lie could not say to whom — 
 which had been removed to make room for 
 a window, about the same time. John now 
 demanded to have the old vault opened. 
 It was not known what had become of the 
 tablet, nor, indeed, to whose memory it was 
 erected ; but it was hoped that it might be 
 found in the vault, and might prove to be 
 the missing link in the chain of John's evi- 
 dence. Of course my thoughts instantly 
 reverted to what Mr. Francis had told me. 
 In spite of my strong desire to disbelieve 
 in the existence of any such monument, 
 the more I thought over it, the more prob- 
 able it appeared, that, if a tablet was indeed 
 removed from the church by my grand- 
 father, it was one which recordcil his fa- 
 ther's first marriage, which he refused to 
 acknowledge. And it seemed to me not 
 unlikely, that, instead of destroying the 
 stone, he had consigned it to the disused 
 vault. I was in a fever of anxiety until 
 the eventful day should arrive fixed for 
 opening it, in the presence of John Pen- 
 ruddocke, and his stanch supporter, old 
 Humphrey. 
 
 A certain Wednesday was appointed for 
 the visit ; my mother's formal consent hav- 
 ing been obtained to a proceeding which it 
 would have beer\ impolitic, if not useless, 
 to refuse. That she was ill .at ease, I 
 could see plainly; and I felt for her most 
 keenly. But hers was not a nature to 
 which it was easy to offer sympathy. Hay 
 was now at home, and his majority at 
 hand. IIow much, or how little, she con- 
 fided in him, I never knew;, but of the tor- 
 ture which she must have endured at that 
 time I i'eel pretty sure he was kept igno- 
 rant. He had returned crowiu'd with aca- 
 demical laurels, and he numifested but a 
 languid interest in the subject of John's 
 claim, as though it were scarcely W(jrth 
 serious consiileration. Mr. Putney said 
 this showed what a noble character he was 
 
 — how superior to sordid interests. I 
 thought it only proved him to be phle"- 
 matic. 
 
 Mrs. Hamleigh and her daughter were 
 not at Beaumanoir on this occasion, and I 
 was glad of it. As old Humphrey's niece, 
 to whom he had never shown any kindness, 
 her presence would have added another 
 awkwardness to the only visit which my 
 father's first cousin had paid to Beaumanoir 
 tor more than forty years. 
 
 The little church, a squat, ugly building, 
 whitewashed without, high-peAved within, 
 stood in the shrubbery, hard by our liouse. 
 I could throw a stone from my bedroom 
 window into the churchyard — nay, into 
 the church itself, when the small postern 
 in the north transept, which was sacred to 
 our use, stood open. This door led directly 
 into the big, moreen-curtained room which 
 we occupied during divine service, where 
 was a fireplace, and a carpet, and a perfect 
 Stonehenge of hassocks in the centre. To 
 the left of the door was a small lancet- 
 window, rather more than six feet from the 
 ground ; and at right angles with this win- 
 dow, i-n the wall inside the pew, was the 
 low arch and flight of steps leading to our 
 family vault. I had never entered it but 
 once, after my father's death ; but I knew 
 that beyond, and communicating with it, 
 was the 'smaller disused vault, which was 
 now about to be opened. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I WAS returning from shooting on Tues- 
 day (" pei'haps for the last time over my 
 brother's ground," I said to myself; for I 
 had many misgivings about the result of 
 the morrow), when, on jumping a gate in 
 one of the least-frequented parts of the 
 park, I came upon my mother, talking to 
 one of the Hounsfield brothers. I was a 
 good deal surprised. She turned quickly, 
 and came towards me ; but it was too dark 
 to see her face. The fellow, who knew I 
 hated him. touched his hat, and slouched 
 olF. 
 
 " Tell your wife I shall come and see her 
 the day after to-morrow, William," said 
 my mother's silvery voice through the 
 twilight. 
 
 The day after to-morrow ! Good heavens ! 
 How could she make plans for the day after 
 to-morrow ? She asked what sport I had 
 liad. I answered her, and presently some- 
 what bluntly observed I couldn't think 
 how she could be out in the damp, at that 
 hour, so far fi-om home. She had walked 
 farther than she intended, and, having met 
 William Hounsfield, had stopped to speak
 
 IS 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 to him ; she was afraid his wife was dyiiTj;. 
 It anjiereil me always to see ray motlier's 
 partiality for these people ; but I was pretty 
 -well useil to it. I walked liome alongside 
 her ; and we talked of other things. 
 
 Onr evenings were never particularly 
 lively ; bnt that evening was one of the 
 most depressing I ever remember to have 
 passed. Not a word was spoken ; we four 
 people sat, each with a book, at different 
 tables; but I am confident that none of us, 
 imless it was Kaymoml, read a word. Our 
 thoughts were all upon the unpleasant 
 business of the morrow. A dread had 
 been growing up silently, I know, in the 
 minds of at least two of us, that " the 
 secrets of the prison-house," to be dissolved 
 to-morrow, after being shut away from 
 every mortal eye for more than half a cen- 
 tury, would be ]jrejudicial to our cause. My 
 mother turned the leaves of her book with 
 laudable regularity ; jNIr. Francis sat shad- 
 ing his eyes with his hand. I verily believe 
 neither knew what the volumes were they 
 held in their hands. B\' and by tea was 
 brought in. My mother made it, and soon 
 afterwards rose, saying she was tired. I 
 jum])ed up, and lit her candle ; she touched 
 my tbrehead with her pale lips, and then 
 went to the back of Raymond's chair. She 
 took his head between her hands, and 
 kissed him twice. It was so unusual in her 
 10 betray any thing, that this touched me. 
 Mr. Francis, too, looked up ; and there was 
 a strangje expression on his face I could not 
 then iathom. 
 
 I went to bed and slept, — a feverish, 
 imeasy sleep. About four in the morning 
 I woke. It wanted yet two hours of dawn ; 
 and the i^ky through my uncurtained win- 
 dow was very tlark and starless. My bed 
 was so near the window that I could see 
 the fliint outline of the church as I lay 
 there, its short square tower defined in 
 solid black against the cloudy night. I 
 tried to sleep, but it was in vain. I tossed 
 about for some time, and at last got up and 
 opened the window. Looking towards the 
 claurch as I di<l so, I was startled to see 
 ■what appeared to be a ray of light coming 
 from the lancet-window I have spoken of 
 as over our pew. I rubbed my eyes. The 
 light had disappeared. Had I been dream- 
 ing ? Was it a Will-o'-the-wisp ? 
 
 No 1 for there it was again. Who could 
 be in the church at this hour ? My heart 
 bt^an to beat quick, with the sense of 
 something strange and adventurous. To 
 probe this mystery was, of course, my first 
 thought ; to remain up here in my room, 
 and know that there was some one in the 
 church at this extraordinary hour of the 
 night, would have been impossible to me. 
 I thrust on a pair of trousers and a jacket. 
 
 Close to my window spread the branches 
 of an old witch-elm, — a means of access to 
 my room which I constantly used : it was 
 the work of a minute now to swing myself 
 on to the nearest branch, and so drop to 
 the ground. I ran noiselessly with my 
 bare fiiet tlu'ough the shrubbery, vaultcil 
 over the fence dividing it from the church- 
 yard, and crept through the loni; grass be- 
 tween the graves, till I reached the church. 
 
 The light through the window was gone. 
 I stood and listened ; there was not a 
 sound. I tried the door softly — it was 
 locked. I went all round the church, and 
 did the same by the other doors, with the 
 like result. Once I fancied that some- 
 thing resembling the dim shadow of a 
 figure glided away into the trees as I ap- 
 proached ; but I listened, and could not 
 hear a sound, and I came to the conclusion 
 that my excited imagination had conjured 
 up this shape from the outline of a slirub. 
 I returned to the north side, annoyed at 
 being baffled, and loth to believe that I 
 could have been deceived by any optical 
 delusion about the light. Yet all was so 
 absolutely still in and around the church, 
 that I was about to give it up, when suil- 
 dcnly a faint ray, which grew stronger and 
 stronger, once more streamed through the 
 lancet-window. To a good climber, as I 
 was, it was easy to spring up the wall, and 
 clutching on- by my hands to the sill of the 
 window, while I found between the old 
 stones some small purchase for ray toes, to 
 look down into the church below. 
 
 As I did so, the sweat started out on my 
 forehead. The door of our family-vault 
 stood open, two men were coming up the 
 steps bearing something between them ; 
 upon the top step stood a figure whose back 
 was towards rae, entirely covered by a 
 long black cloak, holding a lantern for the 
 men. I recognized them at once : they 
 were the two Ilounsfields. What they 
 were carrying appeared to be a box full of 
 stones, broken up into small pieces. They 
 came up into the church, and then the fig- 
 ure who held the lantern locked the door 
 of the vault. I felt ray head swim round ; 
 I scarcely knew what I thought, what I 
 suspected, in those few terrible moments. 
 I only know that what I most dreaded was 
 to s(;e that figure turn and show its face. 
 
 The men came with their burden towards 
 the door, close to which I was clinging on 
 the wall. The figure and the lantern fol- 
 lowed. At first it was in shadow — I could 
 not clearly see it; but just before the door 
 was unlocked, the light for an instant 
 flashed on the face, and my horrible doubt 
 — which scarcely had been a doubt — was 
 realized. I could hardly repress a cry ; it 
 was as though I had been shot. I had just
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 19 
 
 streni^tli to keep cTmginc; en until they had 
 passed out, and had tilided, with the lan- 
 tern darkuned, through the trees in the di- 
 reetion of the lake. Then I rolled down, 
 like a stone, into the grass below, and, for 
 the first time in ray life, 1 fainteil. 
 
 I have a fancy — an impres.-^ion so dim 
 that it is hardly to be called a recollection 
 — that when I first began to recover con- 
 sciousness, some one was bending over me, 
 raising my head, and dashing water in my 
 face. But the image almost instantly faded 
 away, and I was alone, — alone in the gray 
 twilight of dawn, lying in the dew-soaked 
 grass at the foot of the lancet-window, and 
 every thing was as silent as the graves 
 around me. Giddy and bewildered, I stag- 
 gered to my feet, and slowl)- the terrible 
 truth of the night came back, like a great 
 wave, and broke over me. 
 
 It was full an hour before I had the heart 
 to-reclimb the old witch-elm, and creep 
 back into my room. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I WOKE late next morning, with a burn 
 ing head, and the confused sense of a bad 
 dream that had broken my rest. Little by 
 little the shattered memory formed itself 
 into a hard, consistent whole : I buried my 
 face in the pillow and groaned aloud. I 
 dreaded to meet any one, — the servants, 
 these strangers who were coming : I felt as 
 though they must all be able to read the 
 shameful secret in my face. And, most of 
 all, 1 dreaded to meet her. 
 
 Breakfast was happily over when I got 
 down stairs — the room was empty. John 
 Penruddocke and his friends were to leave 
 London l)y the 8, A-Ji., train, which reached 
 our small station at 12. My mother had 
 announced some days before, that she con- 
 sidered it due to her own dignity to receive 
 " our enemies " with every possible courtesy. 
 She sent the carriage to the station to meet 
 them. I had far rather she had barricaded 
 the house, and declined to admit them. It 
 would have been honester, at least. 
 
 I ran out into the park, I plunged in 
 among the trees, 1 knew not, I cared not, 
 in which direction, breaking through the 
 tangled thicket, until I came to a little open 
 space, where I could throw myself upon the 
 grass, safe froui any ctnious eyes. To 
 make a pretence of studying with Mr. 
 Francis this morning would have been im- 
 possible. 1 could not bear the thought of 
 seeing him whom I respected so highly, and 
 whose counsel, under almost any other cir- 
 cumstance in life, I should unhesitatingly 
 have sought. Nor could 1 sit at liome, lis- 
 
 tening to the ticking of the great clock, in 
 the hall, and waiting, — waiting for what? 
 Did I not know the result of this coming 
 business now with almost absolute certain- 
 ty ? 
 
 And what could I do? In vain I asked 
 myself the question. Expose my own 
 mother, blast our honoraljie reputation as a 
 family forever, or let this wrong be, and 
 live under the secret, unspoken burden of 
 a disgraceful deed henceforward ? What- 
 ever else I mi'iht do, this I felt I could not. 
 I was a hot-blooded boy, in whom justice 
 was something more than a cold, abstract 
 \irtue, and whose heart fired up, thank 
 God ! at the thought of disloyalty or un- 
 truth. 
 
 I lay there for more than an horn-, tossin"" 
 to and fro, plucking at the grass with fever- 
 ish hands, unable to determine on any defi- 
 nite course of action. By and by I heard 
 the distant grind of carriage-wheels upon 
 the gravel drive, andl knew " our enemies '^ 
 were come. I. sprang to my feet — the ne- 
 cessity for prompt decision as to my course 
 of action became urgent, — I would speak 
 openly to my brother. I set off" running, 
 antl got to the house just as the carriage 
 luul discharged its freight, to wit, a short, 
 active man, with sharp features and gray 
 hair, whom I had no difficulty in determin- 
 ing to be Humphrey Penruddocke ; two 
 others, one a very tall man (no doubt the 
 claimant, John), and his solicitor, whose 
 faces I could not see, and a young girl, with 
 red hair, as awkward a creature as I ever 
 beheld. I slipped in by a side door, and 
 reached the library before the unwelcome 
 guests. There, as I anticipated. I found 
 my mother and Raymond, with Little and 
 Uncle Levison, who had come down the 
 night before, to give his sister tiie support 
 of his handsome presence. They were all 
 three standing near the fireplace as I en- 
 tered, — my mother, beautiful and calm, 
 perhaps a little pale, as was natural on such 
 an occasion, but neither more nor less care- 
 fully dressed than usual. She held a tea- 
 rose in her hand, at which she smelt every 
 now and then. Raymond had a new coat 
 on, which did not add to the ease of his 
 demeanor : as to his face, there it was, as 
 it always was, regularly chiselled, nerveless, 
 awfully sweet, like an Antinous of a de- 
 based period in Grecian Art. Uncle Levi- 
 son looked by far the most fidgety and 
 anxious of the trio, — he jjulled down his 
 wristbands every n)iuute, by an outw;ird 
 strike of the arms, as if he were swimming; 
 and then he looked at his boots. 
 
 No one looked at me. Had they done 
 so, my face, not being so imperturbable as 
 my brother's, must have betrayed me. But 
 their attention was directed to another door
 
 
 20 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 tlun the one by which I entered ; and this 
 other door was now Ikina; open. " Mr. and 
 Miss Peuru(hloeke, ^Ir. llninphrey Penrud- 
 docke, and J\h\ Archer, were annoiinceil. 
 My mother went forward. 
 
 " Ray," I whispered, " come into the 
 next room for a moment, before — before " 
 — he stared at me in wonderment : I gasped 
 ont — " beibre this business is entered 
 upon. I've — I've got something to tell 
 you." 
 
 " I cannot, Osmund. How can I just 
 now ? These peoi)le " — And he moved 
 towards the door. I caught hokl of his 
 arm. 
 
 '• For God's sake " — 
 
 " Pray do not detain me I I will listen 
 to yon by and by ; I cannot now." 
 
 '•But you must! by and by will not do. 
 I must speak to you before they go to 
 church." 
 
 He stared at me with his cold blue eyes, 
 and gently shook me- olf. They were in 
 the room ; my mother, with a queen-like 
 sweetness, was holding out her hand to the 
 ugly girl anil her father. It would have 
 brought tears into the eyes of Mrs. Ilam- 
 leigh, had she been present ; it would have 
 furnished the text for a sermon on Chris- 
 tian charity from Mr. Putney. 
 
 John Penruddocke, at whom of course I 
 looked with most interest, was apparently 
 about sixty, a Herculean man, with really 
 fine features, cast in a large mould, and a 
 kindly expression of countenance. His 
 accent and mode of speech were not Amer- 
 ican ; neither were they those of an English 
 gentleman. They were more countrified 
 and unconventional than vulgar. As to his 
 dress, he wore high, big boots, and a coat 
 which Poole would have disowned. But 
 his manner, considering what an ordeal this 
 interview must have been to him, couM not 
 have been better. He was come, avowedly, 
 to try to turn us out of house and home ; 
 and he was met with a grand courtesy by 
 a beautiful woman, who seemed to be a 
 combination of sovereign and saint. Even 
 for a man of the world, the position would 
 have been awkward ; how much more so 
 for a wild back-woodsman ! No doubt he 
 felt it, in some measure; but there was no 
 shrinking, no shamefacedness. He was 
 simple, straightforward ; and his words, 
 though few, were to the point. I was 
 struck with his frank acceptance of all that 
 was advanced on our side, as though the 
 idea of any thing underhand, or that was 
 not said in perfectly good faith, never oc- 
 curred to him. In this respect, the contrast 
 between him and our Cousin Humphrey was 
 notable. A more shrewd, suspicious old 
 lellow I never met. I could see that he 
 trusted no one, doubted every statement, 
 
 every document ; and while treating my 
 mother with punctilious civility, was not 
 the least impressed by her imposing demean- 
 or. The girl looked to me like a boy 
 dressed in woman's clothes. There was no 
 doubt about it, — notwithstanding expres- 
 sive ey»'s, she was very ugly ; and her large 
 bony "limbs seemed trying to free themselves 
 from the restraints that civilization had im- 
 posed on them. The buttons of her dress 
 at the back had burst; and, in her red 
 hands, she held her gloves rolled up in a 
 ball. A more odd, ungainly-looking crea- 
 ture I never beheld ! 
 
 " May I offer you luncheon before you go 
 to the church, or will you have it after- 
 wards ? " said my mother. 
 
 " We will go to the chui-ch first," struck 
 in Cousin Huuiphrey (quickly, before John 
 could reply. " We have to catch the after- 
 noon up-train ; and business before pleasure, 
 Lady Rachel." 
 
 " You will excuse my going with you. 
 My son will show you the way, and my 
 brother, Col. Levison Rich. I have given 
 orders for the vault to be open ; and, if 
 there is any thing further you want to 
 exajnine, pray do not hesitate to ask.. 
 Luncheon will be ready on your return. 
 Perhaps Miss Penruddocke would prefer 
 remaining with me V " 
 
 But Miss Penruddocke accompanied her 
 father : the high polish of ray lady's mar- 
 ble presence awed her, I could see, and 
 she was glad to escape. 
 
 They passed through a garden-door, on 
 to the terrace. I felt a rush of blood to my 
 head, a singing in my ears. I catight Ray's 
 arm, and dra'iii'ed him aside by main force. 
 
 " Listen ! " I said fiercely. ' " You shall, 
 you must, listen to me 1 They are going to 
 the vault ; and what they are going to look 
 for they won't find, for it has been deslrof/ed." 
 
 He stared. At last he inquired mildly 
 what I meant. 
 
 " I mean that the tablet upon which John 
 Penruildoi'ke's case mainly rests now — 
 the last link in his evidence — has been 
 broken up, and the fragments thrown into 
 the lake last night." 
 
 " You arc dreaming, Osmund ! Who " — 
 
 '■ Oh ! don't ask me who did it : the 
 thing is done, and it will come out sooner 
 or later, — all such crimes do. Your only 
 chance of saving our honor is boldly to avow 
 that it has come to your knowledge, that, un- 
 tbrtunately, some lijoUsh and ignorant per- 
 son, thinking to befriend you, has made 
 away with it. Y'ou will then give ordei's 
 for the lake to be dragged." 
 
 " You are dreaming, Osmund," was still 
 the tbrmala of my brother's reply ; and he 
 struggled to release liis arm. 
 
 " By heavens ! Ray, I am not dreaming I
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 21 
 
 What I tell you is true, as true as I stand 
 here. For God's sake, speak ! — do sonie- 
 thin;j; quicJ^ily! Half an hour henee it will 
 be too late. You cannot then come forward, 
 when they have left the vault. When the 
 tablet is missing, you must speak, or hold 
 your tongue upon this shameful deed, and 
 forever bear the disgrace of it through 
 life ! " 
 
 " Nonsense, Osmund ! Let me go ! See, 
 they are waiting for me. Don't! — you 
 hurt my arm ! " 
 
 " I won't let you go till you promise me 
 to speak out." 
 
 '• How absurd you are, to expect me to 
 repeat this nonsense about a tablet ! After 
 all, if such a thing existed, and was de- 
 stroyed, I know nothing about it. AVhy 
 should I say <iny thing that is to injure us ? 
 I am not to blame if any tablet was made 
 away with, which I do not believe." 
 
 Then, indeed, I did let him go, but with 
 such an impetus that he staggered back 
 ac^ainst the balustrade. I myself recoiled, 
 as if from a serpent. The suorn I felt shot 
 from my eyes as I said, — 
 
 " I was a fool to think for a moment I 
 could kindle a spark of any manly, honora- 
 ble feeling in such a miserable creature as 
 you are ! You haven't the excuse of being 
 a wogtian, and a mother, as she is, who sins 
 for the sake of her son. You're a con- 
 temptible wretch, who has no sense of 
 shame, or you could not endure the bare 
 thought of this infamy ! But I have done 
 with you from this day forward ! I wash my 
 hands of you and the whole lot ! I wiA 
 not expose her ; but I won't countenance 
 this swindle, so help me God ! " 
 
 I was choking with passion as I turned 
 from him. I suppose he crawled away 
 after the others. I did not look round, but 
 ran up stairs to my own room, and locked 
 myself in. An hour later there came a 
 knock at the door. 
 
 " Her ladyship desired me to let ywi 
 know, sir, that luncheon has been on the 
 table some time." 
 
 " Bring me something up here. Say I am 
 not coming down." 
 
 The afternoon waned ; I heard the car- 
 riage come round from the stables, and then 
 it drove rapidly off, bearing our unwelcome 
 guests to the station. It was all over, then ; 
 this foul work had got itself done, beyond 
 recall, and the rightiul owner of these broad 
 lands was gone, crest-fallen, discomfiitd. 
 ^ly rage was no longer at white-heat ; but 
 indignant shame brought scalding tears 
 into my eyes. I was ludpless, for I could 
 not denounce my own mother, and my 
 brother's eyes I had opened. He might 
 have redressed this wrong ; but he was con- 
 tent tu sit down, and do nothing. I would 
 
 not so sit down. I would no longer cast in 
 ray lot with them, ami bentifit, even indi> 
 i-ectly, from this rascality. I would cut 
 adrift from them all, and fight my own way 
 in the world, under another name. My 
 resolution never wavered all that afternoon ; 
 as soon as night was come, I would escape. 
 
 The dressing-bell for dinner came, just 
 as if nothing had happened. One of the 
 men brought hot water to my door. I sent 
 him away. 
 
 " I am not coming down to dinner. Say 
 I have a headache, and bring me up some 
 cold meat and a jug of beer." 
 
 Between nine and ten o'clock, I heard a 
 step upon the old stairs (which led only to 
 my room, and some unoccupied ones), a 
 step which I now feared, though I loved it 
 more than any other in the house. If Mr. 
 Francis saw me, he would at once detect 
 that something- was gravelv amiss, — he 
 might even suspect my design : his elo- 
 quence was the only thing I feared might 
 shake my resolution. 1 threw myself upon 
 the bed, and turned my face to the wall. 
 There was a knock. 
 
 " Osmund, what is the matter ? Will 
 you let me in V " 
 
 " I am in bed." 
 
 " Won't you get up, and open the door to 
 me ? " 
 
 " Pray forgive me, Mr. Francis. I have 
 an awful headache. I can't talk. Thank 
 you for coming to look after me. I shall 
 be all right to-morrow." 
 
 " Good-night, then, Osmund." 
 
 " Good-night, Mr. Francis. You forgive 
 me, don't you ? " 
 
 " Of course, my dear boy. Come to my 
 room, and report yourself all right in the 
 morning." 
 
 Then I heard the long measured step 
 return down the corridor, and descend the 
 stairs. 
 
 I spent the next half hour in meditating, 
 and about the same space of time in mak- 
 ing my preparations. I had five pounds, 
 and a few shillings, in my possession. la 
 prosecuting the scheme I had in view, any 
 superfluous wardrobe would have been an 
 encumbrance. A change of linen, my 
 diary, and a pocket Shakspeare, with tlie 
 remains of the bread and meat from my 
 dinner, were tied up in a pocket-haudker- 
 cliief, and slung over my shoulder on a 
 stout stick. I put on my shabbiest shoot- 
 ing clothes, and my oldest wide-awake ; the 
 only object of real value upon me was my 
 father's gold repeater, which he had left 
 me, and which I resolved never to part 
 with. 
 
 AVhen the house had been (juiet some 
 time, I opened my window softly, and swung
 
 22 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 mvself on to the ■wit<'li-e!m, ami from it to 
 the ground, as I had done the pi'evioiis 
 nisht. It was starli2:ht, and very still. 
 Tliore was not a sound, except the bayinc;- 
 of one of the dogs in the Ptal)le. The 
 house, as I looked back, stood dimly defined 
 against the sk}-. From one win<low only 
 there shone a light: it was Mr. Francis's 
 room. It was strange, but I i'clt more at 
 leaving him — and without a word, without 
 a sign — than any one else in my old 
 home. J^o more my home, henceforward ! 
 I would never return to it, never break 
 bread within those doors as long as my 
 family held it in unlawful possession. On 
 that I had made up my mind, with all the 
 fierce energy of eighteen. 
 
 And so I strode away at a swinging pace 
 among tlie trees ; and, leaping the ])ark-pul- 
 ings, found myself on the high-road. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I CALCULATED that by walking fast I 
 might catch the midnight mail from the 
 
 B railway-station, about three miles 
 
 distant. I had scarcely reached it when I 
 heard the railway whistle. With my 
 wide-awake driven over my eyes, and my 
 coat-collar turned up, I ran into the ticket- 
 office, in the uncertain gaslight of which it 
 was no wonder the sleepy clerk did not 
 recognize me. As the train came up, I 
 watched my opportunity when the jjorter's 
 back was turned, >and jumped into a third- 
 class carriage, where I found myself alone. 
 In less than an hour I alighted at a station 
 on the edge of the New Foi-est, but a short 
 distance from Mrs. Hamleigh's house. It 
 stood on the outskirts of a village, — an old 
 red-briek dwelling, almost blind of all its 
 eyes, with roses, and magnolia, and Virgin- 
 ian creeper, of no architectural pretension, 
 but homely and pleasant of aspect. Be- 
 tween it and the high-road were a lawn 
 and a gravel drive, and several fine oaks, 
 one of which almost touched the house, and 
 ought to have been cut down, but, by rea- 
 sea of its beauty, had been hitherto spared. 
 I lifted the latch of the gate (nothing 
 was ever padlocked there), and passed in; 
 but my footfall on the gravel, though I trod 
 li^jjhtly, aroused a sharp yelping bark from 
 the house. I stepped on to the turf; the 
 faithful little guard was not to be deceived, 
 however ; he uttered his sharp little '• Be- 
 Avare ! " at intervals. And now, from the 
 stable-yard, another dog was incited by 
 sympathy to enter his protest against tlie 
 intrusion. The moon had risen ; each object 
 on the lawn was as visible as by day. I 
 crept on, under the shadow of the boughs, 
 
 making for the large oak which stood over 
 against Evelyn's window. If I could only 
 reach that, I felt I was safe, should the 
 household be aroused ; but I was subjected 
 to no such peril. The terrier's bark indeed, 
 grew more and more fierce, as the old oak 
 creaked and rustled w^hen I swung myself 
 up into its boughs ; but. he slept in Eve- 
 lyn's room, as I soon discovered, for the 
 window, on account of the heat, had been 
 left open ; and fortune, for once, distinctly 
 favored me. The dog's persistent bark 
 woke his mistress, which I might not have 
 found it easy to do, without danger, and he 
 did not arouse any other member of that 
 sleepy household. 
 
 There was no light in the room ; but I 
 heard the sweet young voice say, " What is 
 the matter, Roughey V " And then a little 
 figure in a white night-dress came pattering 
 across the floor to the window, and leant 
 out in the moonshine, chattering in doc'-lan- 
 guage to her pet. " 'Ou foolish 'ittle dog ! 
 There's nothing. What 'ou making such a 
 fuss about, disturbing 'ou mistress in this 
 way V " Then she looked up into the clear 
 summer night, and over the moonlit lawn, 
 with its islands of black shadow, and leant 
 her firmly-cleft little chin, which belied the 
 softness of her eyes and lijis, in the hollow 
 of her hand, and mused. What was she 
 thinking of? I was afraid to breathe her 
 name, ever so low, without some prepara- 
 tion ; she might scream aloud in her first 
 terror. I scrawled a fiew words in pencil 
 upon a leaf of my Shakspeare, and twist- 
 ing it round an acorn, I tossed it in at the 
 window, aiming at the dressing-table be- 
 side her, where it fell. She started, with a 
 hall-suppressed cry, and ran into the room. 
 I remained perfectly still ; and in a minute 
 or two, as I anticipated, curiosity conquer- 
 ing alarm, she came back slowly and 
 stealthily to the table, and untwisted the 
 little crumpled ball. 
 
 " It is I — Osmund. I am in the oak- 
 tree. Do not make a noise. Let me speak 
 to you for a minute." 
 
 She ran up to the window at once, her 
 face and neck, as I could see, one flush of 
 
 joy- 
 
 " Don't be frightened," I whispered. *' I 
 have run away from home, Evy, and I am 
 going off, — going away for a long time 
 somewhere or other ; but I couldn't <ro 
 without saying good-by to )'ou, darling."' 
 
 '' O Osmund! Going oQ'! — run away 
 from home ! What do j^ou mean ? Have 
 you been a naughty boy ? " 
 
 " No, dear ; but I couldn't stay. Never 
 mind why — I can't tell you. Don't waste 
 time by asking me any questions, Evy. I 
 can only stay a minute ; for, if I was discov- 
 ered, they would try to stop me. Kemem-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 23 
 
 ber, yon mustn't breathe a word about my 
 bavin'i; been here to-iUL^ht." 
 
 "But — but — where are you going? 
 Do tell me ! " 
 
 "I can't, clear; I (scarcely know myself. 
 I am leaving home forever, that's all I can 
 tell you, and " — 
 
 '• Forever !" she walled. " O Osmund ! 
 don't say that ! How wicked of you ! " 
 
 "No, it isn't wicked, — it's right, Evy. 
 You'd think so, if you knew all. I'm going 
 otF somewhere, to make a name and fbrtGne 
 for myself, or die in the attempt, as all 
 heroes do." 
 
 "How dreadful! Oh! how can you 
 talk so V You'll never come back, then ! 
 I shall never see you again ! " and she 
 sobbed bittevly. 
 
 " Yes, 1 feel suT^ I shall, — I shall come 
 back to claim my little wife, if she remains 
 true to me. You will remain true, won't 
 you, darling, though you should not hear of 
 me for a long, long time ? " 
 
 " And — vou — won't write to me ? " she 
 sobbed. 
 
 "1 daren't: I should be traced. You 
 must wait patiently, and don't believe evil 
 of me, whatever they may tell you. And 
 now, my pet, give me a lock of your hair, 
 won't you, to keep next to my heart as 
 long as I live ? " 
 
 She went to the dressing-table, took a 
 pair of scissors, and clipi)ed a tress of the 
 long brown hair, close to its roots. 
 
 "Tie something round it — wrap it in 
 paper, and drop it on the grass." 
 
 With that I scrambled to the ground, as 
 noiselessly as 1 could ; but the bough shook, 
 and the scraping of my heels, as I slid 
 down the trunk, irritated that infernal little 
 terrier, and he set up a renewed yelping. 
 
 " Be quiet ! lloughey, be quiet, naughty 
 dog ! " cries weeping Evy. 
 
 " Good-by, my darling," I whisper hur- 
 riedly under the window, as I hear the 
 stable dog again take up the barking — 
 " if I stay another minute, I shall be dis- 
 covered." 
 
 She leant half of her little body out of 
 the window, and wrung her hands. 
 
 " O Osmund ! don't go — don't, dear ! " 
 
 '• Hush ! God bless you ! The house is 
 aroused ; I must be oil!" And I took to 
 my heels.- 
 
 And now that I had seen my little dar- 
 ling, and had bidden her a long good-by, 
 my thoughts concentrated themselves on 
 my next step. What was I to do ? An 
 active life, a life in whicli there should, if 
 }iossil)le, be fighting and adventure and 
 distinction, and certainly no desk-work, a 
 career in which I might make a name for 
 myself, while my real one should remain 
 
 forever unknown, — this was what I set mv 
 heart on. IMy plan was this. To make 
 the best of my way to Portsmouth, and en- 
 list in one of the regiments there under 
 orders for foreign service. If, for some 
 cause or other, the scheme should not 
 answer, then I could go on board a man-of- 
 war. In the course of time, Evy and Mr. 
 Francis should hear from me. As to all 
 the rest of the world, in the bitterness of 
 my heart, I then declared I never wished 
 to hear of my mother or brother again. 
 Does this sound unnatural ? Let no one 
 pronounce it so, whose affections have not 
 been estranged in early youth, and who, at 
 eighteen, with a temperament such as mine, 
 has never become possessed of a shameful 
 secret which has forever sliattered the 
 founilations of his trust. I thought of my 
 poor father. I thought how his honorable 
 nature would have loathed such an act as 
 this, which had set up an impassable bar- 
 rier between my mother and me ; and I de- 
 clared that I belonged to him, and had no 
 part in her, neither would I have lot nor 
 inheritance. 
 
 By daybreak I was out of the forest ; 
 and crossing the railroad, where it bisects 
 a wild district of moorland, I got upon the 
 dusty high-road. Here, after climbing a 
 short hill, I came to the " Hunter's Inn," 
 and knocked up a somnolent individual, 
 half waiter, half hostler, who brought me 
 some bread and cheese and beer. I tried 
 vainly to gather information toiK'hing any 
 recruiting parties that might have been 
 that way lately. Foiled in this, I did gain, 
 however, an exact knowledge of the dis- 
 tance to Southampton, and a time-table of 
 the steamers thence to the Isle of Wight. 
 For obvious reasons I desired to avoid 
 railroads. The first boat would enable me 
 to reach Portsmouth, by the circuitous route 
 of Cowes and Ryde, early in the day ; and 
 this mode of transit I resolved to adopt. 
 
 It fell out much as I had planned. My 
 farther journey was uneventful. A dusty 
 stripling slipped on board the steamer, 
 almost unobserved, took his place forward 
 as steerage-passenger, and was landed, two 
 hours and a half later, on the little pier at 
 Southsea, without recognition ; indeed (he 
 was almost mortified to observe) without 
 exciting any attention or interest whatso- 
 ever. 
 
 I had learnt from a man on board that 
 
 the th, which I had constantly heard 
 
 spoken of as one of the crack regiments in 
 the service, was quartered in Hi 1 sea Bar- 
 racks. "They sail for India in a few 
 months' time, and are hard up, I'm told, for 
 recruits," my informant had added. Here 
 was my opportunity. I inquired my way 
 to the barracks, and directed my steps
 
 24 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 thither. A corporal at the gate demanded 
 my busines;!, and I told hiin. He eyed me 
 li-om head to tiiot, said I was ■' a willowy 
 sort of a ohap," and called for the ser<;eant 
 of the truard. I knew that heroes oiufht to 
 have an iidierent nobility of aspect that 
 betrays their birth ; but, ai)parently, I ran 
 no such risk. Tall tor my a^e, and thin to 
 spareness, by no means well-featured, sun- 
 burnt, white with dust, and wearing a pair 
 of old " hiiih-lows," which, in the course of 
 my night's march, had broken out in more 
 than one place, I tliink it reflects no dis- 
 credit on the corporal's and sergeant's 
 discernment that they did not detect the 
 gentleman in the volunteer who presentcil 
 himself for enlistment. 
 
 I was marched olF to the orderly-room, 
 where the adjutant, Mr. Eagles, was dic- 
 tating a letter to a clerk. The officer 
 waved his hand to the sergeant, to indicate 
 that my very small matter of business — to 
 wit, the being enrolled aS a soldier'in Her 
 Majesty's service — must stand aside until 
 the completion of this important document. 
 I listened with some curiosity to the first 
 letter " O. H. M. S." I had ever heard ; 
 but I could make little of it. The sub- 
 ject, as far as I could make out, was 
 pouches ; but then the subject was poured 
 out, so to speak, with such a head on it 
 that it was difficult to get to it for the 
 froth. Such a bewildering mass of " hon- 
 ors," past, present, and to come, with, " I 
 am directed by's," and, " with reference 
 to's," such involutions of speech, such a bog 
 of adverbs and ])repositions, as rendered it 
 hard to pick one's way through to any solid 
 foundation of meaning. JNIr. Eagles, whose 
 personal appearance 1 had thus ample time 
 to study, was an absurd-looking youn'T man, 
 with an assumption of military ferocity 
 which sat but ill on his receding brow, 
 vacuous eyes, and lobster-claw-like nose. 
 He was a good-natured creature, as I after- 
 wards found ; but five minutes were enough 
 to show me that he was empty as a broken 
 bottle, and inordinately vain. He believed 
 himself to be an embryo Wellington. His 
 zeal in the service was indued untiring, 
 and he was not a bad " drill." In a regi- 
 ment where rich and indolent young men 
 abounded, with but few soldiers at heart 
 among them, these qualities had procured 
 him the adjutantcy ; and, in spite of some 
 just ridicule from both officers and men, I 
 must confess that he filled the duties of his 
 post better than any other man in the 
 th would have done. 
 
 At the end of a quarter of an hour, hav- 
 ing completed his missive, he veered round 
 in his cliair. He then knit his brows, and 
 pulled down the corners of his mouth in a 
 liashion that was meant to intimidate the 
 
 recruit, but which well-nigh provoked in me 
 an unseendy fit of laughter. 
 
 " Now then, sir, what's your name? " 
 
 " Jeames Zmitli." 
 
 " Snath V Hm I Where do you come 
 from V That's a London name." 
 
 '" I da come pearlly from Darsetshire." 
 
 " Partly ! What do you mean by part- 
 ly V" 
 
 " Feather come vrom Darsetshire. Moth- 
 er " — 
 
 " I don't want to know about your 
 mother, sir " (fiercely). " What's your 
 age V " 
 
 " Risin' nineteen — come next fall." 
 
 " Next fall ! What does he mean ? Gad! 
 what a dialect! And what have you been 
 doiu'j; ? 
 
 "A-workiu in the vields, and a-pickin' 
 stonniis." 
 
 '■Humph! You're strong, eh? And 
 you don't drink ? " 
 
 " I likes a zwig o' swipes by-times," said 
 I, with my tongue in my cheek ; " but I 
 ain't a-givin' to drinkin'. I'm sprak with 
 my vists, and can litt a goodish weight ; 
 and " — 
 
 " There that'll do. You're glib enough 
 with your tongue, youngster. Gad ! what 
 a dialect ! March him off to the surgeon, 
 and report to me whether he passes the 
 medical examination ! " 
 
 This little comedy, which was almost an 
 impromptu device of mine to disarm suspi- 
 cion as to my birth or antecedents, had 
 succeeded admirably so fiir. I was as famil- 
 iar with the peasants' dialect as with my 
 own, and had often talked it with them. 
 Its assumption on this occasion had but 
 one drawback, which I had not duly 
 weiii;hed. Nothing less than the power of 
 a liurton or a Vanbery could enable me to 
 act this part consistently, without flaw or 
 fbrgetfulness, day after day, month after 
 month. 
 
 That same afternoon, havinij piasscd the 
 medical examination, I was enrolled in 
 Her Majesty's service, as a private in the 
 th. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I HAVE never regretted the step I then 
 took. I know that the next few months 
 of my life, trying as they were in many ways, 
 disciplined me in some measure, taught me 
 more tolerance and self-restraint than I 
 should ever have learnt at Beaunumoir. 
 .\nd thougih, to a lad nurtured as I had 
 been, the transition from smooth things to 
 rough, fi'om culture to neglect, from refine- 
 ment to brutality, was distasteful enough 
 to well-nitrh sicken him with his dream of
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 25 
 
 « glory," yet this condition of life, like most 
 others, had its lesson to teach ; and I learnt 
 it, though slowly, and never perhaps very 
 perfectly. 
 
 I got a sound thrashing from a stalwart 
 lance-corporal, for being " cheeky," before 
 I had been three days in the regiment ; 
 and on the only two occasions when I was 
 placed under arrest, it was for " answer- 
 ing " a supei'ior olllcer. As long as I was a 
 recruit, I saw but little of the company to 
 ■which I was attached, but I soon left the 
 " awkward squad " behind me. There was 
 small merit in this, as, from the age of ten 
 to fifteen, I had been drilled every week by 
 a sergeant imported from Dorchester ; but 
 as 1 naturally did not communicate this lit- 
 tle fact, I got more credit than I deserved 
 when I " passed" after a few weeks, wliile 
 my fellows were still at the " goose-step." 
 
 A yet more surprising feat, however, — 
 so marvellous, indeed, as to be incredible, 
 it now appears to me, to any one of the 
 most ordinary acuteness — was the rapidity 
 with which I dropped my Dorsetshire dia- 
 lect, and accpiired a pure P^nglish accent 
 I found that the men paid so little heed to 
 my pronunciation, that I gradually slipped 
 back into a natural way of talking ; and 
 only when the adjutant chanced to address 
 me, did I, partly from fun, a little from dread 
 of detection, resume a slight llavor of rus- 
 tic Dorset, in order to elicit his, " Gad ! 
 what a dialect ! " 
 
 The men in my company chaffed me 
 about my scrupulous cleanliness, and certain 
 habits, which, greatly to my annoyance, 
 procured me the nick-name of " Gen'ieman 
 Smith." They were not bad fidlows, with 
 a few exceptions (notably, a man in the 
 next bud to mine, whom 1 found trying to 
 steal some money from under my pillow at 
 night, and to whom I gave two black eyes 
 for his pains, which summary act of jus- 
 tice raised me in the estimation of my com- 
 rades more than the legitimate course of a 
 formal accusation of theft would have done). 
 But though 1 got on well enough with them, 
 there were times when I suffered from 
 the enforced companionship of men whose 
 conversation was too often spiced with 
 ribaldry and indecency. I did not pretend 
 to be any better than my neighbors, but 
 such language was always utterly repug- 
 nant to me ; and, whenever it was used in 
 my prestmce, I left the room if I possibly 
 could. On one occasion, I flew into a pas- 
 sion, and told them they were a set of 
 beasts, and only fit to be with liogs, not 
 Christians. Of course I was well laughed at 
 for my pains ; and yet I think there were 
 some among them (especially one whom 1 
 shall name presently) who respected me 
 for my boldness. 
 
 Drink was their besetting temptation ; 
 but, notwithstanding my statement to the 
 adjutant, it was a temptation I resisted 
 easily. The allurements of the fair sex, 
 1 might liave found more dangerous, but 
 that my heart was case-hardened by the 
 soft brown curl that lay next to it, and 
 that the bold advances of the young dam- 
 sels whom my companions found attractive 
 were repulsive to me. Modesty and gen- 
 tleness, these I always regarded as the first 
 and indispensable charms in a woman ; 
 without them, however much my senses 
 uiiglit be captivated, my heart could never 
 be touched. 
 
 Comrades, if any of you should ever read 
 these lines, will you think that I have done 
 you scant justice ? The memory of many 
 generous actions rises up as I write : how 
 you helped one another in siclcn(!ss ; how 
 you stuck to one another in scrapes ; how, 
 whenever a married man died, each pri- 
 vate in his company cheerfully subscribed 
 a day's pay for the widow ; and how, with 
 all the little children swarming up and 
 down our barrack stairs, I have often seen 
 one of these rough fellows take the tender- 
 est care of the tiny creatures, carrying 
 thara on his back, guiding their toddling 
 feet, and giving tliem their earliest instruc- 
 tions as to the sucking of lollipops. 
 
 And this brings me to speak of the only 
 man with whom I grew to be on any terms 
 of intimacy. Joe Carter was many years 
 my senior, and by no means the best char- 
 acter in the company. He had twice been 
 made lance-corporal, by reason of liis 
 smartness and soldierly bearing, and each 
 time had been reduced to the ranks. DriutC 
 was his bane : not that he was an habitual 
 d^runkard ; but, every two or three months, 
 the devil that was in liim got the upper 
 hand, and — to use his own phrase — he was 
 •' overtaken." But for this, he would have 
 been a color-sergeant long since, for he was 
 undeniably a better soldier, and Iiad far 
 more brains, than most of the non-commis- 
 sioned officers. He was tall, with a shrewd 
 gray eye, and a thi n-lipped, whimsical mouth, 
 from which fell many a sharp, quaint say- 
 ing, which evoked a laugh from the room. 
 His observation was singularly acute, and 
 he spared no one. He lashed us all round 
 with his small thongs of ridicule ; and yet no 
 one but blackguards dislik«d him. In an- 
 other rank of life, I incline to think he would 
 have been a consummate dandy ; as it was 
 (mark the line that divides the virtue fi'om 
 the weakness 1), he took what is termed " a 
 pride in his appearance." His boots, his 
 belt, his accoutrements, were always spot- 
 less ; he would rub away at a piece of 
 brass till it shone like gold : and the regula- 
 tion two inches of whisker upon the other-
 
 26 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 wise close-shorn face was snrmountiMl liy a 
 whisp of well-oileil linir. which appeared 
 bei\eath the Ibrage cap, and adorned the 
 temple. *• 
 
 He was rnu2,h, and could use unnecessa- 
 rily stmn.;- lan;j;nai^e when roused ; but he 
 had a kind heart, and was capable, as I 
 learnt in time, of very faithful attachment. 
 But he was not. married, nor ever likely to 
 niari'y, for he ailed ed to hold the institu- 
 tion of matrimony in abhorrence, and con- 
 stantly averred that the less men had to 
 do wiili women the better for their welfare 
 in this world, wiiatever it miL:;ht be in 
 the next. Yet no one so kind to the little 
 children as Joe. The brats that couUl 
 scarce walk would totter up to him, and 
 clutch his lbre(inL];er, (;onscious that there 
 they woidd find protection and support ; 
 and the slatternly mother, rushing out 
 wildly in the barrack-square after her olf 
 spring, would retire, comforted, on seeing it 
 in the custody'Ot the stalwart Joe. 
 
 The circumstance that first attracted uu' 
 towards him was a trifle hardly worth re- 
 cording, but it was characteristiiK of the man. 
 One ni'j;ht, as we were undressing, he 
 spied a sixpence under his bed. 
 
 '• Who's lost sixpence," cries Carter. 
 " Don't you all speak at once." 
 
 " I have,'" says a fellow from the next 
 bed. 
 
 " What's he like ? " pursues Joe. " Has 
 he got a hole through him ? " 
 
 " Yes : that's him," returns the other 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Ah ! then I'm sorry : this ain't your'n," 
 says Joe, with a laugh. 
 
 I observed a recruit, just joined, feiding 
 his pockets anxiously. Not without evi- 
 dent trepidation, the lad muttered, " It's 
 niine : there's a hole in my pocket." (His 
 " kit " had not yet been given out.) 
 Joe eyed the recruit severely. 
 "You're a nice chap, a-comiug here with 
 holes in your j^ocket, dropping your dirty 
 money about, and tempting fellows to steal ; 
 but here, catch your sixpence. I see you're 
 not lying, like that dirty thief there." 
 
 And so, by Joe's astuteness, the lad re- 
 gained his own. 
 
 How this veteran, often years' standing, 
 first came to notice and patronize a young- 
 ster like me, I scarcely know, such alli- 
 ances being most unusual. I believe it began 
 by my contradicting him, and that led to 
 an argument. Now, nothing Joe Carter 
 loved more than an argument ; but his 
 tongue was recognized as so potent a weap- 
 on that few cared to encounter it. 
 
 '• You weren't behind the door when 
 check was served out," he said, scanning 
 me curiously. "And as i'orjaw! — you'd 
 jaw an ass's hind leg olf." 
 
 " Lucky you haven't a hind leg," I 
 laughed. 
 
 He seized me — in perfect good-humor 
 
 — by the "scrulf" of the neck, held me 
 up, twisted, and then dropped me. I was 
 a mere child in his ])owerfLd grip. From 
 that day forward, I know that he liked me, 
 though he certainly never showed it by 
 any increased civility — rather the contra- 
 ry. But I could appreciate his grim hu- 
 mor ; ami, on the other hand, he relished 
 my fearlessness of speech ; indeed, between 
 us there existed what, in another rank of 
 life, would have been styled " a sympathy " 
 
 — though Joe would not have understood 
 the term. I was the target of his frequent 
 ridicule, and his strictures upon me were 
 more severe than upon any other young 
 fellow in the company ; but they were 
 prompted, as I well knew, by the interest 
 he felt in my welfare ; and I never resent- 
 ed them. 
 
 " There ye go, like a goose in the stub- 
 ble, with y'r chin foremost," he cried out, 
 sometimes, as 1 walked across the barrack- 
 square ; and again, " Don't ye turn y'r 
 toes out, man, as though you were a quad- 
 rilling, nor yet cock 'em up that fashion. 
 This ain't a boot-inspection, and no one 
 wants to see the soles o' y'r feet, as I knows 
 on." But my want of order and neatness 
 was the object of his most sarcastic and 
 vehement protest. The sight of my " kit," 
 in which shirts and blacking-brushes, socks, 
 pipe-clay, bath-brick, and boots lay tossed 
 in a wild pell-mell, stirred his bile. 
 •' That's a neat knapsack, that is 1 I'd lay 
 him out in the barrack-square for a model, 
 if I was you ! You'll be a nice chiip on 
 the march, with a hump on your back like 
 a dvomeifari/." 
 
 Thus did my education, in one impor- 
 tant respect, advanK;e under Private Joseph 
 Carter. 
 
 " When we lay in Waterford," said my 
 new friend to me one day, " there was a 
 young swell as wanted me to be his walet. 
 I'm a'most sorry I didn't cut the ser- 
 vice." 
 
 '• Cut the service ? O Joe, and you 
 such a soldier at heart as you are ! " 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, young un, ambi- 
 tion and all that is very fine words; but 
 they loses a deal o' their meaning after tea 
 years' service, and never a good-conduct 
 stripe." 
 
 " Whose fault is that ? " said I boldly. 
 "If you didn't drink " — 
 
 " Oh 1 if we was all angels, we should 
 have a fine time of it up aloft, shouldn't 
 we, a-bolstering of each other with them 
 feather-bed clouds ? Oh, yes ! But not 
 being angels, unfort'nately, we like a drop 
 o' drink sometimes. I'll tell ye what it is,
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 27 
 
 it's just a slavery ; and I'd as soon be a 
 black-born nifr^er." 
 
 " Ni'.ro'i;rs are flogged, Joe." 
 
 " AVell, and so are sodgers." 
 
 " And tlien, think of the honor of serv- 
 ing your country ! " 
 
 " Oh ! the honor be blowed ! " 
 
 " Well, honor is said to be a bubble," — 
 at whifh Joe laughed. 
 
 The company was commanded by Capt. 
 Patterson, a man about whom I need 
 say nothing. With the lieutenant, how- 
 ever, I have much to do, both now and 
 hereafter. Uis name was Mr. Arthur 
 Tufton, and he was the nephew of a lord 
 (this last fact I did not learn till long after^ 
 wards). He was tall, blonde, and very 
 handsome ; but there was a charm about 
 his voice and manner far beyond the mere 
 graces of person. Every private in the 
 company, I believe, consciously or uncon- 
 sciously, experienced this. When Ensign 
 Andrews inspected their kits, the men 
 made faces behind that yc-ung oflicer's 
 back ; but I never heard a disrespectful 
 word, or saw a disrespectful look, having 
 the lieutenant for its object. 
 
 How shall I describe him ? If I did so 
 as he appeared to me during those first 
 mo;iths in which we came into no close 
 contact with each other, I should say he 
 was the most perfect gentleman I hid ever 
 seen up to that time — the embodiment 
 of one of Vandvck's high-bred heroes, as I 
 knew them at AV'ilton, and other ancestral 
 houses. • But it will be better to indicate 
 at once such points of his character as I 
 only came to learn in the course of time ; 
 they will be more fully wrought out in the 
 course of this narrative. 
 
 He possessed the sweetest temper, the 
 kindest heart, and the best judgment — in 
 all that did not concern himself — of any 
 man I have ever known, always except- 
 ing my day-tutor, Francis. He was the 
 one in the regiment to whom all his broth- 
 er-officers, both old and young, confided 
 their troubles, of whatever kind. And 
 yet in the conduct of his own affairs, he 
 daily showed himself disastrously unwise. 
 He was a confirmed gand^ler. It was the 
 one baneful gilt which aj)parently the 
 malevolent fairy had thrown in, when so 
 many graces had been showered on him at 
 his birth. He sat up till daybreak, night 
 after night, playing at chicken-hazard 
 or Ijliiid-hookey, apparently unmoved 
 whether he lost or won ; and always on 
 parade the next morning, looking fresher 
 than any one. He was often " hard up ; " 
 yet he always paid his debts of honor 
 punctually ; and men wondered how he 
 got on. It is true he was not extravagant. 
 Barring this disastrous passion, he had no 
 
 expensive vices. He absolutely shunned 
 society ; no arguments availed to induce 
 him to accept any invitation ; and the com- 
 mon report was that he studiously avoi<led 
 women of all sorts. lie used laughingly 
 to say that his violin was liis wife — she 
 would never grow old, nor would she prove 
 untrue to him ; he preferred her to any 
 garrison dame or damsel. He was, in 
 ti'utli, devoteil to his instrument; and, hour 
 after hour, when his brother-officers were 
 " killing time " by flirting with the girls at 
 the ])astry-cook's, he was f;ir away in a 
 world of his own, with Bach and Scarlatti. 
 Never, till darkness came on, did his evil 
 genius take possession of him. 
 
 I had been in the service about three 
 months, when the lieutenant sent to speak 
 to me one morning. His servant, as I knew, 
 had been ordered back to the ranks the 
 previous night for drunkenness ; but I was 
 fiir from being prepared for the offer which 
 was about to be made to me. 
 
 He was playing the violin as I entered. 
 He did not lay it down, but leant against 
 the mantle-piece, and, transferring the in- 
 strument to liis right hau'l, rested it against 
 his thigli as he spoke. The quiet grace and 
 mastery of the attitude Avere in harmony 
 with his manner as he said, — 
 
 " You are a smart, active young fellow — 
 are jou inclined to be my servant ? " 
 
 I was so taken aback, that I stared va- 
 cantly for a moment. At last I blurted 
 out, — 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 Mr. Tufton smiled. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because I don't want to stick in the 
 ranks all my life, sir : I want to rise." 
 
 '• Oh 1 you are ambitious, are you V Well, 
 that is a very good thing ; but your being 
 my servant for a few months shall not 
 stand in the way of your promotion. In 
 March the regiment is under orders for for- 
 eign service and I shall be left at home 
 with the depot. You will certainl\' not be 
 made lance-corporal before then. If you be- 
 have well, and are steady, your having 
 served me shall be no drawback to you." 
 
 " I know nothing of service, sir, and 
 should make a bad servant," said I, color- 
 ing. 
 
 He eyed me curiously. 
 
 " Not worse than another, I suppose. 
 What did you do before }ou enlisted V " 
 
 " N(jthing." 
 
 " But you write a good hand, and have 
 received some education, I should fancy. 
 AVould you like t<j be in the orderly-room ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ! I couldn't bear desk-work : 
 that's why I enlisted." 
 
 " You will have no desk-work as my ser- 
 vant."
 
 28 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " May I tliink over it, sir ? " I said at last. 
 
 " Yes," said the lieutenant, taking tlie 
 violin ap;ain in his left hand, and puttinu; 
 himself into jilavin'^ position ; " but conic 
 back in an lioui-. Smith, and tell me that 
 it's all right. You won't regret your decis- 
 ion." 
 
 I went out on the ramparts, and sat down 
 on a bit of wall overiookiu'^ the sea, and 
 asked myself what I should do ? My pride 
 kicked a;j:ainst becomin<f any man's servant : 
 that was the truth. This was not the dream 
 of olory I had before my eyes when 1 
 enlisted. But had the reality, so fixr, cor- 
 responded to the dream ? And what im- 
 mediate prospect was there of any hard 
 fightinjr, and of my winning my spurs by 
 personal prowess ? 1 had taken part in some 
 hot, dusty, field-days on Southsea Common, 
 it is true ; but the commanding officer had 
 failed to be struck with my claims to dis- 
 tinction on these occasions; except once, 
 indeed, when he hallooed out to Capt. Pat- 
 terson to inquire who " that lubber " was, 
 who was sloj)ing arms whe3i he ought to be 
 carrvinii them ! We were 2;oin2: on foreign 
 service in six months' time ; but there hap- 
 pened to be peace all over the world just 
 then, and I could hardly expect that a lit- 
 tle war would be got up, especially for my 
 own gratification. I must go on with a 
 routine of daily duty, which I began secret- 
 ly to confess to myself was very wearisome, 
 in company with a set of men with whom 1 
 had few, if any, ideas in common ; and, 
 as the lieutenant had pointed out, there 
 could be no change or amelioration in this 
 order of things, for some time to come. 
 On the other hand, if I pocketed my pride, 
 and became Lieut. Tufton's servant, 1 
 should be relieved from a constant compan- 
 ionship which was irksome to me, and at 
 least breathe tlie atmosphere of a gentleman 
 and a man of refinement ; and if he should 
 really interest himself in my advancement, 
 I could not doubt that his good offices 
 would prove very valuable to me. These 
 mixed motives led to my decision. I re- 
 turned within the hour, and told Mr. Tuf- 
 ton that I would be his servant. 
 
 " If you don't keep your master's things 
 no better nor y'r own, you'll make a nice 
 servant ! " said Joe, when he heard of it. 
 
 " I'm going to turn over a new leaf," I 
 said. 
 
 " Um ! The oM un's pretty blotty. I 
 wouldn't take something to wear a pair of 
 boots o' your cleaning." 
 
 " What bothers me," said T, affecting to 
 ignore this last disparaging remark, '-is 
 about getting on. I'm afraid it mayn't be 
 so quick. Can a chaj) have leave to marry 
 when he's a full corporal, Joe ? " 
 
 " Marry ! " said Private Carter, opening 
 his eyes wide, " why, you young jackanapes, 
 what the Dickens do yon mean ? You ain't 
 a-thinking o' marrying ? " 
 
 " Of coiu'se I am. I think every fellow 
 ought to marry, as soon as he can — and 
 it's a beastly shame having rules in the 
 armv to prevent it." 
 
 " Oh ! I'd write to the horse-guards if I 
 was you. Marry, indeed ! I'll tell you 
 what it is. A woman's like a mill-stone 
 hanged round a fellow's neck. He may as 
 well drown hisself at once. The world 'd 
 be a deal liettcr without women at all, that's 
 my belief." 
 
 " And I think life wouldn't be worth hav- 
 ing without them ; and I can tell you, Joe, 
 that I mean to marry as soon as ever " — 
 here I stopped, and turned away, deeming 
 it more prudent not to commit myself 
 further. 
 
 " I'd wait till I was a general, if I was 
 you," cried Joe sarcastically. 
 
 I had no reason to repent of my decision. 
 The advantages which I had looked to in 
 entering ]\Ir. Tufton's service were not illu- 
 sory. ]\Iy duties were light, and I had 
 much more time to myself in which to read 
 and write. Finding that I preferred books 
 to the attractions of the canteen, the 
 lieutenant lent me Napier's '-Peninsular 
 ^Var," " The Life of Wellington," and oth- 
 er books of military life which were new to 
 me. I became every day more attached to 
 him ; and though, as I gradually learnt the 
 passion which was the bane of his life, my 
 respect may have diminished, my interest 
 in him only increased. 
 
 And this, for some unexplained reason, 
 seemed to be reciprocal. He often talked 
 to me, and asked my opinion upon various 
 matters (appearing to be amused by my 
 straightforward answers, and always evin- 
 cing considerable curiosity as to my past 
 lite), in a way very different from that in 
 which the other officers spoke to their ser- 
 va.nts ; but then Arthur Tufton was as 
 unlike his broth er-ofhcers as I was unlike 
 other servants. Whenever I happened to 
 hear any of these gentlemen's conversations, 
 which I often did, I was struck with the 
 contrast. I do not know what the army may 
 be now : at the time I speak of it was not a 
 school of self-culture ; and Tufton was the 
 only man who read any thing beyond a 
 novel, or had atiy aspirations towards the 
 better things whicli were out of reach. 
 
 I am wrong. Mr. Eagles, the adju- 
 tant, believed that he had such aspirations, 
 — nay, more, that he had attainments of 
 a deep and varied kind, whicli he lost no 
 opportunity of airing. The tongue of the 
 ancient Greek or the modern Frank, it 
 was all one to him, and very astounding
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 29 
 
 tliintrs were spoken in tlieii- name. The 
 chronicle of his good sayings in the regi- 
 ment woukl have filled a book ; but while 
 his sallies Avere greeted by derisive shouts 
 from every young ensign, fresh from the 
 schools, Tulton, one of the few men who 
 conld always have set him right, never 
 did more tiian smile good-naturedly, and 
 say, " Bravo ! Bird." 
 
 I remember on one occasion the adju- 
 tant's standing at Tufton's window, which 
 overlooked part of the town, and drawing 
 down the corners of his mouth with a ru- 
 minating air, as he exclaimed, — 
 
 " This always remnds me of a favorite 
 passage in Homer : 01 -KoXkoi, or ' many a 
 well-inhabited city ! ' " 
 
 I was putting away my master's clothes 
 at the moment, and was seized with such 
 an unaccountable fit of laughter that Mr. 
 Tufton, and two officers who were present, 
 though they were laughing themselves, 
 could not fall to observe it. I instantly 
 left the room ; but from the adjoining closet, 
 where I kept ]Mr. Tufton's things, I heard 
 him exclaim, — 
 
 " Really,' Bird, you mustn't indulge in 
 classical quotation before Smith. I sus- 
 pect he knows more Greek than either of 
 us ; and you'll teach him to be disrespect- 
 ful." 
 
 " Greek, indeed ! A Dorsetshire lout 
 like that! You spoil him, Tufton — de- 
 struction of discipline. With one's ser- 
 vant, as — as Shakspeare says, one's com- 
 munications should be 'yea and nay.'" 
 
 "That's in Macbeth, isn't it?" said 
 Tufton demurely. 
 
 " Yes. Don't you know it ? There's 
 nothing like Shakspeare, — so true, you 
 know, — eh? As to that very queer fish 
 you've chosen as a servant, Tufton, I don't 
 like his look ; I didn't from the first, — I 
 told you so. Cheeky — decidedly cheeky, 
 and low — very low — quite one of the 
 canal.''^ 
 
 " That would account for his being a 
 ! " 
 
 a dialect ! Talk of edu- 
 cation, when a man talks like that ! " 
 
 " My dear Bird, he was chaffing you. 
 He can talk better English than most men 
 in the regiment. In short, far from being 
 what you suppose, I believe that he is, — 
 But never mind what my private belief is : 
 he isn't a fool, depend on it, nor a knave 
 either." 
 
 Mr. Eagles received this with an ex- 
 pression of profound pity for his fi-iend's 
 delusion ; but I, while pleased that Mr. 
 Tufton should " stick up " for me, was by 
 no means so well satisfied to perceive that 
 he had some suspicion of my real condi- 
 tion. After that I made no more displays 
 
 queer fish 
 "Gad! what 
 
 of my slender erudition when he addressed 
 me. 
 
 An instance of his kindness, which tend- 
 ed to endear the lieutenant to me, may 
 here be cited. 
 
 Not many weeks after I had become his 
 servant, I caught a feverish attack, which 
 sent me to the hospital. Our Scotch sur- 
 geon, who examined me, said there was 
 '• no tellin' rightly hoo it might turn out 
 with the lad. Aiblins it might be putrid 
 fever; for, ye see," — turning to Tufton, 
 who stood by, — " whan the wind's i' 
 the east, as it's bin this week past, the 
 offal from the butcher's shop is eneugh to 
 breed any pestilence. Ha' ye any disa- 
 greeable sensation, my mon, just i' the 
 peet of your stomach ? " 
 
 I couldn't say that I hail. 
 
 " Any teengling of the ears, or deezzi- 
 ness of sight ? " 
 
 No, I had nothing of the sort. 
 
 " Umph ! But ye have a (jueer sensa- 
 tion running all down y'r leembs to y'r 
 toes, may be ? " 
 
 Still I could not confess to the desired 
 sensations. The surgeon stai'ud at me, 
 and whistled softly. He was accustomed 
 to find raw recruits who felt as they were 
 directed. He did not well know what to 
 make of me. I told hiui I had a sore 
 throat, and headache, and felt hot and 
 thirsty, — nothing more. 
 
 " Bad seemptoms," said the surgeon, 
 shaking his head at Tufton. " Ye'd better 
 keep clear o' the lad for a bit ; m;iybe 
 tliere's infection. Best be on the safe side, 
 eh?" Then to me, " Weel, my lad, J'll 
 give ye something that'll soon set ye to 
 rights ; but ye'U have to bide here for a 
 few days." 
 
 The " something," which was powerful, 
 dark, and indescribably nast}', — a com- 
 pound of sweet and salt, hot and bitter, — • 
 did not work so rapid a cure as I could 
 have wished. I lay there for several days, 
 really ill, and with " seemptoms " which 
 evidently caused both surgeons some anx- 
 iety as to whether thej' might not be pre- 
 monitory of an infectious fever. But the 
 lieutenant, through it all, visited me daily, 
 undeterred by warnings of tin; risk he ran. 
 He brought me books and jiapei-s ; and the 
 interest be took in my recovery had its re- 
 ward in my gratitude. 
 
 I had now been nearly five months in 
 the regiment, and 1 ha^l not written to 
 Evy. This was by far (he sorest trial I 
 had to bear, for of course I could hear 
 nothing of her unless I wrote. But I had 
 the resolution to resist writing, for two rea- 
 sons. If I iutrustcul her with my secret, 
 the keeping it would render her miserable, 
 and entail endless duplicity with her moth-
 
 30 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 cr; and then there was the p;reat risk that 
 Mrs. llamk'i'jh minht open the letter, or that 
 the postmark woukl betray iiio. I would 
 fain liave coinniunieated with my best 
 friend, Francis ; but he had probably left 
 Beaunianoir, and my letter nii'jjht fall into 
 other ban Is ; or, if still an inmate there, 
 niiiiht he not look upon it as his duty to 
 reveal what I confided to him '! It was 
 noiv near Christmas. In JNIareh the re2;i- 
 meat wouM sail tor India. On the eve of 
 embarkation 1 would write to both Francis 
 and Evy, but not till then. 
 
 I still iiululired in visions of a splendi<l 
 future, ibr which I should be behooven to 
 none but myself; but a little — just a little 
 — of the oildins had begun to be rubbed 
 off. It is the blessed property of youth, 
 however, to be dauntless and buoyant. 
 Hope is his dominion ; the sceptre falls 
 from his hand too soon, but as long as that 
 hand is powerful to grasp it, his kingdom 
 is a golden one, his power omnipotent. 
 
 The bitterness of my feeling against my 
 mother and brotlier continued unabated. 
 When I thought of that nefarious transac- 
 tion to which I had been witness, my blood 
 boiled again. I could make no allowances 
 for my mother; and as to llaymond, I held 
 him as equally implicated, and responsible 
 for my mother's deed, which was manifest- 
 ly unjust. I felt I would rather be the 
 lowest of the privates around me than my 
 brother, with his stolen wealth ; and in 
 my veiy darkest hours, when the prospect 
 of becoming (leld-marshal appeared some- 
 what remote, and the company of my asso- 
 ciates unusuallv irksome, I never once 
 ■wished mvself back at Beaumanoir, never 
 once regretted that I had cut myself adrift 
 from my kith and kin. 
 
 It may be as well to state here, as it will 
 simplify my narrative, what I subsequently 
 learnt of the steps that had been taken to 
 trace me, and how it came about that tlie\' 
 liad hitherto failed. Portsmouth, bein.^ so 
 near us, would have been one of the first 
 places the detectives would have searched, 
 had it not been that my mother and every 
 one else was convinced that I was on the 
 other side of the Atlantic. It so happened 
 that a few days before I ran away I had 
 been reading a book upon California, and 
 had openly expressed a great desire to go 
 there, declaring that the adventurous lifti 
 at the gold-diggings was just what I should 
 like. It was disco\ered that I had taken 
 a railway-ticket to Southampton ; and, by a 
 curious coincidence, a large steamer, over- 
 crowded with passengers of all classes, 
 sailed from the docks, early the following 
 morning, for San Francisco. On inquiry, 
 it was stated that a young man answering 
 to my description (descriptions always do 
 
 answer in such cases) had gone on board 
 at the very last moment, without other 
 luggage than a small bundle, and had en- 
 tered himself in the books as a steerage- 
 passenger. Of' course, after that, no doubt 
 any longer existed as to my destination, 
 and all further inquiry in England was 
 deemed useless. Even Mr. Francis seems 
 to have accepted the hypothesis as proved ; 
 and the fact is, that, had I known of the 
 steamer, it is probable I might have fol- 
 ic wed this very course. As it was, they 
 telegraphed to meet the steamer on its ar- 
 rival ; but natui'ally there was an interval 
 of nearly two months before the answer 
 arrived, declaring the non-identitv of the 
 unknown passenger with Osmund Penrud- 
 docke. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 There was a Jev/ who used to frequent 
 the officers' quarters with jewellery. I hated 
 this fellow. He was always hanging about, 
 bland, obsequious, and per.sistent in press- 
 ing his paste and pinchbeck upon the 
 youngsters who were green enough to be 
 " done," and who, when their purses were 
 em[)ty, in some cases sold themselves to 
 this devil in promissory notes. On Mr. 
 Tuftou's staircase, and just opposite his 
 room, lived one of these vain and silly young 
 gentleman, whose powers of resistance were 
 feeble when pearl studs and turquoise pins 
 were set before him, and who, consequently, 
 was an easy prey to Mr. Josephs. Until 
 this ensign was sucked dry, I saw that the 
 Jew would never leave him quiet. He 
 tried several times to get into ^Ir. Tufton's 
 room, but met with a stout and uncivil re- 
 sistance from me, and when, during my 
 absence, he did effect an entry, with but 
 small encouragement from my master. 
 His long yellow fice, however, with its 
 unwholesome teeth and slobbery under-lip, 
 still disfigured the doorway, the staircase, 
 or the landing, almost daily. It would 
 have interfered with the liberty of the sub- 
 j est to have expelled him from barracks, 
 unless the feeling against him had been 
 unanimous ; but I often wondered that the 
 colonel did not do so. 
 
 I have spoken of a watch, as being the 
 only thing of value I had brought away 
 with me from Beaumanoir, because it had 
 been my father's, and he had left it to me. 
 No one knew of its existence, so far as I 
 was aware, but Joe Carter. I wore the 
 chain around my neck, but under my shirt, 
 so that it could not possibly be seen. The 
 only occasions on which I took it off were 
 when we wen!; to bathing parade. As our
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 31 
 
 clothes were tlien left on the beach, it was 
 safer — at least, I thony;ht so — inside an 
 old chest, which Mr. Tut'ton gave me for 
 my brushes and cleaning things, and which 
 I ke])t in the closet adjoining his room. 
 This closet had a separate door upon the 
 staircase. 
 
 One day, upon opening this chest (which 
 had no lock) on my return from bathing 
 parade, I fuund the walcli gone. I had 
 the key of the outer door in my pocket ; 
 and Mr. Tufton was in his room, scraping 
 away at his violin like mad. I ran in to 
 him, with my face all a-fiame. 
 
 " Sir ! " 1 cried out, " they have taken 
 my watch ! " 
 
 " What do you mean. Smith ? " He re- 
 mainnd with his bow suspended. 
 
 " That my watch, which I left in the 
 chest there, has been stolen since I was out. 
 Have you left your room, sir ? " 
 
 " No — yes, by the by, I went over to the 
 band-master's for five minutes to get a 
 piece of music, and I remember leaving my 
 door unlocked ; but no one can have come 
 in here. You surely are mistaken as to 
 having left your watch there V " 
 
 " I am not mistaken, sir. I put the 
 watch inside the chest an hour ago, — the 
 last thing before I went on jiarade." 
 
 He smiled incrcduously. 
 
 " Who do you think would come into my 
 room, and take your watch ? All my studs 
 and pins are on the table, and untouched, 
 you see.'' 
 
 He spoke vovy kindl^y as he always did ; 
 but I saw that he thought, fi'om my excited 
 manner, that 1 was either drunk or under 
 some delusion. It tended in some meas- 
 ure to calm me. I remained, silent for a 
 moment, then said, — 
 
 '• You may believe me, or not. sir ; but 
 what I say is true. My watch, which I val- 
 ued more than any thing in the woi'ld, is 
 gone." 
 
 " Who knew of your having a watch ? 
 I never saw you with it." 
 
 " I wore it under my shirt. It never left 
 me except when I went to bathe. Some 
 fellow mcnj have seen it ; but I was always 
 careful to hide it." 
 
 " Well, this concerns me as much as you, 
 Smith ; and I will see that immediate 
 steps " — 
 
 He seized his forage-cap, and was leav- 
 ing the room, when I called out, — 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, but would you 
 mind asking Mr. llaikes" (that was the 
 name of the ensign who lived op])ositt!), 
 "if Mr. Josephs has been with hiai this 
 morning ? I oughtn't to suspect him, or 
 any one, I supjwjse, without some reason ; 
 but I can't help it." 
 
 " By Jove I I remember now meeting 
 
 the fellow as I was crossing the square to 
 the l)andmaster's. But ?vlr. Raikes is gone 
 to Ryde for tlie day, 1 know : he couldn't 
 have been with him." 
 
 " But he may have tried to find him, sir ; 
 and having seen you out, and knowing that 
 tre were all out, he may have Avalked in 
 here. He wouldn't touch your things, but 
 he'd take mine; and I remember now 
 that the door was ajar one day. when I was 
 winding my watch, and I saw him look in." 
 
 " Go at once to the guard-house, and 
 see if he has passed out oithc barracks." 
 
 I went, and as good — or ill — luck 
 would have it, within twenty yards of the 
 guard-room I came upon the scoundrel 
 himself, skulking along as fast as his fiat 
 feet would shuffle, with his inicjuitous black 
 pack slung over his shoulder. He had 
 been waylaid, as I afterwards learnt, by a 
 party of subalterns, who detained him 
 sorely against Mr. Josephs's inclination 
 no doubt, while they turned over his wares. 
 
 The fellow grew livid, as he saw me 
 runnins: towards him. Of course I ought 
 to have told him of my loss, and to have 
 politely requested him to submit to being 
 searched ; but my blood was u|), and I was 
 in no humor to teni[)orize. I seized him 
 as a terrier does a rat, by the throat, and. 
 shook him. 
 
 " So, you infernal rascal, you thought 
 you would get oil" with my watch, did 
 you ? " 
 
 " Help ! — y — help ! " bellowed the 
 choking Josephs. 
 
 With a sudden movement of my knee, 
 I doubled him back, and brought him flat 
 on the gravel. The sergeant, followed by 
 two or three of the guard, ran out. 
 
 " Ilalloo ! what the devil are you about 
 there. Smith V " 
 
 " The Jew has stolen my watch, that's 
 all." 
 
 "It'sh not true, Mr. Sergeant. Take 
 him of!" me, take him of! me 1 I defy him 
 to prove it ! " 
 
 Hereupon Mr. Eagles, who happened to 
 be in the barrack-yard, came up, and at 
 once placed me under arrest for assaulting 
 a civilian. 
 
 " Stole your watch? How do you know 
 he stole your watch, sir V Did you see 
 him V " 
 
 I was constrained to say that I did not, 
 but that I believed firmly my watch was 
 in his possession. 
 
 " Believe, sir 1 — believe ! — what is 
 believing? Is that a reason for assaulting 
 a noxious man" (he meant innocuous, I 
 suppose ; but the epithet was happily 
 chosen) " in this disgraceful way ? " 
 
 I reallv doubt whether Josc[)hs would 
 have been subjected to any search at all,
 
 32 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 but for the intervention of my master, wlio 
 appeared in the guard-room at this nio- 
 nu'nt. At his earnest representation, a 
 poUceman was sent for; but before his ar- 
 rival, Mr. Josephs, with an audacity which 
 completely dumbtbunded me, otiered to 
 empty his jiockets, to unroll his shining; 
 pack of jewelry, to be stripped to the skin 
 if the.'- gentlemensh " thought fit. 
 
 " It will not be the first time, Josephs," 
 said a young ensign present. " Do yon 
 remen»l)i'r how they tarred and feathei'ed 
 you at NV^eedon, for cheating V " 
 
 "It ish fabh, Mr. Clark. I give you 
 my word, sir " — 
 
 '• Yoiu" word ! Come, turn out your 
 pockets," cried a chorus of Mr. Josephs's 
 patrons, who now, in his hour of trial, 
 seemed but too well disposed to abandon 
 him. 
 
 The very first thing he produced from 
 Lis waistcoat pocket was my watch. 
 
 "That's it!" I shouted. "Give it to 
 
 nie 
 
 7" 
 
 " Stop a bit," said jNIr. Eagles, with a 
 judicial air, drawing down the corners of 
 his mouth more than ever. '' Describe it 
 first ; and let us hear what you have got to 
 say, Mr. Josephs. Did you appropriate 
 this private's watch, or did you not ? 
 And if so, is this the watch ? That is the 
 legal question." 
 
 *• This, his watch ! Holy ]\Ioshesh ! 
 Why, I liad it from the maker, and paid 
 for it my own shelf Let him mark down 
 tlie maker's name, and the number of the 
 watch, Mishter English. Ila ? Let him 
 do it, if ho can ! Let him shay how many 
 diamonds there are in it. Ha? Why, 
 gentlemensh, ish it likely that a private 
 could have such a watch ash thish ? It 
 cosht me, in the trade, gentlemensh, thirty- 
 five pounds of my own money. Mishter 
 Tufton, you are an honorable gentlemans, 
 though you are not a friend of mine." 
 
 '• I shouldn't be an honorable gentleman 
 if I w«re," observed mv lieutenant quiet- 
 
 '•' You are againsht me, sliir, T well know 
 that ; but let me ashk you one question. 
 Have you ever seen thish watch in your 
 servant 'sh possession ? Can you shwear 
 to it? Ila? Wlio liash ever sheen it? 
 Who can shwear to it ? Ha ? Let me 
 describe it, and let him describe it. It ish 
 for him to prove that it ish his, I think in 
 law. — ha ? " 
 
 I was paralyzed* The man, who was an 
 adept in rascality, had ascertained and 
 foi-eseen some tilings, and, nicely balan- 
 cing the probabilities, had boldly hazarded 
 others, in laying his plans. What he had 
 ascertained was, that no servant, and, as 
 far as he could tell, no one in the regiment, 
 
 had ever had the watch in his hand. 
 What he had foreseen was, that, even if he 
 had been misinformed, no one but myself 
 was likely to be able to swear to its iden- 
 tity ; and, as regarded myself, in what he 
 had hazarded, the event proved his justifi- 
 cation. I knew no more the number of 
 the watch than I did the number of thefts 
 this rascal had committed ; and as to the 
 diamonds it contained, I was equally igno- 
 rant : for having no mechanical turn, I had 
 never pulled the works about, as many 
 boys would. I stood there silent, with 
 crimson face and clinched hands, wishing 
 that the days of ordeal by single combat, 
 were not over, that I might prove the jus- 
 tice of my cause upon Mr. Josephs's head. 
 " Come, Smith," crowed fortii our galli- 
 nacious adjutant, with all the truculent 
 air of a lord of the dunghill, " what have 
 you got to say to tliat^ sir, eh? And stand 
 at attention, sir ; don't fidget about like 
 that ! Come, sir, of course, if the watch 
 is yours, you know the number ? " 
 
 '' I'll be blessed if I know the number 
 of mine," muttered Ensign Clark. 
 
 " I don't know the number, sir, nor how 
 many diamonds it has. I think the maker 
 is Dent, and I can describe a particular 
 mark on the watch." 
 
 '■ He thinlcsh, gentlemensh 1 It ish a 
 good shot ! Dent ish the firsht maker, 
 therefore he gueshes Dent." 
 
 " Silence ! Mr. Josephs. The maker is 
 Dent. So far, so good. Now, Smith, de- 
 scribe the particular mark on the watch I 
 hold in my hand. And you, Mr. Josephs, 
 write down the number, on this bit of 
 paper." 
 
 " Will you be good enough, first to ask 
 him, sir," said I, after a moment's pause, 
 and striving very hard to speak calmly, 
 " whether there is a scratch of any kind 
 upon the inner case, — near the kev- 
 hole?" 
 
 Mr. Josephs eyed me keenly. 
 " Ah ! Thish fellow wash at my shoul- 
 der yesterday when I set my watch by the 
 barrack-clock, — I remember — and he 
 musht 'ave seen the scratch, gentlemensh, 
 — a scratch made by the ^key slipping 
 from the hole." 
 
 " And I say there is no such scratch, sir. 
 I polished the inner case yesterday," I cried 
 triumphantly. 
 
 " Bravo, Smith 1 " murmured Mr. Tuf- 
 ton, when tlie examination of the watch 
 had proved the correctness of my assertion. 
 But Mr. Josephs, though caught in the 
 net which I had laid for him, was in no 
 wise daunted. 
 
 " Gentlemensh, thish ish childsh play. 
 I took the scratches out myself, I remem- 
 ber. But what'sh that, gentlemensh ?
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 33 
 
 Let him sliny 'ow he come by shuch a 
 watch. If it wash hish, 'e could prove that 
 he come by it honestly, I suppose. Ila V " 
 
 The fact is, I have no doubt Mr. Joseph 
 thought I had stolen the watch myself, and 
 consc(iu('ntly counted upon my silence, or 
 my confusion, in any such contingency as 
 had now arisen. And it would seem as if 
 he had not altoojetlier miscalculated. 
 
 " Well, now,' Smith," said Mr. Eagles, 
 with his severest inflection. '• what have 
 you got to say to that ? Stand at attention, 
 sir, and don't ])revaricate with your feet in 
 that way. If this watch is yours, how did 
 it come into your possession. And remem- 
 ber, now, what you say I shall take down, 
 so mind you stick to the same story." 
 
 " I'm not in the habit of telling lies, sir," 
 I replied, firing up, " but I decline answer- 
 ing that question. The watcli is mise, and 
 I don't see that it's anybody's business how 
 I came by it." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir ! I have a great 
 mind to put you under arrest for insolence. 
 By-the-by, }'ou are under arrest I I forgot. 
 Jove ! a ])retty pass things are come to 
 when a private dares to talk in this way ! " 
 
 "I didn't mean to be disrespectful, sir. 
 How I came by the watch is just this, it 
 was left me by — some one who is dead." 
 
 " Write that down," said the adjutant, 
 swooping, in an aquiline manner, with the 
 forefinger of his right claw upon an order- 
 ly-room clerk. 
 
 " A very likely shtory ! " grinned Mr. 
 Josephs. 
 
 And hereupon a strange thing came to 
 pass. 
 
 The door of the guard-room had been 
 blocked by a crowd of my brother-soldiers, 
 curious to learn the particulars of " the row 
 between gen'leman Smith and that 'ere 
 Jew." And at this juncture I heard a 
 sharp voice at my elbow exclaim, — 
 
 " I'll take my Davy the watch is 
 Smith's." 
 
 The adjutant turned fiercely round. 
 
 " Who spoke ? Private Joseph Carter, 
 what do you know about this case ? You 
 say it's Smith's, do you ? Are you ready 
 to swear, sir ? Your ' Davy ' is nothing. 
 Damme, sir, do you know the nature of an 
 oath ? " 
 
 " They hain't all of a kind, sir. You 
 just said un," returned Joe, with the ut- 
 most gravity, saluting as he spoke. " Smith 
 is my pal, and I know his watch, — that is 
 all." 
 
 " How do you know it ? Come, let us 
 hear how you know it." (A terrible 
 frown, and the corners of the mouth well 
 down.) 
 
 " I see it in his hand a few days after he 
 'listed. I took partic'lar notice, 'cause I 
 3 
 
 thought it queer as a young cliap should 
 have such a watch, — there ain't another 
 like it in the regiment ; and I says to him, 
 says I, ' That's a pretty ticker o' yours.' 
 'Yes,' says he, *it was giv' me by my 
 grandmother, as is dead and gone.' ' Poor 
 old 'oman,' says I; 'well, I'd be speery 
 about it, if I was you, for there's a sight o' 
 bad characters about.' After that he kep' 
 it mostly out o' sight ; but I'll swear to him." 
 
 " Don't believe him, gentlenu'nsh ! They 
 are in league together ! " bellowed Mr. 
 Josephs. " He Is lying, — he is lying ! " 
 
 '• I'll punch your " — I spare the reader 
 the expletive — " liead, if you say that 
 again^" observed Private Carter, looking 
 uncommonly as if he was in earnest. 
 
 " Silence, sir ! The case is a mysteri- 
 ous one," added Mr. Eagles, biting the end 
 of his pen, with his head on one side, and 
 a sapient lack-lustre stare of his round 
 eye, reminding one of a meditative parrot. 
 " I repeat, the case is a mysterious one." 
 
 " Not the least to me," said my lieu- 
 tenant promptly. " A witness has come 
 forward for Smith. As the theft was com- 
 mitted in my room, I shall take the case 
 now into my own hand, and prosecute Mr. 
 Josephs myself" 
 
 " Prosecute Mr. Josephs yourself? " 
 
 "Yes. He shall have an opportunity of 
 proving his right to the watch in a court of 
 law. Let him produce his witness. If he 
 bought it of Dent, there can't be any diffi- 
 culty in proving it. Here's a policeman. 
 I give this man in charge for stealing my 
 servant's watch, and run the risk of an ac- 
 tion for false imprisonment if it turns out I 
 am wrong." 
 
 And in spite of Mr. Josephs's turbulent 
 remonstrances, alternately threatening and 
 appealing against the cruel injustice that 
 was being done to him, he was marched 
 off, and, much to my chagrin, my watch 
 also, to await, in the safe keej)ing of the 
 law, the final decision of the case. 
 
 " And now, Eagles," said Mr. Tufton, 
 " I hope you will oblige me by releasing 
 Smith. He was very wrong, as I am sure 
 he feels, in assaulting that Jew ; but if it 
 should prove, as I have very little doubt, 
 that the watch is Smith's, you will ac- 
 knowledge that the provocation was strong. 
 Smith, tell the adjutant you are sorry for 
 having attacked the Jew as you did." 
 
 I couldn't have said it if my life had de- 
 pended on it ; but I managed, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, to get out, — 
 
 " I know it was very wrong, sir, but I 
 couldn't help it." 
 
 " Couldn't help it, sir I Don't talk to 
 me of ' couldn't help it ! ' Soldiers must 
 learn to help doing wrong, — or they must 
 be taught, sir, — must be taught."
 
 34 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 At this moment a rescmbl:ince to Miner- 
 va's favorite bird si'cincd to |)repon<lerate 
 in the adjutant's jjhysio^noniy, — so wise, 
 so virtuous, and so vacant ; witli a certain 
 rullled look, which it needed all TuCton's 
 tact and p;entleness to smooth. 
 
 Five minutes later I was released, and 
 followed my master to his room. 
 
 " Shut the door," he said at once, " and 
 listen to what I have to say. This matter 
 can be settled at once if you will trust me : 
 if not, it is possible, that, by some device 
 of that Jew's, you may, after all, lose your 
 watch. I am sure you came honestly by 
 it. Tell me the person's name who, you 
 say, left it you, and I will write by this 
 post to Dent, and see if his books can 
 prove it's being sold to that person." 
 
 " I wilh trust you, sir," I said, without 
 hesitation; "but I would rather lose the 
 watch than that the name should 2;et into the 
 police reports, — be made generally known. 
 The watch was bought by the late Mr. 
 Penruddocke of Beaumanoir, Dorset, who 
 left it to me." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The lieutenant said nothing, but stared 
 at me for a minute or two from head to 
 foot ; then walked to the table, and took 
 up a newspaper. As I thought that he 
 had had enough of the subject, and was 
 minded that I should not continue it, I 
 busied myself in laying out his clothes for 
 mess ; and then I took his sword and ac- 
 coutrements into the adjoining closet to 
 clean. He left the room quickly, but in 
 about twenty minutes' time returned, and 
 called to me. " Read that," he said ; and, 
 doubling down the advertisement sheet of 
 " The Times," he pointed to a paragraph 
 in the second column. It ran as follows : — 
 
 " One hundred pounds reward. Missing 
 since the 29th of August, a young gentle- 
 man, aged eighteen ; about five feet eleven 
 inches in height ; with rather light brown 
 hair, blue eyes, and a sunburnt complexion. 
 
 Was last seen at the R Station, Dorset, 
 
 on the night of the 29th of August. Is 
 supposed to have emigrated, or to have 
 taken a passage on board a merchantman 
 from Southampton, about the 30th of 
 August. Was dressed in a dark-gray slioot- 
 ing suit and ' wide-awake ' hat. His linen 
 was marked with the name of Penruddocke. 
 Had a few pounds in his pocket, and a 
 gold watch, maker's name. Dent. Any per- 
 son giving such information to Messrs. 
 Canker and Slay, Fetter Lane, as shall 
 lead to the discovery of the missing gentle- 
 man, will receive the above reward." 
 
 I read it to the end, looked up, and met 
 the lieutenant's eyes fixeil on me. 
 
 " Yon- won't split, sir! " I murmured. 
 
 " It is not a question of my splitting. 
 Smith. This advertisement has been in 
 the paper every day for the last three 
 weeks : I wonder the description did not 
 strike me before. It will now be sure to 
 strike some one else. ' Gentleman Smith' 
 and his gold watch are at this moment the 
 general topic in every barrack-room, and at 
 the sergeants', mess, where they read ' The 
 Times ' regularly. Some one sees this, 
 and remembers that )'ou enlisted about the 
 day named ; you answer to the description 
 given ; and you have a gold watch. 1 sup- 
 pose you cut the name out of your shirt : 
 it is true that the name of Penruddocke 
 was what revealed your secret to me; but, 
 even without this, it does not require much 
 acuteness to put the two and two together 
 necessary to identity you ; and the reward 
 offered will sharpen some one's wits, you 
 may be sure. Now, what are you going to 
 do V I must inform the colonel, who is 
 now in London. Shall I ask liim to com- 
 municate with your friends ? I know 
 nothing, of course, of your reasons for 
 leaving home ; but youngsters often get 
 into scrapes which they think irredeemable 
 at the time, and " — 
 
 " I got into no scrape, Mr. Tufton ; and 
 my reasons for leaving home and enlisting 
 are as strong now as on the night I ran 
 away. I can't explain them ; but I won't 
 go back. No one shall make me. I want 
 to be independent. They can't drive me 
 from the regiment, Mr. Tufton, can they V " 
 
 "N — no — not exactly; but if this 
 comes to be a matter of common gossip, 
 your position here will be very disagree- 
 able. Can't you come to some compromise 
 with your friends ? Get them to send you 
 out to India." 
 
 " I don't want them to do any thing for 
 me," I said doggedly. '' I won't take any 
 of their money. I will make my own 
 fortune, and a name for myself, or I will 
 die in the attempt ! " 
 
 " That sounds verv fine and hei'oic, mv 
 good fellow ; but there are plenty of other 
 young soldiers just as ambitious as jou, 
 who have been gnawing their hearts out in 
 the army for years past. In peace-time, 
 how are you to make yourself a name ? If 
 you are a model of all the military virtues, 
 it is possible that in five-and-twenty years' 
 time you may have a commission given you ; 
 and then you will be just at the point 
 from which you minrht be startinsc now if 
 you chose. This is a lamentable mistake 
 of yours, depend on it. You are born a 
 gentleman ; and you have no right to throw 
 away that advantage, without a fair pros-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 35 
 
 pect of doing as well for yourself by going 
 to the very bottom of the ladder. You 
 quarrelled with some of your people V Well, 
 what does that signify? I^et us imagine 
 that you are all in the light, and they all 
 in the wrong (which very seldom happens). 
 You are not vindietive, 1 am sure ; your 
 friends are evidently most anxious about 
 you; and if, as is now certain, they trace 
 you, how much better it will be to allow 
 them to purchase you a commission than 
 to resist all their efforts at a reconciliation,* 
 and go on, as a private, leading a life which 
 must be galling to any one accustomed to 
 associate with gentlemen." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for all you 
 have said, Mr. Tufton ; but it doesn't 
 change me a bit. I can't argue the matter, 
 without telling things which it isiuipossible 
 I should name. No one but myself knows 
 my reason for leaving home. I had no 
 quarrel, I was not badly treated by any 
 one. I went simply because it was impos- 
 sible I should stay ; and the same reason 
 will prevent my ever returning. And now, 
 Mr. Tufton, you must do wiiat you think 
 best. I suppose, from what you say, there 
 is no doubt they will find me out ; and I 
 shall give them the same answer I give you. 
 I should avoid all communication with my 
 family if I could. If it is fbtced on me, 
 they shall find that what I have done I 
 mean to stick to." 
 
 I said this with a decision which I hoped 
 would carry conviction to the lieutenant's 
 mind. I was afraid he would look on me 
 as a silly boy, who, having committed a 
 masquerading folly, as a piece of bombast, 
 would seize, or at least be talked into ac- 
 cepting, the first opportunity that arose of 
 recovering his lost position. AVhetlierany 
 such idea, in a mitigated form, did yet 
 linf^er in his mind, 1 know not. He merely 
 said he thought it would be his duty to 
 write to tiie colonel; and then added, — 
 
 " Of course. Penruddocke, I cannot let 
 j'ou go on acting as my servant ; unless, 
 indeed, for the ne.xt day or two, you should 
 j)refer being away from }our company's 
 barrack-! oom as nuich as possible." 
 
 I told him that I did prefer it ; and thus 
 the matter rested. 1 went to the barrack- 
 room straightway, nevertheless, to thank 
 my friend, Joe Carter, for coming to my 
 aid. 
 
 " But you shouldn't have said that about 
 my grandmother, Joe, because you know it 
 wasn't true," 1 added. 
 
 " If I've no liitrger score than tliat to tot 
 up on the bhickboard by and by, I reckon 
 I can square it," he resyjonded. 
 
 Although fully jirepared for the struggle 
 which must follow my discovery, — a strug- 
 gle of which I never, for a moment, ques- 
 
 tioned the issue, — I was ill at ease all day. 
 What steps would my mother take ? Would 
 she come here, and make " a scene " ? No, 
 that was unlike her. She would send emis- 
 saries to treat with me ; slie would write 
 and remonstrate; but would she demand 
 the reason of my flight V I felt ])rctty sure 
 not. I felt pretty sure that she must guess 
 the cause, following immediately as it did 
 that disrrraceful event whi'-h nothino- now 
 could ever undo, even supposing that 
 Raymond had remained sili'nt as to my ur- 
 gent remonstrance (which T thought more 
 than probable^. But supposing she did de- 
 mand my reason, what then V Was I to 
 tax her directly with her crime? Call it; 
 moral cowardice, or by what name you will, 
 I shrank from this. I had been brought 
 up to revere her; and I felt that I could 
 not bring myself to drag down the image 
 from its shrine, and bespatter it with mud. 
 I coidd not trust myself to speak to her on 
 this sul))ert ; for, if I did so, words must be 
 spoken which it were better that no child 
 should use towards a parent. 
 
 I thought much of my father that day, — 
 of how he had worshipped her, and of 
 those last words to me, whereby he had 
 commended her to my especial care, seeing 
 that Ray had so little of the quality that 
 makes a man helpful in great straits. And 
 there, in the niche where mv father and the 
 common consent of the world had placed 
 her, she had remained all these years, too 
 far removed from our common joys and 
 troubles, perhaps, to feel mucli sympathy 
 with us, but all the more looked up to as 
 the incarnation of jniriry on earth. Alas I 
 and it was come to this ! 
 
 " W^ell," I said to myself, after arguing 
 the question of what line of conduct I must 
 now adopt, " it may be wrong ; but as all 
 remonstrance with my mother would be 
 worse than useless, and as I never could 
 denounce her, I must remain silent. I will 
 never have part or parcel in the; inheritance 
 so unrighteously obtained. No power on 
 earth shall make me return to my old home ; 
 but, for the rest, I must leave it in God's 
 hands to redress this wi'ong by some other 
 instrument than me." 
 
 In this frame of mind I passed a sleepless 
 night. The next morning Mr. Joseplis — 
 of whom I need say little more, lor I soon ~ 
 forgot him and the affair of the watcii alto- 
 gether — was brought up before a magis- 
 trate ; and my deposition, with Joe Carter's, 
 having been taken, the Jew was committed 
 to ])rison, to await his trial at the next 
 assizes. 
 
 I was in the lieutenant's room that night, 
 putting away liis things after he had gone 
 to mess, when I heard a heavy step ascend 
 the stairs, and then followed the resonant
 
 36 
 
 PEXRUDDOCKE. 
 
 knock of an umLi-k'Ha-liiindlo on the door. 
 I opened it ; and a tall figure in an Inver- 
 ness cape stood beibre nie. 
 
 " Is tliis ]Mr. Tnfton's cpiarter ? God bless 
 my sonl I Why, Osmnml 1 " 
 
 It was my uncle, Levison Rich. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The first thins; he did was to burst into 
 an uncontrollabie fit of lan<j,liter. I felt 
 rather nettled, and was not soothed by 
 observing; that it was the spectacle of me — 
 a Penrnddocke, and his nephew — in un- 
 dress livery, which thus tickled my uncle's 
 lancy. 
 
 " Gad ! I didn't expect this ! This is 
 the finest sii^ht I ever saw ! Jove ! what 
 would 3-onr mother say — eh ? ^ — if she saw 
 youV 'Pon my soul, this is the best joke ! 
 So you've taken to the plush, Osmund, my 
 boy ? Well, when they wrote to me that 
 you had enlisted, I expected to find you 
 shuulderin'4 'brown Bess,' but I did not ex- 
 pect to find you acting as ' Jeames ' ! 
 Seriously, what can have induced you, my 
 dear boy, to make such a young ass ot 
 yonrseltV" 
 
 '• I am not going to give my reasons to 
 any one for doing what I have done, Uncle 
 Levison. Of course you, and every one 
 else, will think me a fool. I can't help that 
 You will find I am nut to be laughed out of 
 it." 
 
 " Well, let us sit down (I suppose you 
 ma>j sit down in your master's room, eh, 
 Osmund ?), and talk over this. It is a 
 deuced cold night, and they don't give one 
 any foot-warmers on this line. Can you 
 get me a glass of sherry and a biscuit ? " 
 
 While I ran into the mess-house next 
 door, my uncle took otF his '• Inverness,'" 
 drew an arm-chair near the fire, and pro- 
 ceeded, upon his usual principle, to make 
 himself as comfortable as circumstances 
 would permit. He was in no way moved, 
 or disconcerted, or perplexed, at finding his 
 nephew lar from penitent or abashed and at 
 the jjrospect of a stout resistance to his 
 overtures, for which my reception liad pre- 
 2)ared him. 
 
 " W^ell, now, my boy," he said, after toss- 
 ing off half a tumbler of sherry, and as he 
 wri'_<-Ldcd some inches farther into the soft 
 cushion of the arm-chair, " tell me all about 
 it. How came you to take this extraordi- 
 nary fancy of running away from home? 
 What the deuce was it all about ? Xo hu- 
 man being knows." 
 
 " I never meant them to know." 
 
 '' Well, but come, you'll tell me ? You 
 /icrf a reason, of course. We always used 
 
 to be very good friends, you know, Osmund* 
 Any row with your mother — eh V " 
 
 '• No, I had no row." Then, afrer a 
 moment's pause, '• I could not be happy at 
 home any longer. Ray ami I were always 
 different ; he suited my mother, and I suited 
 iu}- father. After his death, no one wanted 
 me any more." 
 
 My uncle lit his cigar at the candle be- 
 fore he replied. 
 
 " That is sentimental rubbish. ' Suiting ! ' 
 what the deuce does it signify whether 
 you and Ray suit? You can live in the 
 same house together, I suppose ? And as 
 to no one wanting you, your mother wants 
 you, of course, or she would not have sent 
 half I'ound the world after you, and adver- 
 tised and offered rewards for news of you 
 for the last five months. It is such deuced 
 bad taste, my dear boy, making an esclandre 
 of this kintl, and all for nothing ! God knows 
 what people have not been imagining — 
 every kind of absurdity — to account for 
 your disappearance : you were in love 
 with that child, Evelyn Hamleigh, and 
 your mother has separated you ; you had 
 di.-covered a flirtation between your moth- 
 er and Francis (just conceive such a 
 thing !), and had had a violent scene wi h 
 her al)out him 1 There's no limit to ])eople's 
 inventive powers in such a case. The only 
 thing now is tor you to return home, and let 
 the thing be regarded as a boyisli freak, and 
 forgotten if possible; thou;;h that is easier 
 said than done." 
 
 " I shall never return to Beaumanoir. I 
 mean to stick to soldiering." 
 
 He took the cigar from his mouth, and 
 actually sat up in his chair. 
 
 " You are joking 1 — you must be ! " 
 
 " No, I'm quite serious. I mean to be in- 
 dependent." 
 
 '■ But you are independent. You've a 
 small fortune of your own, and " — 
 
 '• I don't mean to claim a farthing of it. 
 Indeed, nothing should induce me to do so. 
 I'll work for my own bread, and, if I can, 
 distinguish myself" — 
 
 " Distinguish yourself? bosh, my dear 
 boy ! How is a private to distinguish him- 
 self? Indeed, for the matter of that, how 
 is any one to disiingui^h himself in the 
 present day, unless by a fluke? Distinc- 
 tion, according to vour voung and entbu- 
 siastic ideas, is a thing of the past. The 
 only distinction is money now-a-days, and 
 the more money you have, the more dis- 
 tinguished you are. As to this idea of 
 yours, you are only fit for a straight waist- 
 coat, if you attempt to carry it out. Give 
 up your fortune 1 — give up being a gentle- 
 man ! — 'to earn your bread ! ' — you must 
 be raving mad ! I've a mind to ask the 
 doctor to see you. But 1 can't believe it.
 
 PENRUDDOCKB. 
 
 37 
 
 There's some concession, — something you 
 want thcni to do for you — eh? — and 
 you're tr}in!T to drive a bargain ; to bully 
 your mother into granting it, — eh ? Come, 
 tell us what it is." 
 
 " I want nothing done for me. Believe 
 me or not, as you will ; but I am honest in 
 telling you that I mean to stick to the lite 
 I've cliosen. I know it will be slow work 
 rising, but I don't mind that. Yuu see, I 
 am not clever enough to be an artisan, 
 or any thing of that kind ; but I am strong, 
 and hav'e got some pluck I hope, and 
 can rough it. I think I shall be made 
 lance-corporal when the regiment sails in 
 March." 
 
 My uncle drank off another tumbler of 
 sherr\-. He got up, sat down, fidgeted in 
 his chair, stroked his finely-waxed mus- 
 tache : he was at his wits' end, I saw, as to 
 what he should say next. At last an idea 
 occurred to him. 
 
 '• Can you answer one plain question ? 
 If you are so in love with the army, why on 
 earth should you object to a commission in 
 the Guards V Your name has been down 
 for one, as you know, for the last three 
 years ; and, if there is ever anodier Euro- 
 pean war, you would have a,chance of dis- 
 tinction, for they will send the Guards, to a 
 dead certainty, while this regiment will 
 probably be stewing about the colonies, 
 without seeing a shot fired. As to the 
 purchase of your commissions," he added, 
 with a certain irritation of manner which I 
 could not account lor at the time, "you 
 know that they are provided for by the 
 stran"-e provisions of that precious will, 
 which" — 
 
 " It is no use talking to me of wills, Un- 
 cle Levison. I tell you, once for all, I am 
 resolved not to touch a farthing of the fam- 
 ily money. I shall never have a commis- 
 sion till I win one for myself. Every man 
 on the Continent works his way up from 
 the ranks ; and it would be much better if 
 they did so in England." '• 
 
 '• Oh ! you are going to reform the Brit- 
 ish Army, are you V You uned to be a sen- 
 sible boy, Osmund. What the deuce has 
 come to you, to talk such stuff? But I've 
 said all I can. If you are so confoundedly 
 obstinate, and have got so enamored of the 
 society of low blackguards that you prefer 
 it to living with gentlemen, nothing that 
 any one can say will have any effect, I 
 suppose. Your mother must try what she 
 can do ; but if she can make head or tail 
 out of your reasons for persisting in this 
 suicidal conduct, Jove ! it's more ihan / 
 can." 
 
 He sat there some time longer, and fin- 
 ished the bottle of sherry, going over the 
 same ground again and again, in spite of 
 
 the declaration that his powers of oratory 
 were exhausted. At last " tattoo " sound- 
 ed, and I said I must leave him. He 
 bc'T^red me to "■o and find Mr. Tufton, and 
 tell that officer that Col. Levison Rich 
 would like to see him. He seemed in two 
 minds as to whether he would shake hands 
 with me ; but his kind nature conquering 
 his irritation, he walked after me to the 
 door, and put his hand on my shoulder, — 
 
 " You're a provoking young ass, and I 
 hope you may yet be brought to hear rea- 
 son ; but if you aren't, remember, when- 
 ever you begin to repent of your obstinacy, 
 as you assuredly will, that you write to 
 nie, if you don't like writing to your moth- 
 er." 
 
 With that he turned back to the fire- 
 place, and I went .off to find the lieutenant. 
 What passed between them I never knew, 
 though I could guess tolerably wall. Mr. 
 Tutton never alluded to the subject ; and in 
 this he showed his tact. 
 
 The morning's post brought a letter from 
 my mother, which it is useless to produce 
 here. It was a beautiful specimen of calig- 
 raphy, as all her letters were ; elevated in 
 its sentiments, refined in its expression, — 
 a faultless production altogether, but which 
 moved me no whit as I read it. The tone 
 was that of a wounded but forgiving parent, 
 opening her arms to the prodigal son. 
 (She was ignorant, of course, of the result 
 of her brother's interview with me.) I re- 
 plied briefly, declaring it to be my inten- 
 tion to abide by the step I had taken ; 
 and therewith, I hoped (and almost 
 brought myself to believe) that the efforts 
 of my famjiy to change my resolution would 
 cease. 
 
 That day passed, and the greater part 
 of the next. I pictured to myself my 
 mother's cold, indignant surprise when the 
 post brought my reply. INIy uni'.e had 
 prepared her in some measure for it, of 
 course (he told me he should go straight 
 to Beaumanoir from Portsmouth) ; but she 
 would be incredulous, I felt sure, as to my 
 continued obstinacy, rt/Zer / had read her 
 letter. Then there would be consultation, 
 surmise, and probably very bitter Invec- 
 tive : it would be understood that I must 
 henceforward be looked upon as a black 
 sheei), to. be spoken of with a sigh and a 
 shake of the head, and to be given over to 
 a reprobate mind, until such time as it 
 ])leased God to work in me repentance and 
 amendment. 1 knew the kind of thing so 
 well! 
 
 I was walking down the High Street 
 that same afternoon, towards dusk, when 
 a hand was laid upon my arm, and, turn- 
 ing, I found myself face to face with Mr. 
 Francis.
 
 38 
 
 PENRDDDCCKE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I FORGOT every th'nv^ lor the moinent 
 in the pleasure of seeinj^ the mun 1 loved 
 aiul reverenced more than any one on 
 earth. 
 
 '' We cannot talk iierc, my dear Os- 
 mund, — let ns ask ibr a room in this cof- 
 fee-house," and he turned into one hard by. 
 As I followed him. my pleasurable suvjjrise 
 yiekled to the recollection of 'vhy and how 
 it liad come to pass that he was hci-e. 1 
 steeled myself lor what I foresaw would be 
 a far liarder fin;ht than the encounter with 
 my uncle, and sat down op})osite to my 
 grave, gentle-voiced tutor, in the dingiest 
 of little parlors, feeling — I confess it — a 
 certain trepidation with which neither 
 colonel nor any other oiliccr in Her Maj- 
 esty's th Uegiment had ever inspired 
 
 me. There was a rickety table, whereon they 
 set some tea and a single candle. I sat on 
 one side, he on the other. He shaded his 
 eyes wiih his hand, and began almost im- 
 mediately thus : — 
 
 " You think you know what brings me 
 here, Osmund V To persuade you to re- 
 turn home ? Yon are wrong. I told Lady 
 llacliel, when I left Bcaumanoir to-day, 
 that I had a hope of getting you to change 
 your present course of lile, but none of 
 bringing you back with me." 
 
 He paused ; and I stared at him, open- 
 mouthed 
 
 " 1 must speak to you without reserve 
 this evening, on a certain matter. Other- 
 wise my coming here would be fruitless. I 
 am the only human being, Osmund, who 
 knows why you left home." 
 
 He leant forward, and looked me straight 
 in the face. 
 
 1 started as if I had been shot. 
 
 '• Never mind. The secret is safe with 
 me. I should never think myself justified, 
 as the trusted friend of the family, in betraj- 
 ing what an accident revealed. ^Vhy do 1 
 tell you this now ? No hint of it has ever 
 passed my lips, or will ever do so again. 
 But I want you to know that 1 thoroughly 
 realize the condition of mind under which 
 you took this step, and fuHy understand 
 the reasons for vour refusinsr to return 
 home. 1 even sympathize with them, to a 
 cei-tain extent. To any one with a very 
 high sense of honor, the position is not only 
 painful, but difficult." 
 
 " Your own mother ! Think of that, Mr. 
 Francis — your own mother I If it had 
 been any thing but that., I'd have spoken 
 out the truth, and shamed the Devil." 
 
 He did not notice my impetuous inter- 
 ruption, but repeated, — 
 
 "The position is not only painful, but 
 
 dillicult. Y'ou will take no part of the 
 money you believe to be diverted from its 
 rightful owner, and so you cut yourself 
 adrift — is not that it?" 
 
 '• It is." 
 
 " So fixr I understand. I say nothing, 
 then, about your returning home. But you 
 are aware that you have a small indepen- 
 dent fortune V \^y what ])rocess of reason- 
 ing have you dticidcd that you are bound 
 to give this up, and with it your social 
 position ? " 
 
 " Why, what my father left me was not 
 his to leave 1 He would have been the 
 last man to have kept a property he didn't 
 believe was honestly his. I won't touch a 
 penny of it ! " 
 
 '• But surely you know that there is mon- 
 ey from an altogether difl'erent source left 
 you by your mother's uncle, Gen. Rich? 
 This is rightfully yours, and lias nothing 
 to do with the Fcnruddocke ]iroperty." 
 
 I looked at him incredulously. 
 
 " No, I do not know it." 
 
 " I assure you it is so. The general died 
 when you were a child. He left you ten 
 thousand pounds, in the hands of two trus- 
 tees, Lord Berbrooke and Mr. Humphrey 
 Penruddocke, for whom he had a great 
 esteem. l(. as he hoped, you should feel 
 disposed to follow his footsteps, and enter 
 the Guards, he left a further sura for the 
 purchase of your commissions. If, on the 
 (jther hand, you showed no disposition tor 
 the army, die money was to go to one of 
 your cousins." 
 
 " This, then, is what my uncle began 
 about yesterday. I couldn't make head or 
 tail of what he meant; but the subject 
 seemed to annoy him, and I cut it short, 
 for 1 thought he referred to my father's 
 will." 
 
 " No wonder the subject of Gen. 
 Rich's will is not a pleasant one to your 
 Uncle Levison. It was always supposed 
 the general would make him his heir, I am 
 told ; but Col. Rich's extravagance wore 
 out the old gentleman's patience. After 
 paying his debts several times, he would 
 have nothing more to say to him." 
 
 " Well, I never was told of this, Mr. 
 Francis. My mother, certainly, once or 
 twice said something to me about goin<T 
 into the Guards, and told me that my name 
 was down for a commission; but I didn't 
 much fancy a London life, and I said so. 
 I knew nothing of the general's having- 
 left me any money." 
 
 " You were well provided for by your 
 father ; and Lady Rachel wisely retrained 
 fiom telling you of this additional fortune, 
 fearing it might prevent your entering 
 some profession; but now that you know 
 the real stale of the case, jour course
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 39 
 
 seems to me to be clear, unless you object 
 to soldiering;." 
 
 " Oil the contrary, it is the only career 
 for which I think I am fit." 
 
 " Then you should certainly accept the 
 commission in the Guards. Surely you 
 can have no valid objection to that? " 
 
 I hesitated. 
 
 " I had rather it was in the Line." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but Gen. Ricli's leq;acy 
 depends on your entering this particular 
 brancli of the service. It was a whim of 
 the old man's ; and, as your career in life 
 is thus materially forwarded, it would be 
 folly to reject it. You can exchange into 
 the Line at some future time." 
 
 " And how am I to avoid going to Beau- 
 manoir, or taking any Penruddocke money, 
 without entering into explanations with 
 
 my muther 
 
 9 " 
 
 " I think no explanation will be necessa- 
 ry ; but of course you will have to say that 
 you believe John Penruddocke to be the 
 rightful owner of the estatb, and that con- 
 sequwntly nothing will induce you to take 
 any of the proceeds of it. If Lady Ra- 
 chel guesses the truth, she will be silent, 
 or, at least, the pressure on you will soon 
 cease. The world will regard you as in- 
 sane, but so they regarded your great-uncle, 
 when he espoused his half-brother's cause 
 so warmly. The trustees of Gen. Rich's 
 will will not refuse to make a suitable 
 allowance lor your maintenance until you 
 are of age." 
 
 I yielded finally to his arguments, hav- 
 ing nothing further to urge in opposition 
 to them. 
 
 '• Of course I've no wish to go on living 
 in a soldier's barrack-room if I can take 
 my place at the officers' mess honestly, 
 without doing any other fellow injustice; 
 but the Penruddocke money, — I'd sooner 
 starve than take a penny of it ! And 
 now, Mr. Francis, please tell me about 
 Evy." 
 
 " I've only seen Miss Hamleigh twice 
 since you were away. She struck me as 
 much changed, — shot suddenly out of the 
 child into the young lady. She asked me, 
 with tears in her eyes, what I thought had 
 become of you. I said I thought you were 
 in Ameiica, but that I felt sure we should 
 hear of you before very long — you could 
 not leave those you loved in ignorance of 
 your fate. No one will rejoice more than 
 Miss Hamleigh at your return to us, Os- 
 mund." 
 
 " I didn't dare write ; for her mother 
 often opens her letters." 
 
 " And why did you not write to me? " 
 
 " In the first place, I didn't know you 
 were still at Beaumanoir. Tlien, 1 couldn't 
 tell you the truth, you see, Mr. Francis, and 
 
 I didn't know that you knew all ; and I 
 was afraid of being traced by the post-mark : 
 but I'd given any thing to have opened my 
 heart to you all this time." 
 
 " Well, you have caused me a great deal 
 of anxiety ; and I cannot say how thankful 
 I am to sec you, my boy, here, safe and 
 sound. I am no longer actually living at 
 Beaumanoir, but have been very busy, in 
 London and elsewhere, prosecuting the 
 search for you. Lady Rachel did not wish 
 me to accept any of the posts I have had 
 offered me, as tutor to young men going 
 abroad, hoping, from day to day, that you 
 would return ; and," he added, smiling, 
 " paying me the compliment to say I had 
 more influence with you than any one." 
 
 " There she was right ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " It was because I knew that, my boy, 
 that I consented to remain nominally a 
 member of your mother's household, against 
 some of my inclinations. I, too, have had 
 my trials in this affair, — have had to do 
 violence to my conscience ; and it was only 
 by holding rigidly to the principle that a 
 man placed as I am has no right to see or 
 know any thing that goes on around him, 
 that I have restrained myself. And now 
 sit down, and write to your mother." 
 
 " What am I to say ? I wrote, and utter- 
 ly rejected her offers. I wish you'd see 
 her. Tell her what you like, provided / 
 haven't to enter into explanations with her. 
 Shall I write to Uncle Levison ? " 
 
 " Very well. I will take the up-mail 
 train, and see your uncle early to-morrow, 
 before returning to Beaumanoir. I think I 
 can explain matters there, without your 
 writing." 
 
 I called for a sheet of paper, and wrote a 
 short letter to Col. Rich. Then I wrung 
 dear old Francis's hand. We paid our 
 score, and parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 Over the next half year I shall not lin- 
 ger long. What befell me may be told in 
 few words. My discharge was purchased, 
 
 and I bade farewell to the th Regiment. 
 
 During the few months I had served in its 
 ranks, I had bought an amount of experi- 
 ence which the same number of years spent 
 at Beaumanoir would not have given me ; 
 a certain insight into character, that 
 " knowledge of the world," as it is called, 
 (though I had but a rough block of men, 
 none of the artifi'jial sculptures of society, 
 to study), which is sometimes — not always 
 gained at public schools and colleges. Thus 
 1 have never regretted my training as a 
 private. 1 learnt subjection, reticence,
 
 40 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 punctuality. I came a greenhorn — I went 
 <vway a uiau ; not a wise one, by any means, 
 as this veracious history will only too clear- 
 ly show, but yet possessing that which I 
 found useful to nie in my future dealiii'j;s 
 with my fellow-men. Lieut. Tufton shook 
 my hand cordially at parting, and said lie 
 hoped we should meet again. 
 
 " I shall never have such another ser- 
 vant," said he, lau'^hing. 
 
 " Nor I another such master," I re[)lied. 
 
 JMr. Eagles blossomed out into smiles 
 ■when I went to the orderly-room, and gave 
 me a liber;d allowance of wholesome ad- 
 vice, wliich I am afraid I treated with the 
 ingratitude such donations usually meet 
 with. He ended by asserting that he had 
 maintained, all along, that I was a '• boy of 
 family" — tor which statement may Heav- 
 en tbri;ive him I " 
 
 " And so y'rc a nob ? " said Joe, eying 
 me curiously from head to foot, as though 
 he had never before fully embraced the 
 details of my person. The news had 
 spread tlirough the barrack-yard, and had 
 created some interest. " Well," added my 
 ii'iend, as he held out a liorny but jierlect- 
 ly clean hand, " I always thought there 
 was suuimut (jueer about ye." 
 
 " Never mind, Joe, my heart's in the 
 right place — that's the chief thing, ain't 
 it V I'm sorry to say good-by. After all, 
 I"d rather rise from the ranks by my merits 
 than be a readv-made swell." 
 
 « Hum ! " sa'id Joe dryly. " You'd ha' 
 had to live to a great age fust — a'most as 
 long as that old gent in the Bible. Good- 
 by, lad. I'd like to be going with ye — 
 ibr one thing is cock-sure — / shall never 
 rise, and I'm pretty nigh sick o' soldier- 
 ing." 
 
 Thus it was that Joe and I parted. 
 
 Mr. Francis returned tor me the third 
 day after our interview at the public-house. 
 His calculations had not been at tkuit. In 
 that interval he had manacjed to arrange 
 all ; to make such a representation to my 
 mother as inclined her to submit to the 
 only conditions upon which I would con- 
 sent to be dragged out of the mire, namely, 
 that I should never be urged to return to 
 Beauraanoii', or to take the fortune left me 
 by my fither. How Mr. Francis acoin- 
 plished this delicate and difKcult task, I 
 never inquired ; but that it was done with 
 consummate tact I felt sure, for my decision 
 met with neither remonstrance nor ques- 
 tion. 
 
 He told my trustees as much as was ne- 
 cessary, and no more, in order to obtain an 
 advance upon Gen. Rich's leiracy, which 
 would cover all expenses during my resi- 
 dence at the " crammer's," where I went 
 direct frcuu Portsmouth. He lived at 
 
 Wimbledon ; and as Mr. Francis now set- 
 tled himself in London, taking a temporary 
 engagement as daily tutor to the sons of a 
 Catholic nobleman, I saw him constantly 
 for some months to come. Not a week 
 passed but he came down to Wimbledon ; 
 and many a delightful walk we had, — 
 hours I look back upon still with the keen- 
 est pleasure. He was the only person in 
 the world to whom I felt I could open 
 n)y heart. If I had any trouble I con- 
 fided it to hiui ; and, in his finherly 
 counsel, I never failed to lind a true, broad- 
 sighted wisdom. 
 
 My uiotber came to town in the course of 
 ihe season, and 1 saw her several times. I 
 looked forward to the first meeting with 
 dread, I confess ; but I found lier beautiful 
 and unmoved as ever. iShe did not allude 
 to the past, nor did 1 ; and the interview 
 passed off as calmly as though I had left 
 Ceauraauoir the week before. She told me 
 she had come in order to use all her person- 
 al influence witlif certain authorities to cret 
 
 • 
 
 uie appointed out of my turn, and she was 
 hopeful of my having the second vacancy 
 which occurred. She then inquired wiiere 
 I wishei] to pass the vacation, wnicii was at 
 hand. I replied that I iiad a great desire 
 to go abroad, where 1 had never been, and 
 that I thought a trip to Holland and Bel- 
 gium would not be very expensive, and 
 would occupy the time ])leasantly as well as 
 profitably. She was pleased to say she 
 thought it a wise scheuie ; but my belief is 
 that, at that moment, if I had proposed a 
 six weeks' trip to Kamschatka, she would 
 have offered no opposition. Aly mother 
 was a woman who knew when and how to 
 resist; but she also knew how to yield to 
 the " logic of facts." 
 
 I wrote constantly to Evelyn, and re- 
 ceived dear little letters from her in repiv, 
 every one of which I still have, docketed 
 and tied together, in the furthest recesses 
 of my desk. And 1 am tempted, as much 
 by the desire to show something of my ilar- 
 ling's character, and her feeimgs towards 
 me at this time, as because it <lescribv's 
 with a few simple touches, the attitude of 
 various members of our family, to give here 
 one letter out of this small, and, to me, pre- 
 cious packet : — 
 
 " Beadmajjoir, June 28. 
 " Df.arest Osmund. — ilow kind of 
 you to remember my birthday ! I got 
 the little locket this morniu'^, ami pri.:e 
 it more than all my other beautiful pres- 
 ents. Lady Rachel jxave me a string of 
 small pearls; and Ray, the British Ency- 
 clopaedia, in three ini^ volumes. It was \evy 
 kind of him ; but 1 iiave no shelf in my 
 room at; home big enougii tor them, I am
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 41 
 
 afraid. Mamma gave mo a very pret- 
 ty dress, and says, now that I am six- 
 teen I may have it made quite, 
 long." 
 
 " We came here three days ago. I sup- 
 pose I ought not to say so. but it is very dull 
 without you. However, it is something to 
 know where you are. Last winter it was 
 so wretched here, never even hearing your 
 name mentioned. Laily Rachel says you 
 are working very hard. She tells us, too. 
 that you are very much grown, and that 
 the photograph does not do you justice. 
 For my part, I am sure it does not, though 
 I have not seen you for nearly a j'ear. I 
 am grown, too, — mamma says ' terribly," 
 -^ for I cannot wear any of my old summer 
 frocks. Do you remember tearing my lilac 
 one, in lifting me throu2;Ii that hedge last 
 June ? I walked there yesterday. They 
 have ])ut a great ugly paling there. Poor 
 old Rover and I go about together. He 
 attaches himself to me, recollecting, I 
 fancy, that I was, generally, his dear mas- 
 ter's comjjanion. 
 
 " There was a school-feast yesterday ; 
 and a tenant's dance in the evening. Mr. 
 Putney made a beautiful speech about 
 Lady liichel. Ray replied to it, and said 
 how happy he was to see the tenantry gath- 
 ered round him, after the attempts that 
 had been made to deprive him of the ])rop- 
 erty. Then there was a great deal of 
 shouting, and the volunteers struck up, 
 ' The fine old En'j;lish gentleman.' Mam- 
 ma cried, and I felt very choky; but I 
 thought how you would have laughed at 
 me, and have called my tears some rude 
 name, so I was determined not to show 
 them. Bill Strutt was there. He asked 
 nie ' when the young master was a-comin' 
 whuome V We wants un badly.' I should 
 like to have shaken him by the hand, but I 
 did not dare. A terrible piece of news 
 has reached the village. Those two bro- 
 thers, the Hounsfields, who went to Amer- 
 ica last autumn, have been killed by the 
 blowinii up of some mine. Is it not shock- 
 ing V Tiiough you never liked them, I an\ 
 sure you will be horrified. Lady Rachel 
 felt it very much. She said nothing, when 
 Mr. Putney told us, but sat down, and I 
 saw how pale she turned. Mamma, who 
 ■went to her room afterwards, found she 
 was quite upset. I am afraid Mr. Putney 
 will preach a sermon about it to-morrow. 
 It is so terrible when he preaches about 
 death and hell, and so on. When are you 
 coming home, dearest Osmund? I hoj)e 
 you will enjoy Holland. I wish I was go- 
 ing ; but I shall never leave home, I sup- 
 pose, except to come here. I do so want 
 to have wings, and fly away sometimes ! 1 
 used not to feel that : it has come on me of 
 
 late, and it is very wrong, I know. Write 
 soon, dear, dear Osmund, to 
 
 " Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 " Evelyn IIamleigh." 
 
 The news of the two Hounsfiehls' dentli 
 did affect me more than my little Evelvn 
 could foresee. But for my mother's hav- 
 ing sent them across the seas, with the 
 wages of sin, those men would, humanly 
 spreaking, have been alive now. How 
 strangely Providence seemed to jilay into 
 lier hands I How all things seemed to 
 work together towards the success of her 
 scheme ! These fellows, her only agents, 
 removed by death, no other witnesses could 
 ever rise up against her; for of Mr. Fran- 
 cis I fl'lt as sure as I did of myself. As I 
 thought over it, I was tempted to say in 
 my heart, " Can there be a Go<l who per- 
 mits the innocent to be punished, now and 
 again, and who helps to hide the sins of the 
 guilty?" 
 
 I had hoped that Mr. Francis might 
 have accompanied me al)road ; but he liad 
 [)romised to go to Ireland with the lads 
 whom he was teaching; and there, as it 
 turned out, he remained. I did not see my 
 best friend again for more than a vear. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Iisr August I sailed from London for 
 Antwerp. It was a glorious day, and the 
 steamer was crowded. I could scarcelv 
 find a seat on deck ; but, as I glanced 
 round, my fellow-passengers presented no 
 very salient or attractive features. There 
 was the conventional tourist-family, bound 
 for the Rhine, the elders armed with mac- 
 intoshes and '• ^luri-ays," the juniors with 
 Bath-buns, in piniparation for the voyage. 
 There was a party of spinsters, six in num- 
 ber, of various ages, from thirty upwards, 
 headed by one more militant and adven- 
 turous than the rest, whom I saw, in my 
 mind's eye, disputing the hotel bills every 
 mornini'-, and ui-ging her weaker sisters to 
 renewed exertion in an effort to reach the 
 summit of the Righi ; for this company of 
 discreet maidens were journeying to Swit- 
 zerland, I found. There were gouty men 
 for Wiesbaden, and gay widows for llom- 
 burg, a large admixture of shabljy-genteel 
 I)eople, whose exact social position it was 
 difficult to guess (or why they were cross- 
 ing the channel — was it business, or pleas- 
 ure ? for they looked profoundly indifferent 
 to every thing), and a small sprinkling of 
 Germans. I passed my observations on 
 these groups — among which, no doubt, 
 was many a far better man than myself — ■
 
 42 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 ■with all the impudence of nineteen, and 
 was sittinu; down to read my railway-novel, 
 when, three mimites before the plank was 
 ■withdrawn, a lady came on board with two 
 servants, causing some commotion on tiie 
 crowded deck by the iiillux of dressing- 
 cases, bngs, plaids, &c. Iler luggage, con- 
 sisting of some huge, foreign-looking trunks, 
 was pitched on board ; the cabman and 
 jiortcrs, who were battling with the courier 
 ibr the extraction of more shillings, were 
 hustled on shore, the ladder was hauled up,' 
 the paddle-wheels began to move, and we 
 were under way. 
 
 The lady looked piteously around ; there 
 was not even a camp-stool disengaged ; the 
 courier was abaft, seeing after the luggage ; 
 the maid, like a beast of burden, under 
 the weight of her mistress's possessions, 
 stooil thei'e, patient and incapable. There 
 was no help for it : I rose, and offered the 
 comturtable nook which I had just secured. 
 She thanked me, in the purest English, 
 but with a slight foreign accent ; and tht; 
 manner in which she accepted my offer had a 
 certain self-possessed grace, which stamped 
 ber at once as a high-bred woman. But it 
 had a charm, over and above this, which it 
 is difficult to describe. Whether it lay in 
 the voice or in the smile, or in something 
 which was not exactly one or the other, I 
 cannot tell. I know that I scarcely thought 
 ber good-looking then (at an age when 
 good looks go for so much !), and that, even 
 when I knew her better, it was only at 
 times she appeared so to me. But this fas- 
 cination of manner arrested my interest at 
 once. I got a stool, in the course of time, 
 not very far off; and whenever I looked up, 
 from my book, my eyes turned naturally 
 towards the lady in dust color ; and I 
 watched her for some minutes, until I was 
 detected, when I buried myself again in 
 the pages of " Eugene Aram." She had 
 pulled off her gloves, and was knitting, 
 while she read, at the same time, a forei^jn- 
 looking book, which lay open on her lap. 
 Let me describe her, as she sat there. 
 
 She was near thirty, I believe, at this time. 
 Her face was a little worn, and any bloom 
 the complexion had ever had was gone. 
 The hair was light and abundant, but not 
 very beautiful in color. It sprang fi-om its 
 roots in those wilful lines that indicate 
 force of character ; and all its waves, being 
 drawn back over the ears, were knotted 
 together in what looked like a nest of taw- 
 ny serpents under her little brown hat. 
 The eyes were very expressive ; dark with 
 shadows at one time, full of brilliant lights 
 at another, so that I never knew what 
 color they were. The nose was irregular 
 in shape ; and yet, when one came to know 
 the face, one would not willingly have ex- 
 
 changed it for a more classic model ; mo- 
 bility, energy, and passion, it certainly 
 indicated these, and there was a finesse ia 
 the curve of the nostril, which was chiefly 
 noticeable when she was about to smile. 
 At such times, the mouth was charming ; 
 the lii)S, somewhat too thin, perhaps, open- 
 ing freely over the whitest and most even 
 teeth in the world. The jaw was a little 
 angular ; but the chin, with its fine upward 
 turn, and little cleft, so full of cliaracter, 
 would have been pronoimced by a sculptor 
 perfect, — the only perfect part of that 
 face. And it was this which was most 
 visible now, the brow and eyes being 
 shaded by her hat. She was above the mid- 
 dle height, and her figure seemed round 
 and graceful under its loose travelling 
 dress. The only ornament she wore, of 
 any kind, was a large sapphire (5n her 
 finger, which, I observed, guarded a wed- 
 ding-ring ; every thing about her, down to 
 the ])lain collar and cuffs, was as simple as 
 possible. 
 
 There was a move, by and by, of such 
 an impetuous character that it might 
 almost be styled a charge, down to dinner. 
 The courier, a very ])leasant-lookinLr fellow, 
 came up to the lady, and urged her de- 
 scending to this repast. She seemed reluct- 
 ant to leave her seat, but the man did 
 not f^ive in. With that freedom, unmixed 
 with impudence, which belongs to most 
 foreign servants, he continued pressing the 
 point. I could guess, though I could not 
 hear, all he said; and in the end he pre- 
 vailed. She rose, laid down her book and 
 knittiiig, and left her maid to mount guard 
 over tiiein. I slipped down the stairs after 
 her ; the tables seemed crammed : there 
 was a Babel of tongues, a clouil of savory 
 steam, a clashing of knives, as though some 
 Scythian war-dance was going on, — and 
 in all this hideous confusion, I saw no seat 
 for my fair friend. She stood there for a 
 moment, lookintr bewildered, and a little 
 disgusted, and was about to retire, when a 
 functionary, napkin in hand, plunged fbr- 
 wai'd, crying out, — 
 
 " Stop, ma'am ! Pll put seats for you 
 and the gentleman 'ere, at the side-table." 
 
 She turned to see who her companion 
 in exile was, and a smile touched her lijjs. 
 We sat down. 
 
 " 1 am afraid I crowd you. There isn't 
 room for two. I will wait " — 
 
 " Pray don't move. I have plenty of 
 room. It would be too bad. after turning 
 you out of your seat on deck, if I turned 
 you out of it below too." 
 
 She smiled charmingly as she said this ; 
 and, on the strength of it, I went on, — 
 
 " I was rewarded by seeing you make 
 yourself so comfortable there. May 1 ask
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 43 
 
 how you manage to read and work at the 
 same time V " 
 
 '' All we Germans do that. Yes, I was 
 very cumt'ortable, and it is dreadtull}' close 
 down here. I regret havino; come." 
 
 I didn't hke that speech quite so much ; 
 but she was not thinking of" me, and I 
 could not feel offended. 
 
 " But now you have come down, you 
 will cat something ? May I give you some 
 ot" this beet'? It's awfully good." 
 
 " No, tliank you. When I was your 
 age, I thought most things ' awfully good ; ' 
 now I am more difficult, I am afraid ; at 
 least, I have not the same appetite." 
 
 " Mine, do you know, has never filled 
 me yet, and I've been tried as much as 
 most fellows," I added, with an air which 
 made my companion smile. 
 
 " Really ? You look the picture of 
 health and activity, — as if nothing could 
 ever liave gone amiss with you." 
 
 " Ah ! you don't know," — then, with a 
 burst of irrepressible confidence, — "you 
 wouldn't think now, that I hail enlisted 
 once as a private, and that for six months 
 no one knew what had become of me ? " 
 
 She looked round at me witli an expres- 
 sion half of interest, half of amusement. 
 
 " And did no compunction of conscience 
 interfere with your appetite all that 
 time ? " 
 
 " No, I had no compunctions." 
 
 " Then vou cannot have a mother? " 
 
 "Yes, Ihave." 
 
 " And you could leave her without tid- 
 ings of you all that time ! You must be a 
 very hard character, — yet your look belies 
 it. I think you are imposing on me." 
 
 " I assure you, I am not. My mother 
 doesn't care much for me. I have an elder 
 brother, who is considered perfect, you see, 
 and I am not wanted at home." 
 
 " And have you no sisters ? Is there no 
 one else at home you care about ? " 
 
 " No, — that is to say, — I have a little 
 cousin, who lives there a good deal. I am 
 very Ibnd of her. She is the only relation 
 I care much about, — I might say, the only 
 person in the world, excejjt my old tutor." 
 
 AVHiat prompted me to make these reve- 
 lations to an utter stranger ? It is difficult 
 for me to understand now, yet then it 
 seemed quite natural at the time. 
 
 " And this little cousin, — you were so 
 cruel as not even to let her know where 
 you were ? " 
 
 " Well, yes— I couldn't help that, be- 
 cause her mother opens her letters." 
 
 '' And was she very unhappy all the 
 time V " 
 
 "Well, I hope" — here I colored, anil 
 stammered — "I mean I think she was. 
 But it is all right now, you know." 
 
 " Oh 1 it is all right, is it ? She is of a 
 very forgiving disposition, then ? I should 
 not so easily pardon any one I loved, who 
 behaved so." 
 
 " Yes, you would, I am sure, — that is, 
 if you loved the person very much. Have 
 you never had to forgive any one you 
 loved ? " 
 
 An expression of the sharpest pain 
 crossed her face. Then she said quietly, — 
 
 " Yes, but it is not a safe experiment to 
 repeat often. It lowers a man in his own 
 eyes, to seek constantly for forgiveness, — 
 it lowers him in a woman's, constantly to 
 be forgiven. It ends by hardening both. 
 Take my advice, — you are very young 
 still — let those you love have as little to 
 forgive as possible. There is not too much 
 real love in life that one can afford to waste 
 it." 
 
 " No one has better reason to know that 
 than I ; but there isn't much fear between 
 me and my cousin. Nothing can ever 
 come between us, I am sure." 
 
 " Are you ? " she said, with an incredu- 
 lous little smile. " Divine confidence of 
 youth ! I hope, for your sake, it may be 
 so ; and what is your life now, if I may 
 ask?" 
 
 "I am waiting for my commission in the 
 Guards." 
 
 " Going into all the temptations of fash- 
 ionable London life! Ah ! take care you do 
 not forget the little cousin then. Try to lead 
 such a life that you need have no secrets from 
 her. Let it be a talisman to guard ^ou. 
 A pure youth without self-reproach, — it is 
 so rare, so beautifiil to look back to 1 No 
 fears to beat away, no strife to heal ; 
 
 ' The past unsigbed for, and the future sure,' 
 
 as your poet says. That is what your aim 
 should be." 
 
 " I hope never to do any thing I'm 
 ashamed of; but I have been brought up 
 with such faultless people all my life — 
 people who are considered faultless, at 
 least — that I am afraid I prefer sinners to 
 saints." 
 
 " I suspect there is not much chance of 
 your being numbered among the latter." 
 said the lady, laughing. " I, alas I have 
 lived more among the sinners, and so I 
 have come to i)refer what is upright and 
 innocent : and now that you have told me, 
 in such a very un-English fashion, so nuich 
 about yourself, suppose you tell me your 
 name V " 
 
 I told her ; also where we lived, and 
 who my mother was ; when my unknown 
 fVieiul said, — 
 
 " Is she not a sister of Col. Levison 
 Rich ? 1 met hiui some months ago, when
 
 44 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 I remember of his tollinc; ns of an nttempt 
 made by some distant relation to dispos- 
 sess his nephew of his estate in Dorset- 
 shire." 
 
 '•Humpli! lie s))oke of that, did lie? 
 Yes. he is my uncle." 
 
 " I hope your unele, then, is' not to be 
 your mentor in London, Mr. Penruddocke." 
 
 '* Oh ! my Uncle Levison and I are capi- 
 tal frit'iids ; but I know hiin tliorou;j,hly. 
 lie is a tremendous swell, and that I shall 
 never be. You met in London, I suppose ? 
 Bv the by, vou haven't yet told me your 
 name ? " 
 
 She pulled out a Russia-leather case. 
 and took from it a card, which she laid 
 beside my j)late. Upon it was " La Coin- 
 tesse d'Arnheim, No. — , Chesham Place." 
 Tlien, with a little nod, she rose and left 
 the cabin. 
 
 Later I joined her on the deck, and 
 talked to her for nearly two hours. I had 
 met very few cultivated women in my short 
 life, and none, certainly, to be compared 
 with this one. There was a simplicity, a 
 playful creniality, combined with a certain 
 finesse in all she said, which exercised a 
 singular fascination over me. I was accus- 
 tomed to my mother's very measured deliv- 
 ery, which scarcely stirred a muscle of her 
 beautiful face; to Mrs; Hamleigh's amiable 
 artificiality ; and to the vapid commonness 
 of the few toadies who had visited Beau- 
 manoir of late years. I now talked for the 
 first time to a woman who lived in the 
 great world, and had been accustomed to 
 it from her earl)' youth ; who was a singu- 
 lar compound of enthusiasm and worldly 
 wisdom, with a keen perception of the fol- 
 lies that surrounded her, and who yet was 
 ijtterly unspoilt, and had retained, in some 
 measure, the naivete of a child. She told 
 me that she had been brou.rht up, partly 
 in the small court of Echlinstein, when 
 her father was Kammerherr to the reign- 
 inir duke, and partly at Berlin ; that she 
 had been married six years, which had 
 btten spent in Paris and in London, her 
 husband, who was in diplomacy, having 
 
 been secretary to the Legation, — 
 
 first in the one capital, and now, for the 
 hist three years in the other. 
 
 " This is my holiday," she said. " T have 
 not been home, or seen any of my family, 
 for the last two years. Last autumn we 
 went to Scotland, — my husband wished it ; 
 so I could not get to Germany. I found it 
 verv tedious, visitinsr from one ";reat house 
 to another. This year my husband is going 
 to yacht, I believe, and does nut want me ; 
 so, as I am suffering from what we Ger- 
 mans call Ileimweh, I have started off 
 alone." 
 
 " Have you any children? " I asked. 
 
 She shook her head ; and, guessing that 
 the subject was a j)ainful one, I changed 
 it quickly, saying. — 
 
 " How do you like London ? " 
 "I like the coimtry ; but the j)eople I 
 see most of are fashionable people, whose 
 lives are at high-pressure all the year 
 round. That restless search after excite- 
 ment seems to me to militate against the 
 true pleasures of life, as we Germans under- 
 stand them." 
 
 " Oh ! I know nothing of fashionable life 
 but I nuist own I like excitement. There's 
 nothing like a good run." 
 
 " But if you were running all the year, 
 think how tired you would be 1 That is 
 what the slaves of fashion do." 
 
 " Well, I shall never be a slave of fash- 
 ion," said L laughing. " I have no idea 
 of doing things simply because other peo- 
 ple do them." 
 
 " Then you despise the world's opinion '? 
 I applaud that sentiment. In what direc- 
 tion does your amijition lie? " 
 
 " To be distinguished in my profession." 
 " A very worthy ambition, only difficult 
 of attainment in peace time." 
 
 " We shall not always have peace, I 
 hope. At any rate, I have no ambition to 
 be a swell in London, like my uncle." 
 
 " And yet," she said, looking at me in a 
 meditative way, " I should not be surprised 
 if you become as popular in many salons, 
 in your own way, as he is. You are diffi- 
 dent, and you are very honest, — which is 
 a new line, — perhaps it will take. You 
 have not paid me a single cQmpliment, or 
 talked a word of the rubbish men generally 
 think it necessary to entertain us with, 
 during all the time we have talked here — 
 by which you don't know how much you 
 have risen in my estimation. Now I must 
 say 'good-night.' Go to your berth, and 
 dream of the little cousin." 
 
 She gave me a friendly nod and smile, 
 and, gathering her shawl about her, disap- 
 ]5eared below. I remained some time ou 
 deck, meditating on all my new friend had 
 said ; and yet more, on the singular charm 
 which invested every word that fell from 
 her with a value not intrinsically its own. 
 It was like cutting the pages of a book thut 
 seems to open a new era to one, a revela- 
 tion of delight, the discovery of which was 
 hitherto unguessed. That an accomplished 
 woman of the world, a creature I had 
 always regarded as every thing tiiat was 
 heartless and unreal, should have the warm 
 and tender feelings I felt sure Madame 
 d'Arnheim possessed was a puzzle I could 
 not solve. 
 
 The next morning, to my disappointment, 
 Madame d'Arnheim only appeared on deck 
 a few minutes before we landed at Ant-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 45 
 
 werp. She was to start l)y tlie next train 
 to Colo!^ne. I was to spend a niLjht in 
 Antwerp, and then p;o on to the Hague. 
 As she put out her hand, to wish me good- 
 by, she said, — 
 
 " Do not Ibmet to come and see me when 
 you come to London, Mr. Penruddoci<e. 
 If the acquaintance be^^un on the Antwerp 
 steamer dies a natural death, it will be your 
 fault, remember." 
 
 And then we parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The 'Only study, besides that of nature 
 in some of its departments, which I had 
 ever cared for, had been history. All that 
 was old, all that was connected with the 
 past, had an attraction tor me. I found 
 plenty of interest of this kind in Holland 
 and Beli^ium. Every town I visited during 
 the next few days had records, relics, asso- 
 ciations with a by-gone time, which kindled 
 my imagination, and aroused my enthusi- 
 asm for those bi'ave old burghers who had 
 been the life-blood of the Dutch Republic. 
 I prowled about quaint streets, I visited 
 every church and stadhuls, I examined the 
 portrait of every worthy I could find, and 
 then I pictured to myself the stirring scenes 
 connected witli the place. I generally talked 
 to peo|>le, wherever I went, in English if 
 possible ; if not, in my very stifi-necked 
 French ; and when that would not do, by 
 signs. Very few things stopped me ; the 
 consequence of which was, that I picked up 
 a good deal of information and much amuse- 
 ment ; that I made a pleasant acquaintance 
 or two among chance travellers like my- 
 self; and that I never knew what it was to 
 be lonely. In short, I thoroughly enjoyed 
 my tour. 
 
 It was late one August evening when I 
 walked into the old Inn at Ghent, and 
 asked for supper. 'Two persons were seated 
 at the long table in the public room, a tall 
 old man and a young girl. Others came 
 and went, l)ut upon these two my attention 
 soon became riveted. The old man was 
 shabbily dresseil, and scarcely looked like 
 a gentieuian ; the girl was plain, and very 
 untidy : that was my first impression. Her 
 frock was torn, her hair rumj)led, and her 
 hands — they were coarse and red hands 
 — were any thing but clean. The second 
 impression made on me by this group was, 
 that, somewhere or other, I had seen those 
 faces before. After that, of course, I di<l 
 little else but watch them, and listen to 
 their conversation — (they spoke in Eng- 
 lish, and were at no pains to speak low) — 
 in the endeavor to recall how it was that 
 
 those faces did not seem altogether unfa- 
 miliar to me. The girl was apparently 
 about fifteen, but rather short. She had a 
 bad complexion, and large bones, which 
 seemed protruding everywhere ; but the 
 more I looked at her, tin; more I became 
 interested in her face, and the less ugly I 
 thought it. Its vivid intelligence, and the 
 intensity of its varying exjjressions, redeem- 
 ed the plainness of its features, and ren- 
 dered it positively attractive to me after a 
 little time. 
 
 " Dad," said the girl, soon after I sat down, 
 " what's the use of a lot of learning ? I 
 don't see that people are a bit the better 
 for it." 
 
 "I never had much education myself, 
 Lizzie, and I feel the waflt of it," was the 
 reply. 
 
 '• No education could have made you a 
 bit better than you are ; I know that," said 
 the girl vehemently. 
 
 '•Ah! that's idle talking. Besides, young 
 folks, ])resent day, know a deal more than 
 they did when I was a lad. You've been 
 neglected hitherto, Liz — I couldn't help it. 
 Your poor mother " — 
 
 " Mother hadn't much learning, and I 
 don't want to be a bit better than mother." 
 
 " She would have had it, if she could, 
 my dear. She didn't despise it ; she was 
 too sensible for that ; and now that 1 have 
 the opportunity, and have had the money 
 given me expressly to have you taught a 
 bit, I mustn't neglect it, Liz. 2vIo voung 
 lady " — 
 
 " I don't watit to be a young lady. I 
 want to stay with you, dad." 
 
 " Well, but you can't have me always. 
 When I'm gone, lass, you'll find yourself 
 shocking ignorant, all alone in the world." 
 
 " Don't you talk like that, dad ; " and the 
 girl gave his shoulder an affectionate push 
 with her head, like a Newfoundland pup[)y. 
 
 '• But we must look to it, Liz. I'm an 
 old chap to be the father of a young thing 
 like you. I must go, lassie, betbre many 
 years are over. It don't make it come a 
 bit the sooner looking at it, you know. 
 When you're alone in the world, whal'll 
 you do then ? " 
 
 " Work. I won't sit with my hands in 
 gloves before me, all day long." 
 
 " Well, but learning, my lass, don't need 
 to make you idle. Except writing and 
 arithmetic, you see, you know nothing. At 
 the school here, to begin with, you'll be 
 learning French," 
 
 " What's the use of French ? Look at 
 that fellow on the railway to-day, jabbering 
 and shaking his fist : he didn't get on as 
 well as we did." 
 
 " He was very (piarrelsome, my dear — 
 if, indeed, he wasn't drunk. We were
 
 46 
 
 PEXRDDDOCKE. 
 
 peacealile, orderly folk, who wanted noth- 
 iiHj; liutoiir tickets. If we hail beoii in any 
 diliiciilty, you'd liave fmnd the advantage 
 of talking; a little Freneh." 
 
 There was a pause. At last she said 
 glooD'ily, — 
 
 '• They won't let me so out alone. All 
 the girls walk out in jiairs, like Noah's Ark. 
 I can't bear it ! " 
 
 '• But you'll be tau'.dit cyninastics," ob- 
 served her father soothingly. 
 
 " Shall I V That's cliailjing and swing- 
 ing, isn't it V " Here a gleam of pleasure. 
 for the first time, shot across her face. 
 " And swimming ? I want to swim so baxl- 
 ly, dad I " 
 
 " Ah ! as to that, I don't know what 
 water there is here ; but if you're a good 
 flirl, and get on well at school, we'll go to 
 Ostend next June, and you'll soon swim 
 like a fish there," 
 
 "June! Why, that's nearly a year off! 
 And ain't I to see you till then, dad ? " 
 
 •' Oh ! I shall come over at Christmas, 
 Lizzie, and take you to Brussels, We'll 
 go t.' the theatre, and you'll be able then 
 to explain it all to me ; and, you shall see, 
 we'll amuse ourselves finely," 
 
 " Ah ! ■' sighed the girl, " we'd have 
 amused ourselves better in the old farm at 
 home. I wish no one had ever put it into 
 your head to come over to Europe, We 
 were a deal hap])ier in the old place than 
 ever we shall be in England. I hate all 
 their stuck-up ways ! " 
 
 •'Now, Liz, I won't have you talk like 
 that, when you've met with so much kind- 
 ness. I am sure my old cousin has been 
 like a brother. He couldn't have had my 
 interests more at heart if they'd been his 
 own." 
 
 " Oh ! I know it dad, and I'm not un- 
 grateful, — only he made yon come over. 
 It was all his doing ; and I wish we hadn't 
 come, that's all." 
 
 " Well, my dear, one thing we have 
 gained by coming is that he has made his 
 will in your favor, and lias shown it to me. 
 He knows that I am a poor man, and have 
 made great sacrifices to come over here, 
 and ferret out the rights of this business. 
 Ic turned against us : we can't help that ; 
 but he took it a'most more to heart than I 
 did. He swore then and there that not a 
 penny of his should ever go to the family, 
 and made his will in my presence. He 
 ain't a rich man ; but what he leaves '11 
 make you independent, Liz. Therefore 
 I've done some good, you see, by coming 
 over." 
 
 " I don't want to be rich, I want to do 
 just as I like," said Liz, with both her el- 
 bows on the table, and her teeth set fast 
 in a slice of bread and butter. " Now, I'll 
 
 tell you the life I should like, dad. We 
 should have a little house in a wood, just 
 big enou'ih for you and me ; and we'd go 
 out moDse-hunting and fishing all day long. 
 And then, when I married, I'd have noth- 
 ing but sons " — 
 
 " How are you to marry, Lizzie, if we 
 live in the backwoods, and in a hut too, 
 oidy large enough for you and me ? " said the 
 father, laughing. " No, no : when you've 
 had two vears' schooling, and come out 
 fine and accomplished, may be you'll find 
 some one, liere, lassie, that'll take a fancy 
 to }ou, but not in the backwoods." 
 
 " I wouldn't give much for him if lie 
 fakes me only for my accomplishments," 
 sai<l ^liss Lizzie, tossing back her mane, 
 " The husband I choose must be a man, 
 gentle and yet strong, — just like you, dad, 
 not a bit cleverer or handsomer. I don't 
 want a fine, learned, polished statue, like 
 that detestable lellow at Beaumanoir! I 
 hope never to see that creature again ! " 
 
 " Nay, Liz, you're prejudiced against 
 the lad because he got the best of it. If 
 there was that unlucky flaw in our case, it 
 was no fault of his. Of course he did quite 
 right to fight it out. I should have done 
 the same. And nothing can be more civil 
 and condescending than Lady Rachel. 
 She asked you there twice ; and, but for 
 Humphrey, I'd certainly have let you 
 SO." 
 
 " I wouldn't have gone 1 I wouldn't 
 have entered their dirty doors!" said the 
 girl passionately. " Condescending, indeed ! 
 Darling dad, you're a great deal too good 
 for this world, — you think every one is 
 like yourself. After all, I am much more 
 shrew than you are," 
 
 '• Shrewd, you mean, my dear, — shrewd." 
 
 '• Well, shrewd, then. I see people as 
 they really are. You see them as they 
 ought to be. Those people at Beauma- 
 noir are all a set of false, cold-blooded 
 creatures, without a heart among them, I 
 know it, I I'eel it, and " — 
 
 '• You say ' all.' You never saw the 
 youngest son." 
 
 " No ; but of course he is just like his 
 mother and brother. Nothing that you 
 can say, dad, shall ever persuiide me to 
 enter that house again." 
 
 " Well, well, make no rash promises. 
 There is time enough to think of that 
 when you leave school. You'll be a deal 
 changed, lassie, I hope, in many ways by 
 then. Now, if you've done your bread and 
 butter, we'll go to bed ; for I'm very tired," 
 
 They both rose, and left the table. 
 
 And I remained there, for a full hour, 
 leaning my head between my hands, and 
 revolving in my mind how I should now 
 act.
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 47 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 I DESIRED, if possible, to make my cous- 
 ins' ac(jnaintancc without their k'arninsj 
 who I was. The old man and his child 
 would have interested me had they been 
 absolute stranirers. As it was, while I 
 shrank from revealing myself, I was drawn 
 towards them by ieelin^^s. which, thou'j;li 
 complex, all tended in one direction. If I 
 could ever render these poor, defrauded 
 relations any service, I would <j;o through 
 fire and water to do it. It had made my 
 cheeks burn, knowing all I did, to liear 
 John Penruddocke speak of my mother 
 and brother as he had done. I was asham- 
 ed to address him ; and yet I longed to 
 shake his hand, and to exj^-ess to him how 
 much I -honored his bravery and hxrge 
 mindedness in misfortune. 
 
 My luggage had no address, and on the 
 stranger's book 1 inscribed myself as Mr. 
 Smith. 
 
 Tiie next morning I was in the salle 
 early, before Cousin John and his daugh- 
 ter were down. I had arranged my plan 
 of operations, having gathered the pre- 
 vious evening, from some further fragments 
 of conversation which I have thought it 
 unnecessary to repeat here, that father and 
 daughter were to spend a coujjle of days 
 at the inn together, before Elizabeth was 
 handed over to Mademoiselle Pla<;ant's 
 establishment. Those days would be spent 
 partly in lionizing the town, no doubt ; and 
 here was my opportunity. To intrude my- 
 self upon them at their breakfast was im- 
 possible. Perhaps it had dawned on my 
 "shrew" little cousin that the young 
 stranger who had supped at the table, 
 the night before, had watched and lis- 
 tened to them ; at all events, she made 
 breakfast at the farther end of the room, 
 and I could hear nothing she said. I got 
 up, and sauntered towards the cathedral. 
 It was probably the first object that would 
 attract Strangers : if not, I was almost 
 sure to come upon them in their round of 
 sight-seeing, later in the day. But even 
 before I had reached St. Bavon, Mr. Pen- 
 ruddocke and his daughter, walking at a 
 rapid pace, overtook me : the father in a 
 battered wide-awake, Elizabeth in a straw 
 hat which had clearly met with some hard 
 usage. !My dee{)-laid plot was disconcerted, 
 however, by the sight of a little crt^ature, 
 voluble and prodigal of gesticulation, who 
 ambled alongside of them, and whom I 
 recognizeil at once as belonging to the 
 odious race of laqnais tie place. As they 
 passed me, I caught fragments of his de- 
 testable jargon (had I not suffered under 
 the like at Antwerp, at Bruges, and else- 
 
 where?), composed of low Dutch, and yet 
 lower French, in equal parts, wiih a word 
 of incomprehensible English here and 
 there. I followed them into the cathedral. 
 At a distance wiiith could hardly be call- 
 ed respectful, I pursued them down the 
 side-aisles, catching fragments of the ex- 
 position of Porbus, Van Eyck, Crayer, 
 and lluljcns, to which my cousins were 
 being sulyected by the human parrot into 
 whose keeping they had delivered them- 
 selves. 
 
 " I can't understand what the man says 1 " 
 exclaimed Elizabeth im])atiently. 
 
 " Something about Vandyck and ' the 
 sheep,' " observed her father doubtfully. 
 Now was my moment. 
 
 " Excuse m'e," I approached, with my 
 best bow. " If you will allow me, I think 
 I can explain. He means ' The Lamb.' 
 The subject is the ' Adoration of the Lamb ' 
 — a very famous picture by Van Eyck — 
 not Vandyck, I believe. I have been read- 
 ing up my ' Murray,' so I know all about 
 it." 
 
 "Ah! Thank you, sir — impossible to 
 make out what these fellows say, I find ; 
 neither my girl nor I understanding 
 French." 
 
 " Your loss isn't great in this case, I 
 fancy," I returned with a smile ; " but, if 
 you will not mind my joining you, I think 
 I can exphiin what this fellow says, and 
 perhaps add something he does not. I have 
 been some weeks in this country, and begin 
 to uniierstand their lingo." 
 
 We " did " St. Bavon very thoroughly, 
 and I confined myself at first to playing 
 the part of an intelligible commentary on 
 the Utijuais de p^ace. 
 
 As we issued from the north door, he 
 pointed out Count Egmont's house. 
 
 " Who was he ? I never heard of him," 
 said Elizabeth, in a tone where curiosity 
 struggled with reserve. 
 
 " He and Count Horn raised the standard 
 of revolt in the Netherlands against the 
 Spanish rule, and were beheaded by Alva. 
 Schiller wrote a famous tragedy on it, I 
 believe. I've been reading 'Motley' 
 lately, and his account is awfully interest- 
 ing." 
 
 " What is ' Motley ' ? " asked Elizabeth ; 
 and when I liad explained the ellipsis, she 
 said bluntly, " I don't know any history 
 except the Kings of England, and not 
 much aljout them." 
 
 " You will find it adds to the interest of 
 seeing these old places to know something 
 of tlie events that occurred there," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Yes, my lass," said her father in a low 
 voice. " You must work away at history, at 
 INIam'selle's. The gentleman's very right."
 
 48 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 I could not hear her reply ; and we 
 walki'd on ; John Penruddoeke uddressini!; 
 a remark to aio, from time to time, throu!::;h 
 the running' (ire which the laquais kept up 
 beside us. Wa came to the Vrijda<fs 
 Market, and after the letritimate associa- 
 tions conni'cted witli it had fdtercd through 
 me to the understanding of my cousins, I 
 observed, — 
 
 "This is just the background for the 
 
 Long afterwards 
 speech. 
 
 I remembered that 
 
 " Crui'l, cruel the words I saiil, 
 Cruelly came they back to-day ! " 
 
 I low often, in future years, my mind 
 reverted to tliis discussion ! 
 
 " I don't see that it's any better for wo- 
 men," said Kiizabetli sharply. " If I was 
 sick of the world, I'd — I'd do something. 
 close of Browning's stirring ballad, where I'll umlertake some enterprise full of danger, 
 tilt! gallant horse ialls, amid the shouts of I and try to forget my misery that way. It's 
 the glad people, — only that the 'good so cowardly to skulk into a convent ! 
 news ' was brought from, and not to, Ghent 
 by that memorable ride." 
 
 " ^Vhat memorable ride ? And what head. " Don't be too hard on those who 
 
 was the good news ? " seek for a refuge from their troubles. I've 
 
 "You want to know too mnch," I replied, no taste for such places myself, but I've 
 
 laughing. "I really can't tell you. One known what sorrow was ; and I can fancy 
 
 supposes it to have been that some threat- that better men than me, who've got no 
 
 " Ah ! you young creatures ! wait till 
 you have suffered," said John, shaking his 
 
 ened calamit\- was averted from the city 
 but no matter, the ride's the thing, — 
 
 ' I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 
 I galloped, Dk-k galloped, we galloped all three ; 
 " Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 
 
 uudrew; 
 " Speed ! " echoed the walls to us galloping through ; 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
 And into the midnight we galloi)cd abreast.' " 
 
 little lassie nor any tie to bind them to the 
 world, may be that weary, you see, that 
 they long to creep into any quiet hole, and 
 devote themselves to God's service, till it 
 pleases him to call them away." 
 
 The defence of monastic institutions 
 
 from a man whose character and education 
 
 I should have expected would have rea- 
 
 dered him peculiarly antagonistic to them 
 
 " I like that," said Elizabeth, looking ' struck me as almost pathetic ; but Elizabeth 
 
 really excited : " I don't care for p6etry, ' would not admit her father's apology un- 
 
 generally, it's such sickly stuff; but I challenged. 
 
 like that, I can understand it." | " I remember hearing a proverb once, 
 
 I repeated the whole ballad, which I dad, — I think it was translated from the 
 
 knew by heart. She was delighted. Our 
 acquaintance made a sudden stride ; and 
 she began to converse without any vestige 
 of reserve. 
 
 The laquuis led us round the town, point- 
 
 Latin, — which said, ' To labor is to pray.' 
 That's a better religion than counting one's 
 beads all day long." 
 
 " Different folk have different ways, las- 
 sie. You can't have oi'ie way for all. 
 
 ing out the various historical buildings, and j You're strong, ye see, Liz, and have never 
 trying to seduce us inside a number of had a tumble yet, as one may say : I hope 
 churches, which we resolutely declined, you never may. Young things like you 
 At last we came to the Beguinage. i don't know what troubles are, that Imfit 
 
 Have you any curiosity to visit a nun- ' broken-down iblk from going on fighting 
 
 nery ? " I asked. 
 ■ " None," re[)licd Elizabeth. " What do 
 women shut themselves up like that for ? 
 So stupid I 
 
 with the world." 
 
 Our walk round and about the town 
 lasted more than two hours John Pen- 
 ruddocke, simple, unworldly man, clearly 
 
 " In this order they are bound by no I never concerned himself as to who or what 
 
 vow, and may return to the world when 
 they please. Besides, they do no end of 
 good among the sick." 
 
 " They might do as much without shut- 
 ting themselves up behind that wall and 
 moat. Perhaps it may be good for very, 
 very old women, who can't get about, — ■ 
 but girls! Oh, dear! I should run away 
 the first week." 
 
 " You haven't 'a vocation,' as they call 
 
 I was. It was enough that I was a good- 
 natured youngster, and had suiiicient in- 
 telligence to make my company ])leasant 
 to his child. Nothing seemed more natu- 
 ral to him than to propose that we should 
 dine together ; and we did so. The talk 
 was chiefly between Elizabeth and me. 
 John joined in occasionally ; but he left the 
 starting and main race of conversation to 
 " the \oun2 folk." Elizabeth threw her- 
 
 it," said I, laughing. " But the strangest self into evtry subject 1 advanced with the 
 thing is to think of men shutting them- intensity of a passionate nature and a bril- 
 selves up like this. I can understand wo- | liant intelligence, to whom all that is new 
 man; but a fellow who becomes a monk is matter of eager inquiry, all that Isold 
 must be a muff." • has been submitted to, and disposed of,
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 49 
 
 bv a lieaflstron<j and immatiiro jud^iiucnt. 
 TliL-re wt'io 111) hall-tints witli her, no hesi- 
 tation or indifFerence ; whatever her ima- 
 gination seized, was painted in stroma black 
 and white ; thin;is were, beautiful or aboai- 
 inable ; to be vehemently loved or as vio- 
 lently loathed ; supremely rijxht or exeera- 
 bly wron'.^. She was a eurious mixture of 
 the child and the girl, with just the first 
 hint — no more — of womanhood. Wild 
 and wilful one moment ; earnest and deep- 
 thoughted the next, — a fine nature, whieh, 
 as yet, had had too little culture, but had 
 at least escaped the smoothing-iron of con- 
 ventionalities. 
 
 She asked me endless questions; she 
 evinced the liveliest curiosity about English 
 counti-y life, the habits and treatment of 
 all domestic animals, and every sort of 
 sport. Then, in return, she described to 
 me her life in Virginia, her garden, and 
 her pets. But the range of our talk em- 
 braced higher subjects than these. It was 
 on Ibis occasion, as she told me long after- 
 wards, that the ardent desire for knowledge 
 was really kindled within her, — that she 
 was first penetrated by the conviction that 
 ignorance, if not disgraceiul, might at least 
 be inconvenient. From what small seed 
 may not great fruits be grown ! Assuredly 
 I had no pretensions to scholarship ; but 
 my love of history and poetry had made 
 me tolerably conversant with all the well- 
 known facts connected with the Nether- 
 lands, and most of what had been said or 
 sung concerning them. When I spoke of 
 Mary of Burgundy, of Philip van Artveldt, 
 of William the Silent, I found that Eliza- 
 beth did not even know their names. The 
 appetite which I had whetted, however, she 
 satisfied by diligent study of history from 
 that day forwards. 
 
 The following, which was to be John's 
 last day in Ghent, we spent entirely to- 
 gether ; and Elizabeth and I became great 
 friends, after a certain fashion, that is to 
 say, she was as thoroughly at* ease with 
 me, and contradicted me as bluntly, as if 
 we had known each other for months. We 
 took a walk in the afternoon, along the 
 canal, when an incident occurred, only 
 worth record inasmuch as it cemented our 
 i'riendship, and was the cause of my discov- 
 ering myself to my cousins. 
 
 Elizabeth, full of mad freaks, ran on be- 
 fore us now and again, tugging at the 
 barge-ro]ies, jumping into the barges them- 
 selves, skipping and leaping backwards 
 ami forwards, and talking to us all the 
 time. In one of these evolutions her foot 
 cau'iht in a chain, and she was ])recipitate(l 
 into the water. The next minute my coat 
 ■was off, and I jumped in after her. There 
 was no danger, provided she did not clutch 
 
 and drag me down. This at first she very 
 naturally tried to do, Init when I ciied out to 
 her that if she persisted in this course, we 
 shoulil both be drowned, she at once 
 obeyed my injunctions to trust herself to 
 me, and then a couple of strokes enabled 
 me to bring her to shore. There stood her 
 father, white as a sheet, and unable to 
 utter a sound. He could not swim, and 
 the sight of his child struggling in the 
 water had almost paralyzed him. Of us 
 three, he was the only one who sufi'ered 
 from the fright ; and he did not recover 
 from the shock for some hours. As to 
 Elizabeth, the only effect it had was to 
 make her uncommonly quiet for the rest 
 of the evenintr. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 John Penruddocke's gratitude to me 
 was out of all proportion to the service 
 rendered. It was in vain I pointed out 
 that any one of the bargemen at hand 
 could have done equally well what I did. 
 John persisted in regarding me as the pre- 
 server of his child's life. 
 
 We were sitting together that night, — 
 Elizabeth had gone to bed, — when he 
 said, holding out his hand, — 
 
 '• I wish, my dear young sir, there were 
 any way of proving to you all I feel. I 
 can't be grateful enough for the chance 
 which brought us together here." 
 
 " Nor I, Mr. Penruddocke : I may truly 
 say that." 
 
 " I hope our acquaintance is not to end 
 here, young man, but that you will consider 
 me as a friend from this day forward, 
 though one old enoucrh to be vour grand- 
 father." 
 
 " I assure you, sir, I desire nothing so 
 much." 
 
 " And if I can ever serve you in any way," 
 continued John, " I'm not a man of many 
 words — but if I can ever do any thing lor 
 you, — it ain't likely — but if i can, I shall 
 be glad to show you I'm not ungrateful. 
 You have laid me under an obligation that 
 nothing can wipe away." 
 
 " No, Mr. Penruddocke," said I hurriedly, 
 and coloring to the roots of my hair, " I 
 cannot let you say that. It is I, on the con- 
 trary — if you knew who I was — if you 
 knew my name, you wouldn't say that." 
 
 He looked at me in surjirise lor a mo- 
 ment : perhaps he thought I was a linen- 
 draper's apprentice on a holiday, then he 
 said with a smile, — 
 
 " It matters nothing to me who you are. 
 We get very indifferent to rank and such
 
 60 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 thinirs in the -wilds, where the best part o' 
 my life has been passed." 
 
 '• Well, at all events,"' I blurted out. with 
 a" great etVort, " it is time you knew who it 
 ■was you ollV-red your friendship to. I am 
 Osmund Penriiddocke, Raymond's brother. 
 I wouldn't tell you before ; for I had the 
 greatest desire to know you, and I telt that 
 of eourse you and your child would shrink 
 from any member of our branch of the 
 family." 
 
 My cousin pushed back his chair, and 
 looked at me from head to foot. 
 
 '• So you are Osmund, are you? Well I 
 to be sure ! Onlv think ofthat, now ! Nav, 
 but you're wron<r, lad. I owe none of you 
 any grudge. Ye've done no more than I 
 should have done in your place. Of course 
 it was a great disappointment to me. ^Ve 
 thought the chain of evidence was complete 
 — well ! it broke down. Luck, ye see, was 
 on your side ; but is that a reason I should 
 bear you ill-will ? Not at all : I'm glad 
 to call you my cousin, there! I'm glad to 
 think the same blood flows in our veins, Os- 
 mund. You're a fine younq; chap ; and it's 
 a pleasure to me to think that Lizzie owes 
 her life to you, instead of to a stranger." 
 
 He wrung my hand again in his brawny 
 fist, and then examined me more atten- 
 tively. 
 
 " You ain't like your mother : I sup- 
 pose you took after your father V The Pen- 
 ruddocke nose, I see, whereas Raymond's 
 got the regular features of my lady. But I 
 like your face better, my boy : I don't mind 
 saying ihat much ; though your brother's 
 a comely young chap, and I owe him no 
 spite, remember." 
 
 " You are very generous," I stammered. 
 '• Few men in your place would say what 
 you do. Yours is a very hard case. The 
 property cugld to be yours. No one is more 
 sure of that than I, and it is impossible you 
 an ever look on us as the rightful own- 
 ers. I am afraid Miss Pcnruddocke won't 
 speak to me when she knows who I am." 
 
 " Won't speak to the man who saved her 
 life ! You haven't such a bad opinion o' 
 mv lass as that ? She's a rou2h little dia- 
 mond, Ijut she is one. She has been taking 
 stock of you all day, and she likes you, — 
 I see that fast enough. After you pulled 
 her out of the water, she said very little, — 
 she was a bit upset, may be, but you wait 
 till to-morrow morning ! " 
 
 And, lo ! the next morning, as I was 
 sitting down to my Vjreakfast, my Cousin 
 Elizabeth entered the room, and walked 
 straight up to me. I rose, waiting to see 
 what she would do. She colored a little, 
 and then hehl out her hand. 
 
 " So you are Cousin Osmund." 
 
 " JTes," said I. " I hardly expected you 
 
 would speak to one who, you had made up 
 your mind, was " false and cold-!)looded.' " 
 
 She looked fixedly at me, and then tossed 
 her head. 
 
 " Listeners never hear any good of 
 themselves, — not 'that I ifas speaking of 
 you, when I said those words ; but how 
 mean of vou to listen to what I was say- 
 ing ! " 
 
 '• I couldn't help it, you talked so loud 
 all the time I was at supper." 
 
 " Then you ought to have got up, and 
 walked away." 
 
 "What without my supper? Come, 
 that is hard. I did not know the least who 
 you were, and your conversation interested 
 me exceedingly, long before our relation to 
 each other dawned on me." 
 
 " Well, I didn't come here to quarrel," 
 said the girl, playing abstractly with a knife 
 on the table ; " You pulled me out of the 
 water yesterday, and I suppose I must be 
 very grateful. Dad says so. At all events, 
 I think I like you well enough to call you 
 ' Cousin Osmund.' " 
 
 " Thank you. I am grateful for that." 
 
 " Don't laujrh at me," said she lookin<T 
 sharply up into my f ice. " I wonder if you 
 are true ; if not — I hate lies. Why did 
 you call yourself Mr. Smith ? " 
 
 " Oh ! all great poeple have travelling 
 names, so as to pass unrecognized. I want- 
 ed to pass unrecognized by a very sharp 
 young lady, so I became Smith of London 
 for a few hours." 
 
 "Humph! I felt I had seen your face 
 somewhere, though it had only been for a 
 minute." 
 
 Then, after a moment's pause, she added 
 eagerly, — 
 
 " But we heard you had run away from 
 home and were lost : was it true ? " 
 
 " Yes, I ran away, and enlisted." 
 
 " Why did you do that ? " 
 
 " I cannot answer thar (juestion. Ask me 
 any thing that has no relation to my home, 
 and I will tell you." 
 
 " Only one question more about your home 
 — have you been there since ? " 
 
 " No, but I have seen my mother. I am 
 here with her full knowledge, if you mean 
 that." 
 
 " Then you are not a soldier now ? '" she 
 pursued, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 " No : but I am to be one again shortly. 
 My discharge was purchased, and now I am 
 to have a commission in the Guards." 
 
 " Shall you be a genera4 ? " 
 
 " Not at once — some day I hope.", 
 
 " When you've been in battle, I suppose ? 
 Oh ! how I should like to be a soldier ! 
 Tell me what you did all day." 
 
 " Drill, parade, make our beds, clean our 
 arms and belts, fetch our diuuers ; but
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 61 
 
 most of the timo T was an officer's servant, 
 ami only went to full parades." 
 
 " A servant ! I should hate that. But 
 what is a soldier's drill V " 
 
 " I will drill you, it' you hke. You want 
 settinn; up very much. As a brother-soUiier 
 used to say to ine, ' You poke like a goose 
 in the stubble.' Now, then, heads up, arms 
 straight down, elbows in, shouldei's back. 
 Don't stick yourself out like that. There, 
 now, put out your rii;ht toot, and balan(;e 
 yourself on your left. See how you totter ! 
 You can't bahince yourself a bit I Try to 
 put your foot slowly to the ground without 
 shaking your whole body, then do the same 
 with vour left foot, — that's it." 
 
 John eanie in a quarter of an hour later, 
 and found Elizat)eth marching gravely, in 
 slow time, round the room, and I, in true 
 sergeant-fashion, walking backwards before 
 her, roaring out lustily the words of com- 
 mand, " Riiiht half-turn ! " " Mark time 1 " 
 " Forwards ! " 
 
 John stood and laughed heartily. 
 " Brayvo, Osmund, my boy ! It's a pity 
 you can't stay here, and drill all the girls 
 at Mam'selle's ; but they'd be fiilling in love 
 Avith you, — it wouldn't do, I suppose." 
 
 " All girls are not such stupids, dad, — 
 fallin'^ in love, indeed ! " and Lizzie halted. 
 with her head more erect than I had yet 
 succeeded in making it. 
 
 "Ah! wit till youVe a bit older, Liz. 
 You'll know what it is some day." 
 
 " Ot eour.'^e I shall. I shall fall in love 
 when I'm — let me see — when I'm thirty, 
 I think, — with the bravest man I can find ; 
 and when we're married " — 
 
 " Ell I stop a bit! How do yon know 
 
 the cliap will like you, jMiss Lnpudence V " 
 
 She made no reply, but looked out of 
 
 window ; then suddenly turning to me, she 
 
 sai<l. — 
 
 " Cousin Osmund, you promised to an- 
 swer any cpiesiions I asked that were not 
 about your iiome. AVill you answer hon- 
 estly the one I want to ask V " 
 
 " If I can't answer it honestly, I won't 
 answer it at all." 
 
 " Well, then. — now, dear dad, you 
 musn't Ijc vexed, but the other day I over- 
 heard a man say " — 
 
 " Ilalloo ! " I exclaimed, " I thought you 
 couldn't do such a mean thing?" 
 
 "I couldn't help it, — it was on board 
 ship. And I heard this man say to anotlier 
 that I was the udiest girl he had ever seen 
 — am I ? " 
 
 I was ratiier staggered, but laughed. 
 " How can I teil V He is very lucky if 
 he has never seen an uglier." 
 
 " That is not an honest answer." She 
 fixed her keen eyes on me. " Am I very 
 ugly, or not? " 
 
 " No, not now : T mean, that T don't think 
 so now. I thought so when I first looked 
 at you ; but I'm sure, if that man had talked 
 to you for a few moments, he would have 
 changed his opinion." 
 
 '• There, my lass ! now I call that a bet- 
 ter conn)liment than you deserve. If your 
 looks are good enough for them that know 
 you, and love you, Lizzie, what do the rest 
 matter? " 
 
 She was silent for a minute ; then she 
 said very gravely to me, — 
 
 " Do men ever love ugly women ? " 
 
 "Certainly: I have heard that most of 
 the women who have been c(debrated for 
 their influence in the world have not been 
 beauties." 
 
 " But clever, Liz," said her father, think- 
 ing that he would improve the occasion : 
 " the less looks a girl has to boast of. the 
 more she must improve her wits. Ain't 
 that so, Osmund ? " 
 
 '•I su[ipose so, — lint my cousin Eliza- 
 beth has no lack of wits. I'll be bound, 
 if she chooses it, she beats every girl at 
 Mademoiselle Pla(jant's at the end of a 
 year." 
 
 Elizabeth shook her hend, but I saw by 
 the expression of her eye that she was 
 pleased. 
 
 We sat down to breakfast, and John 
 Penrnddocke began discussing his plans. 
 lie was to leave for Ostend liy the after- 
 noon train, after taking Elizabeth to her 
 school. 
 
 '• W^here are you going to live in Eng- 
 land ? " I asked. 
 
 " I go back to America for three months, 
 to wind up my affairs there. Humphrey 
 wishes us to settle over here ; and so, at last, 
 I have 'taken the decision : but, at my 
 time o' life, it's a hard wrencdi, Osmund. 
 It's like tearing up an old tree, and stick- 
 ing him into the ground again. My roots, 
 ye see, are all struck there. I was born and 
 bred and married there ; and there my jioor 
 wife lies, and I thought to lie too ; but it 
 seems it ain't to be." 
 
 "I am very glad you have made up your 
 mind to come and live in P^nuhind," I said. 
 " You return, then, for Elizabeth's Christ- 
 mas holiday. Where do you mean to take 
 a house ? " 
 
 ■ " In the suburbs of London, on account 
 o' Humphrey, who wishes us to be near him. 
 He's very fond o' Liz, you see. Else I 
 should feel the change less, if I took some 
 bit of a farm in the countrj'." 
 
 " O dad ! Let us go to the country. 
 We shall die of those horrid streets, I know. 
 We were not made for towns, you and I. 
 Let us take a snug little farm, and have 
 some pigs, and some cows that 1 can milk, 
 and a horse that I can ride into market,
 
 52 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 Avitli the butter and cirprs. Oh ! how jolly 
 that will be ! And we'll invite very, very 
 particular friends to stay with us — no one 
 else — and Cousin Humphrey can come 
 down when he likes." 
 
 Jolin stroked his girl's head. 
 
 " Ah ! it soinids pleasant, my lass; Init 
 it won't do. They tell me you nuist see 
 something more of the ways of othei- fulk 
 now, — not go on as we have been doing, 
 living like Red Indians, my dear. You're 
 half a little savage already, Liz ; and it's 
 time you were tamed. Iluniplirey says so, 
 and I know he's ri'dit. I'^lse, d've think 
 I'd have broken up the old home ? " 
 
 I noticed that Elizabeth, instead of re- 
 plying by a burst of passionate regret for 
 her old home, as she had done the first 
 night I met her, only said that she hated 
 towns, and should never be happy but in 
 the country, where she could do just what 
 she liked. 
 
 " Eh, Liz, but that's just what we ain't 
 meant to do. That's why I send you to this 
 Mani'sell's, — besides the book-learning, to 
 find out that here, in the world, you mayn't 
 do just what you like. Ain't that so, Os- 
 mund V " 
 
 "I don't know much about ' the world ' 
 myself, Cousin John, except a barrack- 
 room, where one certainly d(jesn't do as one 
 likes. I am going to school too, like Eliza- 
 beth : and we'll compare notes, when we 
 next meet, which of us is in the highest 
 state of subordination — I, in the Grena- 
 diers ; or she, at Mademoiselle ria9ant's." 
 
 I did not see much more of Elizabeth. 
 She and her father were alone together the 
 greater part of the morning. I was in the 
 salle in the afternoon, when she came to 
 bid me good-by. The poor child's eyes were 
 red and swollen, but she was perfectly calm. 
 
 "I hope you will be happy at your 
 school," I said. 
 
 " How can I be hapyy without dad ? ' 
 she answered almost fiercely. " You use 
 wordj that mean nothing, like every one 
 else" 
 
 " I mean, that I hope you will be less un- 
 happy than you expect. There's nothing 
 r.ke work to keep otfthe blues. I found it 
 so when I was a recruit." 
 
 " I shall Avork, because I've promised 
 dad, — not because it can make any differ- 
 ence," she said, with a look of determina- 
 tion. "I hate it. No one can understand 
 what it is to me to be without him, and to 
 be a prisoner behind four great walls. 
 Good-by ! " 
 
 She held out her jiand rather coldly. I 
 felt infinite sympathy for her, jioor child, 
 though she did not think it. 
 
 "I hope we shall meet next summer, 
 Elizabeth," I said. 
 
 She turned away, without a word, and 
 left the room. 
 
 I met John Peni-uddocke two hours later 
 at the railway-station, where we were to 
 separate. He looked very sad. 
 
 " Eh ! but it's hard jiarting with an only 
 child, OsmumJ. My poor lass ! she bore 
 u[) to the end, before me, because I begged 
 of her, for my sake, not to give way ; but 
 as soon as the door was shut betwixt us in 
 the passage, I heard her sobs. She is a 
 strange mixture, is my Liz, — the soft 
 heart of a cliild with the pluck of a man. 
 God bless you, my lad ! we shall meet 
 again in a few months, I hope, and meet 
 not only as cousins, but old friends." 
 
 I found a copy of " Philip van Arte- 
 veldt " in Brussels^the next day, and sent 
 it, without a word, to Elizabeth. 
 
 CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 I RECEIVED my commission in the course 
 of the winter, and about the middle of 
 February was installed in a lodging in 
 Mount Street, and made my first plunge 
 into London life. The water was cold, and 
 the current strong : my Uncle Levison 
 undertook to teach me how to breast it ; and 
 an able instructor, no doubt, he would have 
 proved to one better able to profit by his 
 advice. Worldly wisdom, however, I never 
 accjuired, and I fear now I never shall. 
 When he pointed out to ine the men whose 
 society I should affect, and why, his words 
 fell upon inattentive ears : it was not in my 
 nature to cultivate intimacy for anv other 
 consideration than a strong personal liking. 
 When he said, " Be careful how you express 
 an opinion about anyone, — always wait to 
 find out what the person you are talking 
 to thinks, before you commit yourself," his 
 advice was so utterly antagonistic to my 
 liahit of direct utterance of my thought, 
 that he migiit as well have told me never 
 to converse but in Greek. Finally, when 
 he said, " ximuse yourself with women, but 
 take care whatever you do, never to get 
 entangled. Never icrite any thing. Let- 
 ters are the very devil ! Talk what non- 
 sense you like. A flirtation with a married 
 woman in a certain position (take care 
 she's in the right set), you will find rather 
 an advantage ; but she mustn't get too 
 strong a hold on you, or you'll find it a 
 deuced bore. If she takes to being jealous, 
 your life is not worth having." When he 
 used such language as this, I only laughed. 
 I felt my heart to be proof against all the 
 sirens of fashionable or unfashionable life ; 
 but had it not been so, the caution would
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 Lave been wholly unavailing;. The idea of 
 applying to love the precept, " Thus far 
 shalt tliou go, and no farther," was to mo 
 absoluttily comical. I knew that, in my 
 case, whether wisely or unwisely, it would 
 be " all or nothing." 
 
 My uncle really took considerable trou- 
 ble about me. In his own way, nothing 
 could be kinder. He introduced me to 
 every man •' worth knowing," as he termed 
 it, in and out ot the club ; he took me to 
 all his pet tradesmen, and pointed out tliose 
 who were to be avoided as " infernal duns," 
 He procured for me invitations to the few 
 lar'^e parties and political drum^ that were 
 going forward, and presented me to so 
 many ladies in succession, that I found it 
 quite hopeless to remember one-half of 
 their names. What could he do more ? 
 
 I had written constantly to Evelyn, but 
 had only heard twice from her in the course 
 of six months. She told me her mother 
 objected to her writing often ; but I must 
 not think she forgot me ; and with this I 
 was fain to be content. One morning, 
 shortly after my arrival in London, I re- 
 ceived the following : — 
 
 " Beacmanoir, March 4. 
 "My dear Osmuxd, — -You are now 
 settled in London, as a Guardsman, and I 
 am sure you are too sensible not to under- 
 stand that it would not be at all the tldng 
 for my darling child to continue writing to 
 you, as she has hitherto done. Your dear- 
 est mother and I are quite of one mind 
 upon this point ; for you know she feels 
 towards Evelyn as if she were her own 
 child, I trust the cousinly regard my 
 darling has felt for you, dear Osmund, may 
 never again receive the ruda shock it did 
 when you ran away from home ; and that 
 you may never give your angelic mother 
 any further cause for anxiety. Still, it is 
 much better, and I leel sure your own (jnod 
 sense will see it in that light, that there 
 should be no correspondence between Eve- 
 lyn and you, now that she is no longer a 
 child, — for she is very nearly seventeen. 
 I always feel the deepest interest and nnx- 
 ielij about you, my dear Osmund : it will be 
 the greatest pleasure to us both to hear 
 that you are doing well in your new career. 
 You cannot have a better example than 
 your beloved brother, of whom your peer- 
 less mother may justly feel proud ! 
 
 "Ever your ailectionate cousin, 
 
 " Belinda Hamleigh." 
 
 Of course I was a good deal irritated, 
 and, in the first heat of my indignation, I 
 was unreasonable enough to tliink that 
 Evelyn ought to disobey this mandate : as 
 if a gentle, fawn-like creature, who had 
 
 never left her mother'si side, never diso- 
 beyed or disputed her authority, could sud- 
 denly belie her whole natiu'e, and do that 
 which would seem to her utterly unjustifi- 
 able, I wrote to Mrs. Hamleigh, suftplicat- 
 ing lier to rescind her cruel injunction ; 
 but I pleaded my cause so passionately 
 and unwisely that 1 received a reply by 
 return-{)Ost, saying it was clear that I at- 
 tached an undue importance to a mere 
 child's letters (this after reminding me that 
 Ii^velyn was no longer a child! — but Mrs. 
 Hamleigh was never famous for consist- 
 ency), and that such extreme folly on my 
 part only proved how necessary it was that 
 the correspondence should cease, 
 
 I made up my mind at once. Mrs. Hara- 
 leigh's prejudice against me was only too 
 evident from her first letter. If Evelyn 
 and I were parted for an indefinite time, 
 without a word on my side, every effort 
 would be made to loosen the hold I had 
 upon her heart. But for the rupture of our 
 intercourse, the vow which was registered, 
 in my heart might not have found open 
 expression so soon : her mother, however, 
 had left me no choice, Evelyn must receive 
 the assurance of my imalterable attaoJa- 
 ment; though I would not attempt to bind 
 her, child as she still lived in my memory, 
 by any form of promise. 
 
 And to that effect I wrote. I said that 
 she had no choice but to obey her mother's 
 will at present, and to give up writing to 
 me ; and that as for me, knowing it would 
 distress her to receive my letters contrary 
 to her mother's wish, I should make no 
 attempt, after this, to communicate secretly 
 with her. But I conjured her, lor all that, 
 not to forcret me, though it mitrht be long 
 ere we met ; for I could never return to 
 Beaumanoir, and Mrs, Hamleigh was not 
 likely to invite me to " The Cottage," 
 When Evelyn was introduced into the 
 world, no one could prevent our meeting ; 
 and, in the interval, I pledged myself to re- 
 main constant to her. Until then I would 
 ask for nothing; but if, when she left the 
 schoolroom, the love of her childhood was 
 unchanged, I assured her that I felt confi- 
 dent of overcoming her mother's opposi- 
 tion, and every other obstacle, in time. 
 
 I enclosed this letter to Sparshott, our old 
 butler, who was always a friend of mine, 
 and I bade him deliver it privately into 
 Miss Ilamleigh's own hand. 
 
 When I had done this, I felt happier. I 
 woulil not regard this as moi-e than a dark 
 cloud blown across the summer of my sky : 
 it was not to be eternally overcast on that 
 account. The worst of it was, that I had 
 no one to whom to confide my troubles. I 
 longed for some good woman friend, into 
 whose sympathizing breast 1 could pour my
 
 54 
 
 PENKUDDOCKE. 
 
 complaints; but as yet I had no friends, 
 only a daily-inereasiiig array of acquaint- 
 ances. Several tellows at the club, of my 
 own stamlinjj;, 1 liked, anil was sooii (juile 
 at home with them; but it was '•home" 
 in a foreii^n land. They knew little or 
 nothing of me; i knew, still less about 
 them ; and confidence between men is a 
 ])lant of slow growth. But a man who lias 
 never opened his heart to another will 
 sometimes be moved to trust a woman on 
 the shortest acquaintance. It was so in 
 my case. 
 
 1 had called at Madame d'Arnheim's 
 house on my arrival in London, and had 
 learnt that she was absent. 1 lelt my card, 
 though I thought it probable — no, not 
 probable, but possible, that she might have 
 forgotten my name by this time. Nearly 
 a mouth later, 1 received a little note: she 
 had just come to town, and begged me to 
 call any day at live o'clock. The very 
 next afternoon at dusk found me in Ches- 
 ham Place. 
 
 It was a moderate-sized house, very sim- 
 ply furnished, but made bright with a pro- 
 fusion of dowers. Madame d'Arnheim 
 had introduced the German itishion of ivy 
 trained up columns of trellis-work in the 
 corners of the rooms, and over a screen 
 ■which encircled her writing-table. It was a 
 bleak March evening. In the streets all had 
 looked pinched, and blue, and wind-bitten ; 
 here there was a general aspect of cheer- 
 fulness and warmth. The room was aglow 
 "with the ruddy firelight, which fell upon 
 Madame d'Arnheim's simple brown dress 
 and the edges of her soft light hair. She 
 sat with her back to the window, and her 
 feet on the fender ; and, as I entered, she 
 laid a book upon her lap, and held out her 
 hand, saying, — 
 
 " How good of you, Mr. Penruddocke, to 
 answer my note so quickly ! I am so glad 
 to see you again. I have often thought 
 over our steamboat acquaintance, and won- 
 dered whether you would find me out when 
 you came to London. I have only been 
 home a week, and found your card on my 
 return. And now tell me all about your- 
 self. How long have you been here ? " 
 
 '• I believe, really,- only five weeks ; but 
 it seems about five months." 
 
 " What ! Has the time hung so heavy 
 on your hands? How is that V Have you 
 not already made heaps of acquaintances ? " 
 
 ''Oh! yes — only too many. I forget 
 half their names. I have been to so many 
 places, and have seen so many new faces 
 every day, that it accounts, I suppose, fur 
 the time seeming so long ; besides," I added, 
 with a little hesitation, " other reasons, 
 perhaps." 
 
 JShe looked at me for a moment, as if 
 
 waiting for what I should add ; then, will 
 the fine tact of good-breeding, she took nc 
 further heed of my embarra.--sment, bul 
 passed on to another subject. She askeu 
 me what I had been doing since we met, — 
 a narrative which Avas summed up in li 
 very few words ; and then she inquired 
 how I liked military life V 
 
 " You forget I am an old soldier," I said, 
 laughing ; '• though I am seeing militarj 
 life under rather different auspices now, 
 I like my regiment immensely ; but I should 
 prefer going on active service to kicking 
 my heels about London drawing-rooms." 
 
 * ■n • • 1 
 
 " Thank you. That is not civd to the 
 London drawing-room you are in." 
 
 "Oh! I am sure you know I didn't 
 mean that ! I always express myself awk- 
 wardly." 
 
 " Never mind. Perhaps I like you tht 
 better tor not hiving acquired a superfine 
 London polish yet. A little nature is v^'vy 
 pleasant. I see so little of it. ' /cA haU 
 sie Ueber icie Bilr als AJf'e,' as we say in 
 Germanv." 
 
 " The choice lies, then, between my 
 being a bear or an ape ? " 
 
 " Well, the bear-element in you is stron'j,'' 
 she said, smiling. " It makes you long lor 
 fighting. You will never become an ape, 
 I think. But as to active service, as there 
 is peace all over the world just at present, 
 thank Heaven ! you must be content to re- 
 main at home, liy the by, how is the lit- 
 tle cousin ? " 
 
 I sighed, and murmured something ; and 
 then, by degrees, how I scarcely know, it 
 filtered out, and she knew all my trouble. 
 Nothing could be kinder than she was : 
 she listened and sympathized, as women 
 only know how ; while, at the same turn;, 
 by taking a common-sense view of the po- 
 sition, which, with my excited feelings, I 
 was incapable of forming for myself, she 
 administered just the stimulant that my case 
 required. 
 
 " I feel for you very much," she said. 
 " I see enough of your character to know 
 what the breaking off of this correspond- 
 ence must be to you ; but I cannot say 
 that Mrs. Hanileigh lias acted otherwise 
 than as any sensible mother would. She 
 sees that a boy and girl love' has sjn-ung up 
 between you and her daughter. Is this a 
 marriage she would wish V Putting aside 
 the fact that you are a younger son, what 
 yuu have told me of yourself would cer- 
 tainly seem to justify her discouraging such 
 an idea. You ran away from home, and 
 enlisted ; you were not heard of lor 
 months ; you have quarrelled, or half-quar- 
 relled, with your mother. All this would 
 naturally leatl Mrs. Ilamleigh to disap- 
 prove of an engagement between you and
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 55 
 
 her daufrlitcr. What you have to do is to 
 prove, by your conduct, that she is mis- 
 taken in licr (i])inion of you. Let not the 
 ill-natured world be able to throw a stone 
 against you, Mr. Penruildocke. Be steady 
 and constant in your attachment ; and, if 
 Miss Hanilei2;h is the girl you believe her 
 to be, a year or tAvo's silence will not change 
 her." 
 
 The door at this moment opened ; and a 
 tall, fine man sauntered in, with the air 
 that told he was master of the house. 
 
 " Oh ! is that you ? INIr. Penruihlocke 
 — my husband. Mr. Penruddocke is my 
 acquaintance of the Antwerp steamer, Carl, 
 about whom I told you." 
 
 He shook hands with me; an<l the fire- 
 light fell clearly on his lace, which I had 
 before seen but indistinctly. I believe it 
 was thought handsome — the features were 
 shai-ply cut, if that constitutes beauty ; 
 but the face was bloodless, and the eyes 
 like two gray flints, which might, indeed, 
 upon occasion be made to strike fire, but 
 were, in ordinary life, utterly dead and col- 
 orless. His voice had a hard, metallic ring ; 
 and his manners the fine veneer which is gen- 
 erally found amono: diplomatists, — the best 
 counterft-it of that ingi'ained courtesy which 
 is the outgrowth of a genial nature. He was 
 dressed with great care. He always smiled 
 when he spoke to his wife, which he did in 
 English, with a strong German accent, and 
 with a sort of intimate politeness, which 
 struck me as strange ; but I had never seen 
 a foreign husband and wife together before, 
 and could not tell if their intercourse was 
 commonly of this nature. 
 
 Alter a few civil words to me, " Are you 
 going to Lady Castle's to-night V " he 
 asked, turning to his wife. She went on 
 knitting. 
 
 " Iso. — I think I shall remain at home. 
 You dine out, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes : I am going with Walstein to the 
 ' Strand ; ' but I will meet you at Lady 
 Castle's after, if you like to go." 
 
 '• Oh ! 1 know what that means : you will 
 be there at one o'clock:," she said, with a 
 laugh which did not sound to me very joy- 
 ous, — " when I shall be in bed and asleep, 
 Ihope." 
 
 '• Do come, INIadame d'Arnheim," I said. 
 " I have got a card from Lady Castle, whom 
 I don't know ; but my uncle says I nmst 
 go." 
 
 " Yes," she said, with a smile, " of course 
 you nmst go, — it is the thing. All the 
 best people who are in town will be there, 
 — and by ' best,' you understand that 
 among them are perhajjs some of the worst V 
 but that is of no consequence, I am always 
 told." 
 
 " My wife inquires too curiously what 
 
 people are, without being content with 
 what they seem," said Arnheim, showing 
 his white teeth. 
 
 " Well," I laughed, turning to her, " if 
 you won't come, and tell me ' what to eat, 
 drink, and avoid,' I shall be sure to be 
 tempted by all the worst dishes." 
 
 " I never Ibund that any one avoided a 
 dish because he was told it was unwhole- 
 some," she replied. " However, it is pure 
 laziness my not going, — these parties are 
 so little interesting to me ; and I will screw 
 up my courage, Mr. Penruddocke, for the 
 sake of giving you a ?ne/m of your feast to- 
 night. I so seldom have the happiness of 
 finding any one who does not know it all, 
 and is not thoroughly blase." 
 
 '• I hope you are flattered at being con- 
 sidered so innocent," said Arnheim, with a 
 mocking smile ; then, turning to his wife, 
 " Mr. Penruddocke has accomplished moie 
 than I can ever do ; but then I am afraid 
 you do not believe in my virtue, as you 
 seem to do in his," and he laughed a short, 
 hard laugh. " Mr. Penruddock, I hope my 
 wife may long continue in the same belief, 
 and that you will persuade her, consequent- 
 ly, to go out more than she has done of late, 
 whereby we shall all be gainers." 
 
 He ended with a little bow in her direc- 
 tion, much as he would have done towards 
 a lady whose acquaintance he had made 
 yesterday. Madame d'Arnheim knitted on 
 in silence. I rose to take my leave. 
 
 The count walked down stairs with me. 
 
 " Have you seen the new dancer at the 
 ' Strand ' ? No ? I have been three nights 
 running." 
 
 " Rather monotonous, isn't it ? " I asked 
 dubiously. " One ' breakdown ' is very 
 like another." 
 
 " It is not the dancing, — but such a fig- 
 ure ! The best-made woman in London." 
 
 •' You don't say so ! " 
 
 "Will you come? I will give you a 
 place in my box ? " 
 
 '' No, thank you. I shall go to Lady 
 Castle's early." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Lady Castle's was one of the least 
 spacious houses in Belgrave Square ; and 
 its size was a valid excuse for never invit- 
 ing above one-half of her accjuaintance. 
 The other half spoke evil of Lady Castle, 
 it is true ; but her charming manner, when 
 they met, generally made them condone 
 her sins of omission, until the ne.xt offence. 
 People might shake their heads; but when 
 she threw herself on your mercy, and of- 
 fered her cheek to be smitten (or kissed, as
 
 66 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 the case mijrht be), who could resist her ? 
 She wiis like a n;iu'j;lity but en-^aglnii child, 
 — thouiili, ill reality, her first youth was 
 past ; and her face, when seen under a 
 strong <j:as-lamp, or by the searchinfr liiijlit 
 of (lay (unsottened by a spotted veil), told 
 that she had lived every hour of her life ; 
 but her fi<inre was light and round as at 
 sixteen, and when " got up " of an evening, 
 she was still an extremely pretty woman. 
 "\Mion all vestige of beauty, however, shall 
 have departed, so long as life lasts, the wo- 
 man's undefinable attraction will remain 
 unchanged. People may say what they 
 like of her when she is absent ; they cannot 
 resist the influence of her voice and smile 
 when she is by. 
 
 She stood at the top of the stairs, sur- 
 rounded by a knot of men, among whom 
 were my uncle, a certain inane-looking Lord 
 Al'i^ernon, — with. whose lace and whose 
 character, as a notorious fortune-hunter, I 
 was already familiar, — Sir Walter Selden, 
 and others. There were two women in 
 the group ; one a regally-beautiful person, 
 with a diamond crescent on her brow, and 
 no clothes, to speak of, on her back ; the 
 other, a lady no longer young, who sat on 
 the lower steps of the upper flight of stairs, 
 and "chaffed " whoever went up or down. 
 
 " Lady Castle," said my uncle, " here is 
 my nephew, whom you were good enough 
 to send me a card for." 
 
 Lady Castle gave a gracious little wave 
 of her body, inimitable by any one not " to 
 the manner born." 
 
 " Your debut in London, I think, Mr. 
 Penruddocke ? " 
 
 " Yes," cut in my uncle, patting me on 
 the back, "you behold a youth who never 
 set foot in a London drawing-room till 
 three weeks ago." 
 
 " And you know no one yet, Mr. Penrud- 
 docke ? What Arcadian freshness ! How 
 
 wish I were you 
 
 That's awfully cruel," murmured Lord 
 Algernon. " You wish you didn't know 
 any one, — what shall we all do ? " 
 
 " K I didn't know you." smiled Lady 
 Castle, " I should have the pleasure to look 
 forward to making j'our acquaintance." 
 
 " And still have some illusions left about 
 Algy ! " laughed a good-natured face, be- 
 longing to a burly frame, the owner of 
 which seemed only known as " Old Jack." 
 His name was Horton. 
 
 " Illusions, Jack ? " said my uncle. 
 " Who wants illusions ? Facts are the 
 things we all want, — realities 1 Some like 
 Alg}', in pounds of gold ; some like Shylock, 
 in pounds of flesh, eh ? " 
 
 The wit was not excessive, but the laugh- 
 ter was loud. 
 
 " Here you have them I " cried the lady 
 
 seated on the stairs, looking over the bal- 
 ustrade at a huge back whif-h was ascend- 
 ing. '"No illusion about Mrs. Guildmore's 
 shoulders. It's a comfort in these days, 
 when one's faith is shaken in most things, 
 to find something one can really depend 
 upon." 
 
 " The girl's balance at Coutts's is solid 
 enough, i\h's. Chaflinch. Algy means to 
 depend on tlutf, if he can." 
 
 " What an idiot you are. Jack ! She'll 
 hear you," returned Lord Algernon. 
 
 " What are the odds against him now ? " 
 laughed the beautiful lady, whose manners 
 were not as stately as they should have 
 been, to suit her statuesque appearance. 
 
 " Just five to one. Lady Ancastar," said 
 my uncle, " and I don't mind if I (mter an- 
 other horse;" then he turned and whis- 
 pered something to Lady Castle. 
 
 The portly frame of Mrs. Guildmore, and 
 her daughter, who, report had already told 
 me, was the greatest heiress goin'i, were by 
 this time landed opposite Lady Castle. 
 The mother was an honest-looking vulgar 
 old soul ; the daughter, a plain girl, with a 
 sensible countenance, who looked out of 
 her element in this assemblage. She would 
 have been at home in a quiet country party, 
 where fashionable gossips were unknown, 
 and women wore last year's gowns. Sur- 
 rounded by all these pretty butterflies, 
 newly painted from Paris, she was as mis- 
 placed as a buttercup in a bouquet of gar- 
 denias, and evidently knew not what to 
 say, in the tide of nonsense that ebbed and 
 flowed around. 
 
 ." Mr. Penruddocke," said Lady Castle, 
 touching me with her fan, " let me intro- 
 duce you to Miss Guildmore." And there I 
 was nailed, as much to my own annoyance 
 as to Lord Algernon's, whose flabby offer- 
 ing of small talk was thus intercepted. 
 The girl seemed simple and sensible 
 enough ; but, as I had no fancy to be en- 
 tered on the betting-list, I did not follow 
 her when she moved on, after a lew minutes. 
 Mrs. Guildmore, by the sheer force of 
 weight, had borne down all oppo>ition in 
 the doorway, and was cleaving a pus- 
 sage for herself and daughter through the 
 crowded rooms. A crowd of men swam 
 after them, like carp after a loaf of bread. 
 
 " Osnmnd, my boy," said Uncle Levison, 
 "there's an opportunity for you to redeem 
 all the erroi's of your past. You've as good 
 a chance as any other fellow. The mother 
 is a sensible old woman, who doesn't ' hold 
 to a title,' as she expresses it, but is going 
 to let the girl choose ibr herself." 
 
 Before I could reply, a very artificial- 
 looking lady, with a lisp, and highly orna- 
 mented manners, accosted my uncle. I 
 heard him address her as Mrs. Hawksley,
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 57 
 
 and tlien I turned aw.iy. As I did so, my 
 foot cau<:ht in Mrs. Chaffinch's dress, and 
 tore it. She laughed good-humoredly when 
 I ajmloiiized. 
 
 " Never mind : it does as an introduc- 
 tion, Mr. Penruddocke ; lor I'm such an 
 ohl admirer of your uncle's, that we must 
 know one another, and so we may as well 
 break the ice at once." 
 
 " I didn't know there could be ice where 
 you were, Mrs. Chaffinch," said Sir Walter 
 Selden. 
 
 "Didn't you? I can tell you I'm dan- 
 gerously slippery at times. Impudent crea- 
 tures like you, who don't know how to keep 
 your distance, generally get a fall. Ha, 
 ha ! And now, Mr. Penruddocke, tell me, 
 you've been here at least a quarter of an 
 hour, whom have you fallen in love with V 
 I give you your choice ; but you're bound 
 to fall in love with some one." 
 
 " It is Vemharras du cUolx" I returned, 
 rather shyly, not feeling quite up to the 
 sort of repartee that seemed to be expected 
 of me. 
 
 " Oh, a base subterfuge ! What do you 
 say to Lady Ancastar ? — beautiful, isn't 
 she ? Such a head, and such shoul- 
 ders ! " 
 
 I assented mildly ; when Sir Walter said, 
 wiih a sardonic smile, — 
 
 " Lady Ancastar, with that crescent, looks 
 like Diana gone astray, — in the woods, of 
 course, I mean." 
 
 " And almost ready for the bath," 
 laughed another man, in a lower voice. 
 
 Mrs. Chaffinch now taking up the fire, 
 there was a smart interchange of somewhat 
 equivocal jokes, interspersed with a great 
 deal of laughter ; and I, seeing an opportu- 
 nity, as I thought, of penetrating the dense 
 crowd in the doorway, slipped behind my 
 uncle, in the hope of finding Madame d'- 
 Arnlieim. Impossible ; a surging mass of 
 white shoulders and black coats, of heads 
 crowned with other people's hair, and com- 
 plexions bought with a price, met my eye ; 
 but as to discovering the particular head of 
 which I was in search, it was as hopeless as 
 it was now to move either backwards or 
 forwards. " And this is called j^leasure ! " 
 I said to myself. 
 
 At that moment my ear caught a name 
 behind me, which made me start. 
 
 " His mother is Belinda Hamleigh's 
 great friend, isn't she ? Ya-as, of course, 
 your beautiiial sister, Lady Rachel. Ya-as 
 — oh! I know all about him. Father 
 dead, isn't he ? Ya-as, and the property 
 a fine one — long minority, I think — 
 ya-as." 
 
 It seemed unnecessary for my uncle to 
 say any thing, as the lady answered all her 
 own questions in this manner ; but she 
 
 paused for a moment, and he cut in with a 
 laugh, — 
 
 " Counting yoiu' chickens before they're 
 hatched, Mrs. Hawksley. Unfortunately 
 for this boy, he is the second son. I wish 
 he wasn't — worth twenty of the other; but 
 so it is." 
 
 " Oh, what a pity ! I thought this was 
 the one that Belinda hoped — ya-as. I 
 assure you. Col. Rich, for my part, I think 
 second sons are quite as agreeable some- 
 times as eldest ones ; and then they're so 
 useful for balls — ya-as. My girl always 
 says they give themselves more trouble — 
 ya-as, she does, really." 
 
 There was a break in the crowd, and I 
 caught sight of INIadame d'Arnheim in a 
 corner. I threaded my way to her. 
 
 " I am so glad to find you at last — only, 
 being a second son, perhaps you won't care 
 to talk to me," I began, laughing. "I have 
 just learnt that they are useful at balls, 
 and can sometimes, but with difficulty, be as 
 pleasant as elder ones." 
 
 " You forget I have no daughter. But 
 who has been making you so M'orldlv- 
 wise ? " 
 
 " A Mrs. Hawksley, I believe her name 
 is. She seems to know the Hamleighs. 
 Who is she ? Any very tremendous swell ? " 
 " By no means. Iler husband is member 
 for the county in which the Castles and the 
 Duke of Kendal live. He has a large 
 property, and his wife's whole aim in life is 
 'to get on,' as it is termed. She is a not 
 uncommon mixture of extreme silliness and 
 worldly sharpness; and by dint of wrig- 
 gling and pushing, she has achieved her 
 object. There are very few houses where 
 she does not go. But oh ! wlmt a life of 
 incessant toil, — what slavery, what morti- 
 fications, what humiliation, to obtain it 
 all I " ■ 
 
 •■' I thought Laily Castle's was one of the 
 most exclusive sets V " 
 
 " Yes ; but she is politic. Mrs. Hawksley 
 is a country neighbor; and it would be un- 
 wise to make an enemy of lier, tor many 
 reasons I cannot enter u])on." 
 
 " And those Guildmores — what can 
 make her ask Ihem f They look quite out 
 of their element." 
 
 " Half the men in Lady Castle's set are 
 hoping to marry the girl : they are asked 
 on that account. Do you know, the girl 
 told m(! the other night, with a look half 
 jiiteous, half comical, that she had had a 
 pi'oposal at every ball she had been at 
 since she came to London ? She is so dis- 
 gusted that I don't think any man who 
 pays her such ojien attention has a 
 chance." 
 
 " Why don't you tell Lord Algernon ? " 
 " I am not sufficiently interested — I will
 
 68 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 leave that to Carl. He is a fi-iond of liis 
 — none of luinr." 
 
 '' But, of course, you know all these peo- 
 ple very well V " 
 
 She shruLiged her pretty shoulders. 
 
 " They are the only people I see ; and 
 yet I am not intimate with any one of 
 them." 
 
 " Lady Castle seems charming — don't 
 you like her? " 
 
 " No. I don't," she said decidedly. " I 
 don't like any woman I can't trust ; but I 
 will not talk about her — at ail events, now. 
 Only that is one of the dishes which, if you 
 take my advice, yon will avoid." 
 
 " Like all forbidden fruit," said I, laugh- 
 ing,. " it looks tempting. And the gor- 
 geous Lady Ancastar — what do you sav 
 ito her ? " 
 
 '• AVith twice the beauty, none of the in- 
 sidious charm of the other. A vulgar- 
 minded woman, with no positive harm in 
 her, I think, but whose aim is to be con- 
 spicuous as the leader of the fastest set. 
 She does most outrageous things, which 
 scandalize people, and most of all the 
 dufdiess, her mother-in-law. They say she 
 rode a donkey-race on Hampstead Heath 
 last summer." 
 
 "Lord Ancastar is the Duke of Kendal's 
 son, isn't he ? What sort of a fellow is 
 he V " 
 
 " Clever/.s/;, — the leader of the new dem- 
 ocratic party ; but a man of no deep con- 
 victions, I fancy. He takes up this line, 
 as his Avife does hers, for the sake of notori- 
 ety. His radical opinions, which he an- 
 nounces on every occasion, irritate the 
 duke as much as Lady Ancastar's pranks 
 do the stately old duchess." 
 
 " A nice family party. Now for an- 
 other entree — I don't mean it as a pun — 
 but the black man, just come in, talking to 
 Lady Castle in the doorway." 
 
 " Did you ever see so villanous a face ? 
 I am sure that man has the evil eye. I 
 shudder whenever he comes near me ; and 
 yet half these ladies are mad about him. 
 His name is Benevento — Count Beneven- 
 to, he calls himself; and he is a irreat gam- 
 bier." 
 
 " Clearly another dish to be avoided," 
 said I. " Li fact, according to you, Mad- 
 ame d'Arnlieim, it seems as if I had better 
 go in for general abstinence. By the by, 
 is there a Lord Castle ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but you never see him. He is a 
 book-worm, and rarely leaves the coun- 
 try." 
 
 •' And lets his wife come to London by 
 herself? That seems to me very odd." 
 
 '• You will find so many things that 
 are much odder, before you have lived 
 among us long, Mr. Penruddocke, that it 
 
 will not strike you. You will find hus- 
 l)ands and wives completely seitarated, 
 though living in the same house. Tlu're is 
 a solitude greater than living in the coun- 
 try alone." 
 
 She turned away her head, and our con- 
 versation was interrupted for some minutes 
 by a brisk little old gentleman, in apjK'.ar- 
 ance, very like the comic father in a farce, 
 who came up and shook hands with Mad- 
 ame d'Arnlieim. His conversation sparkled 
 with wit, and with French and German 
 quotations, which, it was evident, he 
 was pleased to have an opportunity of 
 airing. Madame d'Arnheim's brilliant 
 intelligence was displayed, of course, far 
 more now than in talking to me. I stood 
 by, and listened with admiration and 
 amusement. As he shook her hand at 
 parting, he stooped down, and said in a 
 low voice, with a laugh, — 
 
 " You are the only woman in the room 
 who can converse. The others I talk to, 
 and pay compliments to, — I never do to 
 you." 
 
 '• That is the greatest you can pay me." 
 And then he passed on. 
 
 " Who is that old fellow, who seems to 
 be a combination of Voltaire and Mezzo- 
 fanti ? " 
 
 She told me who he was, — a name I 
 knew well, as one of the most eminent of 
 the day, — but I never made his acquaint- 
 ance, and only introduce the episode here, 
 to show in what estimation my friend was 
 held by those whose standard of judgment 
 was high. 
 
 WTiile we were discussing the dignitary 
 who had just passed on, my attention was 
 attracted to a voung and frairile-lookins 
 woman, who aj)proached, leaning on the 
 arm of a foreign attache. Their communi- 
 cations were of a confidential nature ap- 
 parently. He was tall and aquiline, and 
 bent over his companion till his mustaches 
 almost touched her forehead. She, upon 
 her side, gazed up into his small brown 
 eyes, wrapt in the beatitude of vacancy. 
 Surely it must be a flirtation of the very 
 tendei'est character. " My heart beats 
 only for you," he seemed to be saying. But 
 a stoppage in the crowd pressed him close 
 to me ; and I caught the actual words 
 which fell in honeyed accents from those 
 lips, — _ 
 
 '• Moi, je prefere la glace- k la vanille — 
 et vous V '■' 
 
 I turned to Madame d'Arnlieim with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " Well, appearances are deceptive cer- 
 tainly. Who would have thought that 
 fellow ivas talking of an ice ? " 
 
 " It's all part of the same thing,"she re- 
 plied, with a smile in which there was more
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 59 
 
 of sadness than mirth. " That silly little 
 woman — slie is married — has only one 
 idea, to be ' the fashion.' There is really 
 no harm in her, but she has an utterly un- 
 occupied lite. She sees that all tlie leaders 
 of society have their admirers ; and, though 
 she doesn't care the least about that man, 
 or any other, slie thinks it ' the thing ' to 
 liave I he semblance, at least, of a flirtation. 
 It is like a parody upon your poet's line, 
 * Assume & failing, if you have it not.' " 
 
 " Jiy Jove ! " I suddenly exclaimed, fix- 
 ing my eyes upon a man's head in the 
 crowd. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked ray com- 
 panion. 
 
 " To think of meeting him here ! By 
 Jove ! how gh^d I am ! " 
 
 " Who is it V " 
 
 " My old master," I returned, " whose 
 shoes I blacked for more tlian three months, 
 — one of the princes of the earth, — such 
 a prime fellow ! " and I told her all about 
 Artliur Tufton. 
 
 " Well," said Madame d'Arnheim, rising 
 " it is getting late. Give me your arm 
 down stairs, and you can return to vour 
 friend." 
 
 " Won't you wait for Count d'Arn- 
 heim ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no," she said, shaking her head, 
 with a smile. " People never wait for 
 their husbands. He may not come till two 
 o'clock, or perhaps not at all, — if he is 
 amused elsewhere." 
 
 We reached the stairs, where Mrs. Chaf- 
 finch was still posted, entertaining her 
 circle by random shots fired at those who 
 passed her. No matter at what cost, 
 wliether of delicacy or kindliness (and Mrs. 
 Chaffinch is not an ill-natured woman at 
 heart), she must procure a laugh, or that 
 chorus will leave her for some other woman 
 who is " better fun." Catching sight of 
 Madame d'Arnheim, she cries out, — 
 
 " What ! going already, my dear ? See 
 what it is to be a virtuous woman, — - re- 
 tiiing to all the secret sweets of domestic 
 life at this early hour 1 " 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim colored, but she 
 only said coldly that she was tired, and 
 passed on. ]\Irs. Chaffinch pursued her 
 over the banisters, with her shrill cackle. 
 
 " Come to Evans's to-morrow night, will 
 you, my dear ? We want to seduce your 
 husb.ind to join our party. Do come also, 
 and do something improper for once." 
 
 " I wds there once," replied Madame 
 d'Arnheim, over her shoulder, but not 
 sto])piiig on her course downwar*!, — "1 
 ux'/.s tiu'i'e once, and did not think it im- 
 proper, only dull. But to be improper is 
 not always to be amusing, Mrs. Chaifinch. 
 Good-ni^ht." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A nRiGiiT smile broke over Tufton's 
 face as he caught sight of me. 
 
 " Halloo ! Smith, — I mean Penruddocke, 
 
 — my dear boy, how are you V I am 
 really delighted to meet you. If London, 
 like another place, was not paved with 
 good intentions, I should have found you 
 out before this ; but I've been v(>ry busy 
 during the few days I've been here." 
 
 " And how long do you stay V " I askod. 
 
 "You haven't heard, then ? I am. try- 
 ing to eflf'ect an exchange into the Guards. 
 Six months of India was enough for me : 
 I couldn't stand it. Lord Tufton, who has 
 never done any thing ibr me before, said 
 he Avould buy my exchange ; so I came 
 home straight, and I hope, now, the thing 
 is pretty nearly settled." 
 
 Of course I was delighted at the news; 
 and then I gave him a succinct history of 
 myself since we had parted. 
 
 " And how do you like a London life ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " So-so. I like my regiment : rhey are 
 very jolly fellows ; and you know I am 
 really fond of soldiering. My expei'ience 
 in the ranks tauLrht me a ureat deal 
 which I find useful." 
 
 " And do you go in much for this sort ot 
 a thing ? " he said, with rather a contempt- 
 uous look over the heads of the assembly. 
 " It doesn't seem to me very interesting, 
 
 — perhaps because I'm an outsider." 
 
 " Well, you see, I'm not ft/ase, like you ; 
 and every thing amuses me. I remember 
 vou always despised society, even in the old 
 days." 
 
 " Not despised," he raid rather sadly. 
 " I envy people who can be easily amused. 
 The only simple pleasure I have lett, I aai 
 afraid, is my violin. I have already received 
 an invitation to join the 'Erratic Harmon- 
 ists,' which I mean to do, and grind away in 
 an atmo-phere of beer and "baeky once a 
 week. That will be more coniicnial to me 
 than these fine parties. What can a fel- 
 low who knows nothing of London gossip 
 talk about to these women ? They don't 
 care for Mozart and Beethoven, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Some of them play at whist with pound 
 points, and five pounds on the rubber," I 
 said slyly. 
 
 " I never play with women," he replied. 
 
 " Are you a' — what is the word V — 
 misogamist V " I asked, laughing. " I re- 
 member you always avoided the fiur sex." 
 
 '•I did, and I do still," he answered; 
 and a shade passed over his brow. " If I 
 ever marry, wiiich is most unlikely, I shall 
 not choose my wife from a London draw- 
 ing-room. \jy the by, who is that girl in
 
 GO 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 blue? The one that absurd fellow is 
 evidi'iitly makiivj; up to? " 
 
 " A Miss Guilihuore, — a 2;rcat heiress." 
 
 " A pity, — I fancy I could talk to her : 
 she has an honest, simple expression." 
 
 •• You'd better not try. Sho fancies, 
 naturally cnou'^h, every man that talks 
 to her is after her money." 
 
 " Let us walk throu'j;h the rooms : thev 
 are eettini;- thinner." 
 
 AVe reached a liltle boudoir where there 
 ■was a whist table, at which sat Sir Wal- 
 ter Selden, and three others. The faces 
 of two were unknown to me. Selden's 
 partner was the Italian, Benevento, whose 
 appearance had so much struck me earlier 
 in the evening. 
 
 I had now a good opportunity of watch- 
 ing him. He was under the middle height, 
 and to jud'ie by the breadth of his shoul- 
 ders, the depth of his chest, and the set- 
 ting of his limbs, possessed of uncommon 
 nniscular strength. He looked as if lie 
 wore stays ; but the manner of present- 
 ing Lis full-breasted shirt-front, and his 
 being excessively girt in at the waist, may 
 have t)roduced a I'alse impression. There 
 were men, and women too, who swore that 
 he rouged ; but this I really think was un- 
 true. The colors of his face were deep 
 and rich ; wonderfully glittering eyes, and 
 hair and beard of the bluest black ; eye- 
 brows that met across his forehead, a well- 
 shaped nose, and dazzling white teeth. 
 Undeniably handsome ; but one of the 
 worst fac"s it has ever been my ill-fortune to 
 behold. I understood what Madame d'Arn- 
 heim meant, as I looked at him; and an 
 indescribable loathing, so utterly unprece- 
 dented in my expeiience that it now seems 
 to me to have been a presentiment of all I 
 was to suffer because of this man, possessed 
 me. His manner, like his countenance, 
 indicated to me the presence of two char- 
 r.cteristics. Clever and fluent, I saw that 
 the upper floor of his house, where he " re- 
 ceived," was gaudily decorated and fur- 
 nished ; but throuih the half-open door, at 
 moments. I caught glimpses of the basement, 
 where all was stone and iron. If ever a 
 man was unscrupulous, if ever a man was 
 untrustworthy, it was the Italian before me. 
 
 He glanced up from his cards, as we 
 entered, and, to my surprise, smiled and 
 nodded at Tufton. There was a pile of 
 gold beside him; two or three men stood 
 round, and were betting on the rubber. 
 Sir Walter Selden and his partner had 
 been winning ; but the former took it, as he 
 did his reverses (which were more com- 
 n)on), unmoved. That jaunty supercili- 
 ous manner never deserted him, though he 
 was sometimes in "reat straits ibr a five- 
 pound note. 
 
 Tufton soon became absorbed in watch- 
 ing the game ; but there was only one more 
 rubber ; then Selden's antagonists rose, as 
 the rooms were nearly empty. Though as- 
 sured by Benevento, with what seemed to 
 me questionable taste, that Lady Castle 
 would not object to their playing for the 
 next hour, they elected to defer their re- 
 venge to another opportunity. 
 
 " Well, Arthur, how have you been 
 getting on ? " asked Selden. " Ain't your 
 eyes dazzled, after a course of garrison 
 hacks and nautch girls ? " 
 
 " I'm an old eagle,* and can look at 
 the sun itself," replied Tufton with a 
 suule. 
 
 " Will you come to my rooms presently? 
 It's too early to go to bed." 
 
 " Not to-inght, Walter," he returned 
 quickly. " I'm tired, and am off now," and 
 they separated. 
 
 The tide, which was ebbing down stairs, 
 bore us along with it. The last thincj I 
 saw was Benevento seated by Lady Castle 
 in the first drawing-room : the few people 
 who remained seemed to have divided, by 
 natural selection, into couples. 
 
 The hall was one serried phalanx of 
 cloaked and hooded ladies ; and through 
 them I observed d'Arnheim makinii liis wav 
 from the street. He passed me, and nod- 
 ded. I thought he would inquire if his 
 wife had gone home ; but he turned to Mrs. 
 Chaflinch, who stood near me. 
 
 '• Is there any one left up stairs. Is my 
 lady gone to bed ? " 
 
 " Not yet. There's safety in numbers. 
 At least six men are left. But where have 
 3'ou been, you dissipated wretch? In very 
 immoral company, no doubt." 
 
 " What, did you think I had been here 
 all the evening ? " 
 
 She hit him with her fan, and declared, 
 with a shriek of laughter, that he was an 
 incorrigible monster ; and then I heard no 
 more, for we had secured our coats, and 
 were in the street. As we walked along, 
 arm in arm, I said, — 
 
 " How long have you known that Bene- 
 vento ? " 
 
 I fancied there was a moment's hesita- 
 tion ; but ]>erhaps it was only that he was 
 getting his cigar to draw : he gave a Iou't 
 pulF and replied, — 
 
 " I met met him last night at Selden's." 
 
 " You are an old friend of Selden's ? " 
 
 " He is my cousin. He sent me Lady 
 Castle's card, and insisted on my coming 
 to-night, though I told him this sort of 
 thing was quite out of my line." 
 
 But I was not going to let Arthur escape 
 in this way. 
 
 " I suppose there is high plav at Sel- 
 den's ? "
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 61 
 
 " Well, — there i's play ; yes." 
 
 " And is that Beiievento a friend of 
 his ? " 
 
 " I don't know about a friend, — he seems 
 to know hiai pretty well. A clever dog, — 
 nothinix he can't do, I'm told — sings like 
 a bird." 
 
 " H'm 1 looks like a bird of ill omen, I 
 think." 
 
 '• You are severe. Master Penruddocke." 
 
 " Well, God never gave a man such a 
 countenance as that for nothing, I'm 
 Bure." 
 
 " It's imwise to trust first impressions. 
 I am — how many years older than you? 
 eight or, nine ; and I have learnt that." 
 
 " What ! don't you believe in human ex- 
 pression ? I'll be bound that fellow's as 
 false as he can be." 
 
 "I hope not, lor the ladies' sakes," said 
 Arthur, with a smile. " He has great suc- 
 cess with them, I am told. It is even said 
 that our fair hostess to-night is not alto- 
 gether insensible to the charms of this 
 Kizzio." 
 
 I pursued the subject no fni-ther, and we 
 Walked down Piccadilly, talking of othci- 
 matters. I asked him where he was stay- 
 ing. 
 
 " At Limmers', for the present ; but I 
 must Look out for permanent lod'j;ings." 
 
 " Come and take the ground-floor under 
 me. It is vacant, and will ju.^t suit you. 
 It will be like old times. If both our ser- 
 vants should be out, why, you know, I can 
 valet you." 
 
 He laughed, and then grew suddenly 
 grave. 
 
 " I don't know that I should do you any 
 good. I'm not the best com])aniou for a 
 lad of your age." 
 
 '' Well, I know your Aveakness. ' No 
 man is a hero to his caht de chamhi-e' and 
 I assure you there's no danger for me. I 
 haven't the smallest taste for gambling, in 
 any shape." 
 
 "Then there is the violin, — have you 
 well considered what a trial that is to the 
 nerves, at all hours? " 
 
 " Bless your heart ! I don't know what 
 nerves are. It will do me good to hear 
 you aiain grinding away at the old ' Kreut- 
 zcr Sonate.' Ami you may i)lay in the 
 dead of night, — nothing ever wakes me.'" 
 
 " You're a good fellow, Penruddocke," 
 said he, wringing my hand, "' and your 
 cheery young n;iture would, I dare say, 
 rouse me when I am low, — as I too often 
 am. It did so, in the olil days, to hear you 
 whistling as you brushed my clotlies." 
 
 A fortnight later he was gazetted to 
 Her Miijesty's llegiment of — (iuards, and 
 was installed in the apartment beneath 
 mine. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 F«OM this time forwards, I was always 
 at Madams d'Arnheim's three or lour times 
 a week. Whenever I was not on duly, or 
 engaged elsewhere, I was there for an hour 
 or two at dusk. It became as much a mat- 
 ter of habit as going to my club. Visits 
 of ceremony I alyured. I never cared to 
 go anywhere that I did not like the mis- 
 tress of the house, and feel more or less 
 " at home." This I very soon did at Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim's. 
 
 When strangers called, I seldom staid 
 long : what I enjoyed were the long quiet 
 tete-U'leles with a woman who ti-eated me 
 as a younger brother (lecturing me with a 
 freedom which was the best proof of the 
 interest she took in me), antl whose con- 
 versation was a wholesome antidote to 
 much that I heard and saw elsewhere. 
 Except the darkest secret of my short lifi-, 
 she got to know most things thatconcernol 
 me : I could talk to her uni'eservedly of 
 Evelyn, of my prospects for the futuri', of 
 my old home, and of the happy days in my 
 dead father's time, that could return no 
 more. I am bound to confess' I received 
 l)ut little confidence in return. She seldom 
 reverted to her own past, and unless goad- 
 ed by some sharj) memory, causing her to 
 yield to a momentary weakness, showed no 
 portion of her own imbittered heart. 
 D'Arnheim I rarely saw, unless I dined 
 there ; and then, in the company of half a 
 dozen other men, I never came into much 
 personal contact with him. He always 
 welcomed me with urbanity, always had a 
 word or two of " chaff," always seemed 
 quite willing that I should come to his 
 house as often as I felt inclined. I had a 
 secret conviction that he looked upon me 
 as a harmless greenhorn : but 1 was not 
 quite so green as not to suspect that he 
 hailed the fact of his wife's friendship for a 
 young man as a sort of make-weight to his 
 own neglect. His opinions and his princi- 
 j)les, liowever, were alike indillerent to me: 
 I had too strong a regard for Madame 
 d'Arnheim not to feel a certain resentment 
 towards her husband ; but as regarded his 
 behavior towards myself, I had certaiidy 
 no reason to conq)lain. 
 
 Had it not been for Madame d'Arnheim 
 I might have sunk into a slough of idle- 
 ness ; but, findin"- mv defective knowledge 
 of French when I met foreigners at her 
 house, she urged my taking lessons in that 
 tongue. 
 
 " You have plenty of time on your hands. 
 Billianfs and rackets are very good things 
 in tlniir way ; but you may well devote a few 
 hours in the week to acquiring something
 
 62 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 wliioh will be a possession to you for the 
 rest of j'our life." 
 
 So I (locked olf an hour from my morn- 
 in<x's ride three days in the week, and went 
 bard at it. And aiuon<T the many debts of 
 gjratitude I owe to ^larie d'Arnlieiui, not 
 the lea>t is that she made me a tolerable 
 French scholar. 
 
 Tulton and I always breakfiisted to- 
 gether. However late lie had been the 
 previous nip;ht, — and he now played at 
 
 the club almost nigiitly, — he never 
 
 failed to a{)pear, and .«howed no other 
 traces of his dissipation than by his varia- 
 ble spirits. lie now discussed his losses 
 and winniniTS 0])enly with me. Of course 
 it would have been absurd, as well as use- 
 less, for one to preach to him. He was 
 much older, much cleverer, and, in most 
 ways, a much better man than myself. 
 How he could lead such a life, how he could 
 consort, by preference (for it came to that), 
 ■with men of the stamp of Benevento, I 
 could not understand. Sometimes this 
 wonderment reached the stage when it be- 
 came irritation, to learn that he had lost 
 lar'i'elv to the Italian the ni;iht before, and 
 I could not reirain from some expression of 
 my sentiments. He never took it in ill- 
 
 Sart, though he was too generous not to 
 efend his companions, and to maintain 
 that they were no worse than himself. He 
 did not care much for Benevento, — no; 
 but allowance must be make for foreigners ; 
 their ways were not always as our ways ; 
 and, after all, he was a clever dog, and 
 amusing enough for half an hour. As to 
 Seiden, under all that sarcasm and appar- 
 ent selfishness, he was really good-natured, 
 and the rest, he assured me, were excellent 
 fellows; of course they and he were ruin- 
 ing themselves, — that he knew very well, 
 but a man must have some excitement, and 
 it was the only thing, except his violin, he 
 cared for. 
 
 Sometimes, when he was in unusually 
 good spirits, lie would defend himself by 
 some such verbal paradox as this : — 
 
 " Alter all, I don't know that it's worse 
 than stock-jobbing, or any other game of 
 chance which bears the more creditable 
 name of ' speculation.' And marriage, — 
 such marriages as are generally made here, 
 at least, — what is it but gambling? The 
 stakes are high, there is a certain skill shown 
 in the plav, and the result is, — nothinrr but 
 luck, Pen." 
 
 " Well, try your hand at it : it's a better 
 game than this," I rejilied, one morning, 
 when he thus plaj'fully fenced with me. 
 " Seriously, why don't you think of marry- 
 ing? There's Miss (niiMmore, whom I sat 
 next to at dinner last night : .she told me 
 she had heard you play at the ' Erratic 
 
 Harmonist' concert, and praised you tre- 
 mendously; it was evident the sul)ject had 
 so much attraction fur her that I gave her 
 her head, and talked of \-ou through two 
 entire courses. The ground is prepared, 
 and now " — 
 
 ''You young ass!" launched Tiifton 
 heartily. " This is what it is for babes and 
 sucklings to meddle with matters beyond 
 their years. No woman ever praises — I 
 might say she rarely speaks of — any man 
 she really fancies. Probably she has a 
 secret penchant for you. Not that I wish 
 you to yield to it, in spite of her money. It's 
 time, if you think of marrying, ten years 
 hence." 
 
 And this frafrment of conversation leads 
 me here to mention two things. In conse- 
 quence of my friend's banter whenever I 
 began to speak of love, and of his affecting 
 to consider that I was too young to have any 
 serious thoughts on the subject, I never 
 could make him my confidante as regarded 
 Evelyn. I knew that he would receive my 
 confession with an amused air, and assure 
 me that I was going throu^rh one of the or- 
 (iinary complaints of youth, like the mea- 
 sles, which I should get over in the course 
 of time. I began to believe that Arthur 
 never had been, and never would be, in love. 
 1 could talk to him upon every other sub- 
 ject ; but upon this he was generally cyni- 
 cal, and sometimes almost bitter. 
 
 The other thincr I have to sav has refer- 
 ence to Miss Guildmore. It so chanced 
 that we had met very often during the last 
 few weeks ; and owing chiefly, no doubt, to 
 the fact that I did not persecute her with 
 attentions, we had become very good 
 friends. I really liked the girl, and I be- 
 lieve, in a way, she liked me ; but there 
 was nothing to justify the violent assump- 
 tion of my uncle, and of one or two others, 
 that she would marry me if I were so mind- 
 ed. I received a letter from my mother, 
 however, in which was the following pas- 
 sage : — 
 
 " I am glad to hear you go into good 
 society ; and, though I am aware that 
 fashionable life is full of snares, I trust you 
 are in all ways turning over a new leaf, and 
 forgetting your boyish follies. Tlie necessi- 
 tv of making vour own fortune, since vou 
 chose to reject what your father left you, is 
 fully apparent to you, I imagine ; and with- 
 out wishing you to make a mercenary mar- 
 riage (which is the last thing any one would 
 accuse ?neof), I cannot but hope that you 
 are already entertaining thoughts of settle- 
 ing in life in a manner which shall be ad- 
 vantageous to you in all ways. I am given 
 to understand that a young lady of very 
 large means shows a marked preference for 
 your society. It remains with you to choose
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 63 
 
 •vvlietlier von fjravitate towards resppotabili- 
 ty anil tomrort, or dissipation and poverty." 
 ' My reply to this was sharp, short, and de- 
 cisive. It respL'ctability necessitated inar- 
 ryin'j; Miss Guil<hnore, I would be disrepu- 
 table ibr the remainder of my days. 
 
 1 could vi'ry rarely induce Arthur Tuftoii 
 to "■o into society. lie occasionally dined 
 out, but drums and balls he steadily de- 
 clined. Concerts were the only exceptions 
 he made, but even these he treated very 
 contemptuously. 
 
 " 1 had rather go to a ' Monday Pop,' any 
 night," said he, taking a card of Mrs. 
 Hawksley's, on which was inscribed "mu- 
 sic," froni the chimney-piece. " There I 
 should hear music I care foi", and hear it in 
 peace. If I go to this place, I shall be 
 jammed in a doorway, and catch as much 
 as 1 can of some worn-out old opera songs 
 and duets that the same singers have been 
 bellowing in London drawing-rooms for the 
 last twenty years ; but it will cost a lot ol 
 money, and so one is bound to call it ' a 
 charming concert.' " 
 
 " It won't cost a lot of money, if that is 
 your objection, for it is amateur ; and Mrs. 
 riawksley is very an.xious that you should 
 play. I met her last night, and she told me 
 she ' adored — positively adored musical 
 talent ; couldn't live without it, ya-as ! ' 
 And did I think you would be induced V 
 Then, as an inducement, she gave a string 
 of names which seemed to embrace half the 
 peerage, who were enrolled among the per- 
 formers. It'll be the ai'istocratic-esV thing 
 in the way of music you ever heard." 
 
 He laughed, and shook his head. 
 
 " That is not re-assuring. I jirefer my- 
 ' Erratic Harmonist,' where wc grind stead- 
 ily away at our symphony, regardless of 
 ■who each man is, provided he has a good 
 bow-arm ; but we'll go. Pen, thoutrh I de- 
 cline performing. It will be something new 
 to me, at all events." 
 
 I should like to give some account of that 
 evening, but it would occupy too much val- 
 uable space. There was one young lord 
 ■who made a lasting impression upon me. I 
 never have had the advantage of hearing 
 him since, but I have never forgotten him. 
 . The things he did not do with his voice, but 
 supplemented with his eyes, eyebrows, and 
 lips, which he protruded so that it seemed 
 as if he were blowing kisses to the audience, 
 the histrionic powers he displayed altogeth- 
 er, were surely remarkable. He was a 
 good comic actor spoilt — if he had but 
 known it. Then there was a lady who 
 sang, and who always lost her time (so 
 Tulton aflirnied, for I knew nothing about 
 it), but who invariably turned and cast a 
 reproachiul look at the accompanist, when- 
 ever they were not together, whereby the 
 
 ignorant were delude<l into the belief that it 
 was A(s- fault. Two songs were ])Ut down in 
 the programme to be su-ig by Count Ben- 
 evento ; but he never appeared. After 
 this came the inevitable bass, who did the 
 " buffo " business, and was moi'e Italian and 
 more jocose than the original article, as im- 
 ported direct. But upon the whole, Tufton 
 was agreeably surprised. A great deal 
 of the singing was excellent, — only there 
 was about twice too niurh of it ; and if the 
 young ladies would not have selected son:i;s 
 which we were accustomed to hear exe- 
 cuted by Grisi and Bosio, no doubt their 
 sweet voices would have ijeen heard to still 
 more advantage. The choruses did not 
 satisfy Tufton's critical ear so well. 
 
 " The tenors and the altos are both fl it, 
 and they drag the time most horribly," he 
 said. 
 
 " Bless the man 1 " cried Mrs. Challinch, 
 who was in front of us. "He thinks it's a 
 common chorus, that goes in for time and 
 tune, and ail the rest of it. He forgets he 
 is listening to the crime de la crane." 
 
 " Then the cream would be better for 
 being whipped," was Arthur's laughing re- 
 joinder. 
 
 ]\Iadame d'Arnhcim was not there ; and I 
 regi'etted it doubly, because I was anxious 
 to introduce Tufton, of whom I had so often 
 spoken to her. I-cannot say that he evinced 
 any desire to knowniy ''diplomatic friend,'' 
 as he called her, and positively refused to 
 call there, when, at her suggestion, I pro- 
 posed to take him ; but I looked upon this 
 as belonging to his general prejudice 
 against fashionable ladies, which would 
 yield at once, in Madame d'Arnheim's case, 
 if he only knew her. As it happened, they 
 never once met the whple of that season. 
 
 At the end of the evening, as I was com- 
 ing down stairs, Mrs. Gnildmore asked me 
 to call her carriage. I did so ; but appar- 
 ently the footman did not answer the sum- 
 mons, for I stood beside Miss Guildmore in 
 the hall nearly twenty minutes, waiting to 
 hand her out. The lady of the house 
 passed us on her way to the supper-room, 
 and gave me a gracious smile, which seemed 
 full of subtle meaning ; but, as I had only 
 spoken to her twice in my life, I was a little 
 puzzled to know what it meant. Almost 
 innnediately after this Lady Castle came 
 down stairs alone. 
 
 " Will you take me in to have some sup- 
 per, Mr. Penruddocke ? " she said, with her 
 sweet natural way. "Iain (piite deserted 
 — you're the ordy man li.'lt I know. How 
 do you do, INliss Guildmore ? " 
 
 " Will you excuse me ? " I said to the 
 young lady. 
 
 " Oh 1 certainly. Did you think I could- 
 n't walk to the carriage by myself? "
 
 64 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 Lady Castle and I sat down at a small 
 round table. 
 
 •• What a horrid party ! " she began, in 
 a low voice. " These sort of women al- 
 ways have such crushes, and so lew men 
 one knows." 
 
 " Why didn't Count Benevento sini^ ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " Because he was in a very bad humor 
 to-day, I suppose." she replied quickly. 
 "It is disi;racclul throwin'^ people over in 
 that way. Talk about the caj)rice of our 
 sex ! it is nothini;; to men's ! " 
 
 '• Dear Lady Castle ! " said Mrs. Hawks- 
 ley from behiml our chairs ; then, witli 
 some surprise in her tone — "Ah! Mr. 
 Penruddocke, is it you ? Ya-as. Dear 
 me! I thought you were — ya-as. Well, 
 I hope you are taking care of Lady Castle. 
 Shocking disappointment about Count 
 Benevento, was it not? — ya-as. Bad 
 cold. These charming delightful tenors 
 do get such sudden colds — ya-as. Too 
 sad, isn't dear Lady Castle ? " 
 
 " I think you did very well without him, 
 Mrs. Hawksley," replied Lady Castle, " 1 
 am sure you had quite enough music." 
 
 " So gl:id you thought so — ya-as. Well, 
 that is what the dear duchess said also — 
 it quite consoled me. Sorry, liowever, Mr. 
 Penruddocke, that your friend, Capt. 
 Tufton, wouldn't play — violin, so parlanf 
 — adore it — ya-as. Though of course it 
 is nothing to the voice. Dear Lady Lou- 
 isa ! loo delightful ; and Lord Algernon ! 
 so much pathos in that bass in the qiuntet, 
 thought it miL^t touch Miss Guildmore, but 
 I saw afterwards, —^ ya-as — that she was 
 otherwise — ya-as, ha, ha ! What I going 
 already, dear La ly Castle ? — I'm sure 
 V'ou'vc had nothing I " 
 
 " That woman would have gone on f jr 
 another half-hour, if I had remained," said 
 her ladyship, as I placed her cloak on her 
 shoulders, in the hall " and I had rather go 
 to bed supperless. I do so dislike her ; 
 not because she is so silly and vulgar, but 
 because she is mischievous. Nothing but 
 a stern sense of county duty — I knew Cas- 
 tle would wish it — brought me here. 
 H ive you any thing to do to-morrow ? 
 Wii^l you drive down with me to the Han- 
 del Festival ? I have a spai-e ticket now, 
 and can give you a seat in my carriage." 
 
 I assented, and a very pleasant day I 
 had. Benevento was not of the party, 
 which reaiained, after the oratorio was 
 over, to dinner ; and though Lady Castle 
 was not in good spirits — she cried diu'ing 
 a great part of the " Messiah " — I thought 
 her very attractive; so soft and womanlv. 
 Here is a little anecdote I find noted down 
 in my journal for that day. I produce it, 
 because it is characteristic : — 
 
 My attention was attracted, soon after 
 the performance began, by a handsome 
 but very sad-looking woman, accompanied 
 by a man, who were seated directly before 
 us. The lady turned her head once, and 
 once only ; for whatever cause she seemed 
 to avoid looking again in our direction. 
 
 "Do you know who that is in front?" 
 I whispered to Lady Castle. 
 
 " Ahxs ! indeed I do," she sighed. " She 
 was a great friend of mine once. Poor 
 Helen Gray ! Untbrtunately she cut her- 
 self off from us all by running away. Don't 
 vou remember the divorce three years 
 ago?" 
 
 I had never heard of it ; and she went 
 on : — 
 
 " I am so sorry for her. I often think I 
 will go and see her, poor thing ! but in 
 London it is so difficult to do what one 
 wishes." 
 
 " Why don't you speak to her now, 
 then ? " 
 
 " Ah ! unfortunately it would never do 
 — in public — to be seen with her. The 
 world is so censorious. But I really do 
 mean to go and see her, poor dear, some 
 day. Listen ! Sims Reeves is going to 
 sing 'Comfort ye.' How I wish I could 
 hear such music as this forever ! It makes 
 one feel how hollow the world is, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 I was puzzled. Was what this world 
 said true of Lady Castle ? If so, was she 
 not a thousand-fold worse than the woman 
 belbre us ? " Yet the one whom th vt 
 same world delighted to honor was of 
 purer eyes than to behold t'n public the in- 
 iquity of the other who had once openly 
 erreil. 
 
 My education was advancing daily; and 
 yet I had a great deal to learn. I decided 
 that all that I heard to the prejudice of 
 my fair companion must be untrue. She 
 was weak, impressionable, carried away by 
 any excitement of the moment, whether 
 religious or otherwise. She could not be 
 culpable. 
 
 CHAPTER XXH. 
 
 "I HAVE not seen you for four days," 
 said Madame d'Arnheim, one afternoon a 
 fortnight after this, when I entered her 
 drawinz-room. " What have you been 
 about ? " and she lo:)ked into ray face, 
 with that scrutiny which is the prerogative 
 of a woman's friendship. No Orestes ever 
 brings Pylades thus to task. 
 
 '• I wa? on guard all yesterday." 
 
 " And the day before ? " 
 
 " At Richmond."
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 65 
 
 " Who with ? Perhaps I am indiscreet." 
 "Laily Castle, Lady Aneaslar, and a 
 large party." 
 
 " And the night before, I heard you were 
 in Lady Castle's box at Covent Garden. 
 I am id'raid you are getting into that set, in 
 spite of my warnings." 
 
 " My dear Madame d'Arnhcim, don't 
 look so severe. Lady Castle has been aw- 
 fully kind to me, and I can't help likinii 
 her. I know you don't, which I'm sorry for 
 but" — 
 
 " Oh ! my likings have nothing to do with 
 it. W you only went to people I like, you 
 would see very thw. But I forgot — you are 
 a man ; you have no discernment where a 
 woman is concerned. No matter what she 
 realiy is, if you are ' taken ' with her, it is 
 all up with you." 
 
 " I3ut how is one to know what she real- 
 ly is V " 
 
 " If you frequent Lady Castle's, you must 
 see enough to draw your own conclusions, 
 unless you are blind." 
 
 " Upon my lite, I don't know what to be- 
 lieve. I dare say half the women who are 
 never talked about are much worse." 
 
 " Pray, has that Italian become a friend 
 of yours too ? " 
 
 " No : I hate the brute. Lady Castle is 
 very foolish about him, I grant; and the 
 way she goes on about his singing makes 
 him very cheeky. I fancy they are con- 
 stantly quarrelling — at least I have heard 
 him very impudent to her more than once ; 
 but she is too soft and forgiving ; that's 
 the worst of it. She is a generous-hearted, 
 imprudent woman, I think." 
 
 " Oh ! " she said slowly ; then after a 
 pause, " Are you aware that he is by no 
 means the first person to whom she has 
 been so ' generous ' ? " 
 
 " I have heard a great deal of scandal 
 talked about her, but I didn't believe it. 
 And one good quality she certainly has, 
 which is rai'e. bhe never speaks ill of any 
 one." 
 
 " And I do speak ill ? I understand." 
 " Nonsense ! I was not thinking of you. 
 I know it is your kind interest in me makes 
 you speak. Besides, I have not forgotten 
 that the first time I saw her you refused to 
 discuss Lady Castle." 
 
 " Thank vou tor remembering that. No : 
 1 am not given to scandal ; but never to 
 speak ill may be pushed too far. To make 
 no distinctions bcitween good and evil is 
 diplomatic in society, no doubt ; but re- 
 member, in citing it as a proof of Christian 
 charity, that the Founder of our religion did 
 not hesitate to call men sinful who were so." 
 " Didn't he say, however, ' Let him that 
 is without sin among you first cast a stone 
 at her ' ? " 
 
 " He did not deny her sin. He did not 
 even extenuate it. He Ixide her go and sin 
 no more. 'Ilie people who are called in the 
 world ' good-natured,' on the contrary seem 
 to say, ' Go on sinning, if you like. It is 
 no business of ours — until you are actually 
 caught. You are very pleasant ; and wheth- 
 er you are good or wicked, is of no 
 consequence to us.' Ach ! That sort of 
 sentiment seems to me a very different 
 thing from divine charity." 
 
 " There is such a lot of humbug in the 
 world," said I, thinking of the jjious lessons 
 that had been inculcated in my childhood, 
 " that it is hard, if not impossible, to tell 
 what is real ; but, at least, the humbug of 
 good-nature is more graceful than the act 
 of stoning one's neighbors, which people 
 indulge so freely in." 
 
 " You are very young," said she, after a 
 pause. " Take my advice, and avoid this 
 society : it will do you no good. It will 
 take the edge off your appetite for better 
 things. If your little Evelyn " — 
 
 " My dear Madame d'Arnheim, don't 
 name her, for Heaven's sake, in the same 
 breath ! Evelyn belongs to another world, 
 of course, altogether. I should be very 
 sorry for her to be in this society, but what 
 harm do you suppose it can do me ? I am 
 not going to fall in love with any one of these 
 women. I am happily heart-proof. And 
 you don't suppose I am so innocent as to be 
 hurt by Mrs. Chaffinch's pleasantries, or by 
 — by any thing I may see or hear, do you ? " 
 Madame d'Arnheim sighed, and said 
 nothing. Perhaps she sorrowfully recog- 
 nized that the few months which had 
 elapsed since I arrived in London, a raw 
 youth, had already wrought a change in me. 
 I was becoming more a man of the world. 
 And the fact, which I have chosen to illus- 
 trate in the foregoing conversation, rather 
 than narrate it at length, is that the world 
 took very kindly to me, and I took not un- 
 kindly to the world. Six months before, 
 I should have believed it impossible that I 
 could have been swept into the vortex of 
 London society. It was contrary to all my 
 boyish tastes and habits ; and I possessed 
 a strong counter-attraction to guard ine 
 from the seductions of its sii-ens. But I had 
 youth and high spirits ; and there was the 
 unexpected novelty of finding myself — 
 after being treated all my life as of such 
 small account — suddenly transformed into 
 a popular young man of fashion. Why 
 people found me amusing, I can't think ; for 
 I certainly never set up for a wit. I can 
 only suppose it was fi-om my habit of saying 
 ])retty much what came uppermost ; and, 
 in this hit-or-miss way, even duller fellows 
 than myself occasionally strike out a good 
 thing. But I found that it was accepted
 
 66 
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 as incontrovertible tliiit " Mr. Penruddooke 
 does say such droll thinjis in liis na'ifyvny ; " 
 and, in certain Iiouses, wliatever I advanced 
 ■was received witli a <:i'j:slt^. wliieli is one 
 of the most distressing phases of social suc- 
 cess I know, involving, as it does, a perpet- 
 ual strain to meet the demand. I was 
 asked to more dinners that season than any 
 three men could have eaten ; and as to 
 other invitations, my table every morning 
 ■was covered with cards, many of them from 
 people whom I had never even heard of. I 
 lelt this to be the more personally flattering, 
 inasmuch as I was not a parti, but belonged 
 to the phalanx of ineligibles ; " and even 
 Mrs. Hawksley was beginning to recognize 
 that I had no ulterior views upon Miss 
 Guildmore's money, or the heart of any 
 poorer damsel. I was clearly not to be 
 marked " dangerous " by mammas. 
 
 When Lady Castle and a few line ladies, 
 therefore, " took me ujj," as it is called, the 
 world decided that I was a very charming 
 young man, who only made himself agree- 
 able to married women. 
 
 My bitterest enemy would hardly have 
 erased my name from her list after that, I 
 believe. The only enemy I had, however, 
 belonged to my own sex ; but of him I will 
 speak presently. I have said enough to 
 explain how it came to pass that this change 
 was wrought in me, who had hitherto been 
 much more at home in the field than in the 
 drawing-room, and whose amljition and 
 tastes would certainly have prevented my 
 continuing this life very long ; but, while 
 it lasted, I went in for it with all the fresh- 
 ness of twenty years and an unimpaired 
 digestion, eating the unwholesome plums 
 and apples as I walked along, knowing that 
 it would not last forever, — that beyond 
 that garden lay the long upland reach, with 
 fame and honor on the heights, if I could 
 but reach them, and the temple of pure 
 love cro'.vning all. 
 
 In the whirl of dissipation, however, I 
 never forgot Madame d'Arnheim ; and, in 
 her peaceful green drawing-room, when I 
 turned out of the dusty, crowded streets, I 
 always Ibund repose to the eyes and to the 
 spirit. Sometimes — as on the occasion I 
 have above described — days elapsed with- 
 out mv being able to see her ; but she was 
 always the same. A iriendly little I'epi'oach, 
 which, as showing that I had been missed, 
 I greatly preferred to unconcern ; a close, 
 almost maternal inquiry as to what I had 
 been about; a resolute reserve touching 
 herself; the discussion of books, or of ab- 
 stract questions, with all the Schwdnnerei 
 belonging to the nation, — these were the 
 characteristics of her intercourse with me. 
 I may trulv sav I never (rathered au'dit but 
 good from her. I might dilFer from her 
 
 views, but they were always noble ; and 
 even when unpractical, or, as her husband 
 and the world called them, " sentimental," 
 as refreshing, in contrast to the language I 
 heard daily around me, as the draught irom 
 a running stream after imbibing the turbid 
 water of a pond. 
 
 My one enemy, to whom I have referred, 
 was Benevento. 1 had, irom the first, avoid- 
 ed him ; and he was much too acute not to 
 see it. I never gambled ; I was Tufton's 
 friend; I had now established a certain 
 footing in Lady Castle's house. He spared 
 no pains to win me over, but I rej)ulsed all 
 his attempts at familiarity ; for the one 
 point on which his astuteness i'ailed to sup- 
 ply the want of good-breeding was a belief 
 that intimacy could be stormed by a coup-de- 
 main, instead of being stealthily crept into 
 by a breach in the walls of acquaintance- 
 ship. 
 
 At last he began to see that it was use- 
 less. Instead of coming up, and ibrcing 
 his hand upon me when we met,?, scarcely 
 perceptible nod passed between us. He 
 was not a man to forgive my marked avoid- 
 ance ; and I heard (one always does hear 
 in such cases !) that he said I had the 
 manners of the caserne, where, he under- 
 stood, I had lived as a common soldier. 
 Our hostility remained in a jjassive condi- 
 tion, however, until another motive, more 
 powei'ful than my impudence, was added 
 to intensify the bitterness of his resent- 
 ment. I might seriously interfere with his 
 views ; in which case, woe betide me ! 
 
 The pretty little theatre in Tottenham 
 Court Road was iust comin^ into vo^ue at 
 this time ; and a few days after the con- 
 versation recorded in the beginning of this 
 chapter, Lady Ancastar made a party to 
 the stalls, inviting us to supper at her 
 house alter the play was over. I sat next 
 to Lady Castle at the theatre, Benevento 
 being on the other side of her. Through- 
 out the early part of the evening, I was 
 conscious that a discussion, more animated 
 than pleasant, was renewed several times 
 between these two. They spoke in Italian, 
 with which language the la<ly was as fa- 
 miliar as with her own ; and Benevento's 
 vehemence was so great, that, though I 
 could not understand a word he said, I 
 telt sure he was urging something which 
 annoyed and distressed Lady Castle ex- 
 tremely. It was impossible to mistake 
 that she begged him more than once to 
 be quiet. Then she became angry — at 
 least so I guessed, and turned herself to 
 me, replying to him only by monosyllables 
 durinc; the rest of the evening. She asked 
 me to give her my arm as we came out ; 
 and, when her bi'ougham drove up, offered 
 me a seat to Lady Ancastar's. Benevento
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 67 
 
 looked liviil ; he gnawed his mustache ; 
 but the next moment turned with a suiih^ 
 to receive some witticism of Mrs. Chaf- 
 finch's. That acute Uidy was not to be 
 taken in, however. She whispered to me 
 as I passed her, — 
 
 " I hope you'll disagree with him, if he 
 eats you, — as he certainly will." 
 
 Lady Castle looked sparkling and ani- 
 mated as we drove along, with the lamp- 
 lights flashing in her face. 
 
 " What horrible creatures foreigners are ! 
 ain't they ? " 
 
 I replied, with a little hesitation, that I 
 hated some of them. 
 
 " One does very wrong ever to have any 
 thing to say to them, I believe." 
 
 " All ! perhaps so." 
 
 She began pulling ofT her gloves. Her 
 hands were lovely. 
 
 '• Don't be afraid : it is going no fur- 
 ther," she said, laughing. Then she pro- 
 duced a new pair of gloves, and a bottle of 
 eau de Portxigal, which she poured on her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " How close that theatre was ! I felt 
 sutfocated. What a bore it is going to 
 Lady Ancastar's ! I had much rather be 
 going home, hadn't you V " 
 
 " Well, to say the truth, I feel rather 
 hungry." 
 
 At this moment — we were driving 
 through the very worst part of St. Giles's, 
 and had reached an intersection of narrow 
 streets — I heard a shout from both ser- 
 vants on the box, and then — crash, a cart, 
 furiously driven, ran into us, smashing the 
 panel and glass upon my side, and fright- 
 ening one of our horses so that he kicked 
 liis leg over the trace. Lady Castle 
 screamed and clutched my arm so tight 
 that I had some difficulty in jumping out, 
 which I did at last, with the blood pouring 
 down my face. The inhabitants were turn- 
 ing out of dark doorways on every side ; 
 the gin-palace at the corner emptied itself; 
 in two minutes there must have been near- 
 ly a Imndred people round us. Tlie ser- 
 vants were both oft" the box, trying to 
 calm and to extricate the excited horse, 
 who threatened every moment to break 
 his leg. I turned to the druidcen brute 
 who had craused this mischief^ and who, 
 far from being sobered by the event, on 
 finding that his own horse had sustained 
 some damage, was now adding insult to 
 injury by his language, as he roared out at 
 the top of his lungs, — 
 
 D your eyes ? What the hell 
 
 are you d — d swells doing here, a-drivin' 
 like this, eh V What do I care for your 
 
 b carriage V It was your Jarvie's 
 
 fault — a-drivin' like that in Seven Dials." 
 1 asked one of the crowd whether there was 
 
 no policeman at hand. The man went 
 on, — 
 
 " Oh ! you want a bobby, do you ? I'd 
 like to see 'im lay a finger on me. Come 
 on, if you're a man, and have a round. 
 
 D ve : d'ye think I'm afraid o' the 
 
 likes o'''you?" 
 
 My blood was up; and regardless of the 
 consequences, which might have been very 
 awkward for Lady Castle, I gave him one 
 from the shoulder, straight between the 
 eyes, which sent him spinning to the 
 ground. There was an applauding laugh 
 from the crowd. 
 
 '• (lo it, swell ! Give 'im another ! " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Mr. Penruddocke, 
 leave the man alone !" cried Lady Castle. 
 
 But partly owing to the effects of liquor, 
 no doubt, the fellow could hardly pick him- 
 self up : he kept cursing in thickened utter- 
 ance, and by the time he staggered to his 
 feet two policemen appeared, to whose 
 charge I relegateil him for furious driving. 
 
 And what was now to be done with Lady 
 Castle ? To remain in her brougham, sub- 
 ject to all the witticisms of the crowd, 
 which was increasing every moment, drawn 
 hither by the fun of seeing " a swell upset," 
 and who were not sparing in their remarks, 
 or choice in their language, would be most 
 disagreeable for her; but if we waited for 
 a cab to be brought, this was wdiat she 
 must do ; and there was no possibility of 
 moving the brougham in the present con- 
 dition of affairs. The horse had been ex- 
 tricated, but not until he had smashed the 
 pole ; and there the poor animal stood in 
 a cold sweat, trembling all over, and shrink- 
 ing even from the coaxing pat of his own 
 well-known groom. 
 
 " I had rather get out and walk to the 
 nearest cab-stand," whispered Lady Castle 
 over the door to me. " Any thing is bet- 
 ter than sitting here surrounded by these 
 horrible people. The servants must, of 
 course, remain with the carriage. Please 
 let me out — I can't stay here, I can't, 
 indeed." 
 
 The coachman, to whom I applied, said 
 he must send for ropes before he could 
 move the carriage ; that it would take some 
 time, and, even then, his progress must be 
 very slow. There seemed nothing lor it, 
 therefore, but to accede to Lady Castle's' 
 wish. I begged one of the policemen to try 
 to clear a passagt;, and, desii'ing her to wrap 
 her biu-nous as tight round her throat as 
 possible, — for I really was afraid of some 
 of the roughs making a grab at her diamond 
 locket, — I opened the carriage-door, and 
 dragged her out, somehow or other, through 
 the fold mob, which closed aroiunl us. 
 The arm which held mine trembled through 
 her cloak, but she said nothing, till we had
 
 68 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 left the frlnixe of the crowLl. and were scud- 
 diiiLj along the dark and dirty streets, un- 
 molested. 
 
 " At last, thank Heaven 1 I was really 
 more frightened of those horrible people 
 than at the aecident ; ])Ut what a dreadful- 
 looking street 1 Where are we ? " 
 
 " I haven't any idea. I only know we 
 are p-oing back in the direction of Oxford 
 Street." 
 
 '' AVhat a position ! I only hope yon are 
 going right. Just think if any one — if Mrs. 
 Chaillnch, for instance — saw me ! " 
 
 '■ Well, it would be a good thing. She 
 would give you a lift, of course." 
 
 " Ah I you would be glad to be rid of 
 the encumbrance. I meant that people 
 who are ill-natured" — 
 
 '■ Who could be ill-natured when your 
 carriage is smashed, and you have narrow- 
 ly escaped with your life ? " 
 
 " Oh, you don't know ! I would not be 
 in this position with any one in whom I 
 had not confidence, for the world. You're 
 sure you know where you are going? " 
 
 " Not at all ; but it is a fine night, and 
 if you are not afraid of catching cold, you 
 need fear nothing else. AVe shall all be 
 right in a few minutes, depend upon it." 
 
 " I can't go on to Lady Ancastar's — it's 
 perfecily impossible. My nerves are so 
 dreadfully shaken, I must go straight 
 home. And you — good Heavens! I am 
 afraid your face is badly cut ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it is nothing ; a little sticking- 
 plaster will set it all right. My shirt has 
 rather suffered, that is all." 
 
 " How you frightened me when you 
 knocked that dreadful man down ! " 
 
 '• Yes, it was very wrong : I ought to 
 have had more self-control, considering you 
 were by." 
 
 " And think, what should I have done, 
 if, in return, he had knocked you 
 down ? " 
 
 " Ah, I shouldn't have been afraid of that, 
 even if he had been sober," said I conceit- 
 edly. " I saw he was only a flabby brute, 
 though twice my weight. I hope the ma- 
 gistrate will give him enough to make him 
 remember his drive to-night. I shall have 
 to go to the police court to-morrow, and — 
 halloo ! well steered ! Here we are in Ox- 
 ford Street ; and now, fur a ' crawler.' " 
 
 I shouted, and one in the distance 
 quickened his pace towards us. As he 
 drew up to the pavement, close to a lamji- 
 post, and I opened the door to hand in 
 Lady Castle, a hansom passed ; not so rap- 
 idly, however, but that I saw two heads — 
 well-known to me as containing two of the 
 most unscrupulous tongues in London, 
 — craned out at the very moment that the 
 lamjj-light fell full upon Lady Castle's face. 
 
 It was an unlucky coincidence, but T knew 
 there was only one thing to be done. If 
 Lady Castle went home, and if I did not 
 show my cut face and soiled shirt at Lady 
 Ancastar's, scandal would be busy with 
 our names to-ni(jrrow morning. Now, as it 
 will be tolerably apparent, from what has 
 passed, that I did not in the least aspire to 
 trans])lant Benevento in her ladyship's 
 good graces, I had no fancy to have the 
 spurious honor of so doing thrust upon me. 
 1 told the cabman to drive to Grosvenor 
 Place, and stop, on the way, at the first 
 chemist's where he saw a light. 
 
 " If you take my advice. Lady Castle, 
 you will go to Lady Ancastar's, if it be but 
 tor five minutes," I said, as F took my seat 
 beside her. To mv great distress she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "I — I really feel too ill. I have had a 
 great deal to upset me to-night, before — 
 before this accident. If you only knew — 
 but it is of no use talking of it, though I 
 am sure you are to be trusted." 
 
 I remained silent, not being desirous to 
 be made her confidant ; and she continued, 
 after gulping down her hysterical sobs, — 
 
 '•Still, if y — y — you think I ought — 
 if y — you wish it, I will try to make the 
 efTort. I — I — I feel, dear Mr. Penrud- 
 docke, I owe xoxx so much ; and I am sure 
 you arc so good and high-principled." 
 
 The enumeration of my virtues was for- 
 tunately cut short by our drawing up at the 
 chemist's, where I got my wound plastered 
 up, and brought Lady Castle some sal- vol- 
 atile to the cab-door. 
 
 " If I had not such confidence in you," 
 she murmured, as she took the slass from 
 my hand, and fixed her swimming blue 
 e\es upon mine ; " if I had not such confi- 
 dence in you, I should be afraid to take 
 this" 
 
 When we entered Lady Ancastar's sup- 
 per-room, I saw a suppressed smile on the 
 faces of all the party, save Beneveyto's, 
 who turned his head awny, and the indom- 
 itable Chaffinch actually pulled out her 
 watch, crying uut. — 
 
 " One hour and five minutes, my dear, 
 ^ince you left the theatre I I hope you've 
 had a j)leasant drive ? But, good gracious ! 
 how pale you are ! and Mr. Penruddocke's 
 face 1 What does it all mean V " 
 
 Tlien followed explanations and ques- 
 tions, and lamentations and commiserations, 
 in which, I am bound to say, every one 
 showed a kindly feeling except the Italian, 
 who remained absolutely silent, until, lean- 
 ing across the table, and addressing me, he 
 said, with marked emphasis, — 
 
 '• You gave the man in charge ? At 
 what police-court do you attend to prose- 
 cute him to-morrow ? "
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 69 
 
 I saw his drift : he disbelieved the whole 
 story. 
 
 " At Bow Street, at eleven o'clock, where 
 I shall Ih' happy to meet you, if you like to 
 hear further particulars." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The case was summarily treated the 
 next morning, and very briefly reported in 
 the papers. I hoped, therefore, that any 
 gossip concerning this unfortunate circum- 
 stance would soon die away ; but in this I 
 was mistaken. 
 
 My uncle was the first to undeceive me. 
 I met hini in St. James's Street. 
 
 " My dear boy," said he, laughing, " I 
 hear of nothing but your adventure. What 
 will your mother say about your bonne 
 fortune, eh ? They say you've comi)letely 
 cut that Italian fellow out." 
 
 '• I hope you don't believe it," said I, 
 cnlorin"-. " There isn't a word of truth in 
 it." 
 
 '• Oh ! of course not — of course you say 
 that, vou youn^ Don Juan. Well ! we 
 Lave all sown our wild oats, — only 1 m 
 afraid this puts all Miss Guildaiore's chances 
 at an end ; and your mother won't be as 
 pleased to hear of your celebrity in this 
 new line as at the prospect of your marry- 
 ing the heiress." 
 
 It was in vain that I reiterated mj' as- 
 sijrance : I saw that it made but small im- 
 pression. 
 
 The next day I called upon Madame 
 d'Arnheim. She received me very coldly. 
 
 " Have vou nothing to ask about mv ac- 
 cident ? " I began. " Don't you see my 
 wounds ? " 
 
 " I see some plaster. No : I am not curi- 
 ous to know any thing about it." 
 
 " That's unkind. Did you hear of my 
 knocking down a drunken drayman ? I 
 was the hero of ' Seven Dials ' for about 
 two minutes and a half." 
 
 She did not look up from her knitting. 
 Her fingers plied rapidly. 
 
 " I heard (|uite enough — more than I 
 wished ! " 
 
 " Then, I suppose, like the rest of the 
 world, you have heard some lies. Let 
 me " — 
 
 " There are things it is useless to talk 
 about. As a man of honor, you are bound 
 not to tell me the truth ; and I have cer- 
 tainly no right to ask it. Let us change 
 the subject. I am sorry, and I am disap- 
 pointed in you : that is all." 
 
 " But, it is not ail. Do you think I am 
 going to let you believe any lies people 
 
 choose to say ? You must hear me, Madame 
 d'Arnheim." 
 
 " I knew how it would be," said she, with 
 a sigh. " I warned you. You are young 
 and very silly ; and Lady Castle is the 
 most dangerous woman in London." 
 
 " Nonsense ! She is not dangerous to 
 me, at all events. A most unluckv series 
 of accidents the other night led to our 
 being seen alone together ; but, after all, 
 what happened might have happened to any 
 one — to you, for instance. Do believe me, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 She had been looking at me steadily in 
 the face. Her cheek flushed as I finished ; 
 and then she held out her hand. 
 
 " You do not know how much pain this 
 has (riven me. I had refjarded you as 
 a King Arthur among men, who, loving 
 early, kept his heart pure and true to that 
 first love. It grieved me to unthrone you; 
 but how could I doubt what I hoard ? 
 My husband met two men at the St. James's 
 Club, who swore that they had seen you — 
 under circumstances which — but we will 
 say no more about it. I believe you : if 
 I did not, all my pleasure in your society 
 henceforward would be gone." 
 
 I made her listen to my story, never- 
 theless ; and then, from that day forwards, 
 we neither of us ever alluded to it. Lady 
 Castle's name was rarely mentioned be- 
 tween us. Madame d'Arnheim no longer 
 questioned or counselled me. She knew 
 that I was constantly invited to Belgrave 
 Square ; but I suppose she heard what was 
 the fact, that Benevento's quarrel with 
 Lady Castle had apparently been com- 
 pletely made up. He was as much in the 
 house as ever. And I, for my part, excused 
 myself as often as possible from accepting 
 Lady Castle's pressing invitations. She 
 always called me 'her preserver,' and- re- 
 proached me with not calling oftener ; but 
 I could no longer remain blind to the state 
 of things. She was completely and fiitally 
 under the influence of the Italian. His 
 extreme cleverness dominated, as his per- 
 sonal charms had originally fascinated her. 
 She was as helpless in his hand as a silly' 
 bird who tries to escape from his cage, and 
 who, fluttering round the room, is soon re- 
 captured by its jailer. A weak woman, 
 who required to cling to something; if' it 
 were not this man, then it would be another, 
 from sheer inability to walk without some 
 support, whether lawful or otherwise. 
 With another sort of husband, she would 
 have been another woman ; but Lord Castle 
 liad no idea of what love meant. Ih; was 
 a studious, honorable, kind-hearted man, 
 whose frame was of the consistency oi" un- 
 U-avened bread, and whose mind was too 
 abstracted to see any thing that went on
 
 70 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 around liim. He was content that lii< wife 
 should remain away ti'uni him lor nearly 
 half the year, and no thought of evil ever 
 entered liis imagination. lll-echieated, 
 childless, surrounded from her girlhood by 
 admiration and bad examples, could the 
 result in her case be dili'erent V The ex- 
 cuses to be pleaded for such as love, not 
 wisely, but too well, were of no avail in 
 ])oor Lady Castle's case; but are tempera- 
 nunt, training, circumstances, not to be 
 taken into account when judging such as 
 she V I know I heartily pitied her. But, 
 tor all that, I abstained irom going often 
 to her house ; not because of the Italian's 
 jealousy, but because the world, having once 
 coupled" my name with Lady Castle's, could 
 not be induced to leave us alone. I was 
 constantly annoyed by some chaffing al- 
 lusion to " Castle Dangerous," as it pleased 
 the wits to call her. Therefore, towards 
 the end of that season, I saw, comparatively, 
 but little of her. 
 
 I have now to speak of Arthur Tufton, 
 in whom a creat change had been gradually 
 working for some weeks. His fits of depres- 
 sion were more and more frequent, until 
 the gloom became so permanent and pro- 
 found that I could scarcely extract a word 
 from him. He was not like the same man 
 1 had remembered eighteen months befi^re. 
 It grieved me ; for I was sincerely attached 
 to him, and I guessed but too well what 
 the cause must be. I resolved to force 
 some coniession of the state of his affairs 
 from hiui, if possible; for I knew, judg- 
 ing by my own experience, that even the 
 heaviest trouble may be, in a measure, 
 lightened by discussion and sympathy. 
 Somehow or other, my own secret had 
 never been as intolerable a burden to me, 
 after I found that Mr. Francis shared it, 
 and that I was able to speak of it to him. 
 
 Therefb)"e, when this state of things had 
 * been getting worse instead of better for 
 some (lays, 1 broke ground thus one morn- 
 ing : — 
 
 " Look here, old fellow. It is no use go- 
 ing on like this : it (|uite takes away my 
 appetite to see you. Of course, I can guess 
 pretty well how it is, but I wish you would 
 tell me plainly how much you have lost. 
 It's far better to talk of it, even to me, 
 Tufton, than to brooil over it." 
 
 " My dear boy, it's no use talking. There 
 is nothing to be done" 
 
 " Let me judge of that. Sometimes two 
 heads are better than one." 
 
 " Neither two heads, nor twenty, can set 
 me straight. Pen. I must sell out, that is 
 the long and short of it." 
 
 " Impossible ! Why, how much are you 
 in for ? " 
 
 " Two thousand." 
 
 I gave a long whistle. It seemed to rae 
 almost incredible that he should have gone 
 on losing at whist up to this extent, in the 
 short space of four months. 
 
 '• Whom do you owe the chief part of 
 this to V " I asked at length. 
 
 " To Benevento." 
 
 " I thought so. Well, of course he will 
 give you time V '•' 
 
 '• I don't choose to ask him. I must bor- 
 row the money at usttrious interest, without 
 any prospect of being able to repay it, or I 
 must part with my commission. The lat- 
 ter is the only honest course, I am afraid ? " 
 
 '■ Have you been to the Jews ? Surely 
 with your prospects " — 
 
 " My de;ir Pen, I have none, — that is 
 just it. No man in his senses would ad- 
 vance any thing upon tlie chances of my 
 succeeding to the Barony. Lord Tufton 
 has a better life than mine. And as to 
 getting him to help me, — that is quite out 
 of the question. I have no security of any 
 sort to offer but my commission. If I am 
 to part with that in the end, I may as well 
 do so at once, and save being robbed by 
 the Jews." 
 
 " Promise me to do nothing for a few 
 days, will you ? " I said, after a pause. 
 " There can be no such great hurry, and 
 we may, perhaps, think of some means ; but 
 do you still go on jilaying V " 
 
 " No, I have not been to the club for four 
 days, and I feel utterly T7r(>tched. I am 
 ready to hang myself sometimes. How- 
 ever, there is no use thinking about it. I 
 must sell out, and emigrate." 
 
 " Have you made a vow not to play 
 again ? " I asked. 
 
 " No ; for I shall have to play with .Sel- 
 den once more. I won fifty of him the 
 other night, and must give him his revenge, 
 I suppose. After tlial — Well, I'll make 
 no rash vows, but I think I shall never 
 touch a card again." 
 
 We talked over his affairs for a long time. 
 I was no man of business ; but it was man- 
 ifest that he could not remain in the Guards 
 upon the miserable income that would re- 
 main to him if he now took from his capital 
 the two thousand pounds he owed. If he 
 could not raise the money somehow, there 
 seemed no alternative for him but to part 
 with his commission. The prospect of this 
 sacrifice for my friend made me miserable. 
 What means were there of averting the 
 ruin of his career? I racked my brain all 
 the morning to suggest some. The only 
 outlet from the difficulty, which I had too 
 much respect for my friend to urge, was an 
 appeal to Benevento for time. 
 
 " The fellow is an adventurer," he said, 
 " who lives chiefly by play. I know that 
 now ; but he owes Selden and others money,
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 71 
 
 and ho has allowed my debt to mount up 
 — as hv saw I was ass enou<fh to <;a on 
 playin<ji;, — till it has come to this. 1 will 
 not appeal to the "generosity of a man like 
 that, lie would, of course, reply that he 
 can't pay his own debts till he <;ets my 
 monev ; and, after all, he would be quite 
 right." 
 
 "I am pel ad you have come round to my 
 opinion of him," I could not resist saying. 
 
 " I don't think him a scoundrel, as I be- 
 lieve you do. Pen, but simply a fellow 
 ' without any visible means of subsistence,' 
 as the police say, who lives by his wits " — 
 
 " And his good looks," I added, with in- 
 dignation. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders . 
 
 " It may be so. I do not wish to be un- 
 just, because lie has had the luck to win 
 my money. If not he, I suppose it would- 
 have been some one else. I have been a 
 fool, Pen ; and a tool and his money, you 
 know, are soon parted." 
 
 He took up his violin ; it seemed his only 
 consolation, — a confidant to whom he 
 could tell far more of the remorse and long- 
 ing of his soul than he could to me. I left 
 the room quietly, and for more than two 
 hours I could hear him below me, drawing 
 out the wild, passionate, and plaintive tones 
 from his beloved instrument. Then it 
 seemed to me that the music changed, by 
 slow progressions, into something deeper, 
 stronger, more manful than unavailing re- 
 gret : there was resolution in it, — a reso- 
 lution to arise and conquer the weakness of 
 a wasted youth ; and, as I listened, my own 
 hope grew larger that my friend's ji^^i'i') if 
 once passed, ndght be the turning-point in 
 his career, beyond which the man's fine and 
 gifted nature should develop itself, free 
 from the debasing bondage in which it had 
 hitherto been held. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 I w^AS a long time revolving a plan in 
 my mind, the execution of which I knew 
 would be difficult. Nothing but the strait 
 in which Arthur Tufton was would have 
 led me to think of calling on my old cousin 
 and trustee, Humphrey Penruddocke, to 
 •whom I had never spoken in my life ; but 
 to acconi])Iish what I desired, it was abso- 
 lutely necessary that I should do this ; and 
 soon after twelve 1 threw myself into a han- 
 som, and drove to Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, 
 where I knew Humphrey lived. 
 
 The house was of dark red brick, stand- 
 ing a few yards back, with high and v(n-y 
 narrow windows set flush with the wall, the 
 woodwork being painted white, and the 
 
 door green ; a brass knocker as good as 
 gold, for brilliancy, and a path of spotless 
 white pavement conducting from the iron 
 wicket to the door. It was opened by a 
 prim little old woman, who ushered me into 
 a wainscoted parlor to the right of the 
 door, where she left me. 
 
 This room was painted of a pale water- 
 green ; there was nothing much less than a 
 century old in it, I think, from the thread- 
 bare Turkey carpet, upwards; and yet it 
 had an air of great cheerfulness. This was 
 partly owing, no doubt, to the brilliant 
 cleanliness of ever}' thing. The mahogany 
 spindle-legged tables shone from rubliing, 
 till they had become so many darkened 
 mirrors ; the fine glaze of the old Worces- 
 ter cups and saucers on the mantle-shelf, 
 undiuuued by any speck of dust, glittered 
 iu the light from the windows opposite ; the 
 fire-irons, and the old-fashioned brass fen- 
 der, carried on the sparkle down below. 
 All belonged to the past, nothing to the 
 present. Two or three generations may 
 have passed away, and have left that room 
 absolutely unchanged. Time deals gently 
 with the inanimate furniture of such quiet 
 old houses as this, while it furrows and 
 bends, and finally removes, the human fur- 
 niture that dwelt there. 
 
 The door opened, and in walked my 
 cousin, — the short, iron-gray, bristle- 
 headed man I remembered, with a sharp, 
 penetrating face. As he came forward, he 
 eyed me very narrowly, not from head to 
 foot, but rather from forehead to mouth, — 
 that is, his eyes never left my face, either 
 then, or, as far as I can recollect, during 
 the whole of my visit. He held out one 
 hand, and waved me to a chair with the 
 other. 
 
 '• So you are the boy who has been in all 
 these scrapes, are you ? Hem ! John Pen- 
 ruddocke spoke to me of you. You and he 
 met somewhere, — you came to inquire 
 about them, perhaps V " 
 
 " N — no, I can't say that I did ; but I am 
 very glad to hear they are well." 
 
 "I did not say they were well," said 
 Cousin Humphrey rather cruelly. " I aui 
 afraid John is any thing hut well. He has 
 been a great sufferer for some months 
 past." 
 
 '• I am very sorry to hear it. Where is 
 he ? " 
 
 " At Paris just now, with Elizabeth. 
 When they have seen the sights there, they 
 are coming here to me." A pause ; then, 
 with some severity, " His position is a hard 
 one, young man, — a very hard one, I con- 
 sider." 
 
 " So do I," I replied, coloring. " I know 
 the fetdings you entertain towards my 
 branch of the family, and that no membei
 
 72 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 of it can be very welcome in your house. 
 I sliouKl not have inmuU'd upon yon, there- 
 fore, Mr. Humphrey Penrmldoeke, but for 
 one circumstance, that, by Gen. llicli's 
 ■will, you are left as one of my trustees." 
 
 I knew it was an awkward way of begin- 
 nin'i. but I was nervous. 
 
 lie looked at me more suspiciously (I 
 thou'iht) than ever, uttered the monosylla- 
 ble '• Oh I " .Tnd drew his lips tightly. 
 
 " You will, pcrhajis, remember that Gen. 
 Rich left me ten thousand pounds ? You 
 and my Uncle Levison are trustees for the 
 same until I am of age — which I shall not 
 be for another year. In the mean time I 
 have a great friend, who is in immediate 
 want of two thousand pounds. It' he can- 
 not obtain it otherwise, he must sell out of 
 the army, and his prospects in life be 
 ruined. I want to save my friend by ad- 
 vancing him this money." 
 
 The tight lips unclosed. 
 
 " You are speaking in a parable, are you 
 not, young man ? The ' friend ' is yourself, 
 I conclude ? " 
 
 I replied that I was telling him the sim- 
 ple truth. 
 
 •' What is your friend's name ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 ■' Capt. Tufton." 
 
 " And how comes he to have contracted 
 such a debt ? " 
 
 " By gambling," I answered boldly. 
 
 " Hem ! a nice friend for you to have. 
 And do you really suppose that your uncle 
 or I could commit this insane act, even if 
 we wished it, young sir ? The thing is 
 quite out of the question." 
 
 " Hear me first, Mr. Penruddocke. 
 Capt. Tufton is an officer in the Guards. 
 His commissions are worth a great deal 
 more than this. You may bind him by a 
 deed, to sell out if, when I call upon him to 
 refund the money, it be not forthcoming." 
 
 " And how if he dies in the interval ? 
 What account should we be able to give of 
 our stewardship when w6 deliver it up? 
 By that time your sentiments may have 
 undergone a complete change as regards 
 this valued friend, and " — 
 
 " Nothing will ever change them. I am 
 ready to sign any number of papers. I 
 swear to you that I had fir sooner lose this 
 money, out and out, than that Capt. Tufton 
 should now be forced to leave the ser- 
 vice." 
 
 "But you forget that the money is not 
 yours to lose. You may die befljre you are 
 of ag«, in which case Gen. Rich's money 
 returns to his own family ; and we are re- 
 sponsible (or it, not to you alone, but to all 
 the other residuary legatees. What \'0U ask 
 is simply impossible. Surely Col. Levison 
 Rich must have told you so." 
 
 " I did not ask him. I knew that he 
 would regard a cjuestion of this sort purely 
 from a worldly point of view. I hoped 
 you would take a ditierent one, and bring 
 my uncle, at last, to acquiesce in yours ; 
 but I see the justice of your argument 
 about the Rich Family. I had not thought 
 of that 1 There is nothing to be done, 
 then V Poor Tufton ! " 
 
 " No : there is nothing to be done, in 
 this way." He paused, and then continued 
 slowly, " Your brother is a very wealthy 
 man. Two thousand pounds would not be 
 nmch to him. He might possiblv advance 
 it." 
 
 " I would not ask him for all the world 1 " 
 I replied vehemently. "I take nothing 
 from my home. I do not touch a shilling 
 of Penruddocke property. I am imlepend- 
 ent. I have left Beaumanoir never to re- 
 turn ; and, not even to save ray friend, would 
 I apply to Raymond." 
 
 Something akin to a smile came into the 
 old man's face. 
 
 " You and your brother, I see, are not 
 cast in the same mould. He is a prudent 
 young man, I fancy, who would never com- 
 mit sueh folly as you are capable of, for the 
 sake of a friend. I am sorry yours is not 
 better worth the deep interest you take ia 
 him." 
 
 " You wouldn't say so if you knew him 
 as I do. When I ran away from home, and 
 enlisted as a private, he was lieutenant of 
 my company, and I became his servant." 
 
 My cousin's eyes opened rather wider 
 than before, but thev never relaxed their 
 hold of my face. 
 
 " He was very kind to me then, and now 
 that fate has thrown us together upon an 
 equality, he is more like a brother to me 
 than my own ever was or ever will be. He 
 is the only friend — except one — I have 
 ever had ; he is the best and cleverest fel- 
 low in the world, with only this weakness, 
 of which I believe he is now cured. I 
 would give anv thins; in the world to save 
 him." 
 
 " As a man makes his bed so he must lie 
 on it," said my old kinsman severely. 
 
 " Some get feather-beds who have no 
 right to them, all the same," I replied. 
 
 For one instant our eyes met, and I knew 
 that he read the application of my words; 
 but when he s[)oke aixain it was to say, — 
 
 " Then this gambling friend of yours, 
 young sir, has no prospects ? He has not 
 fooled away his money in anticipation, but 
 actually ruined himself without any ulti- 
 mate hope for the future ? 
 
 " I am sorry to say it is so. His father 
 is dead. His uncle is not an old man now. 
 He may survive his heir, or he may marry. 
 Arthur can't build upon that."
 
 PENEUDDOCKE, 
 
 73 
 
 " Bless my soul ! What fools men are ! 
 It is ineonceivaljle." 
 
 " On this head he has hardly been sane, 
 — I admit it. It has been like some poison 
 in the blood, goading him on, in spite of 
 himself, to his ruin. On every other sub- 
 ject 'a wiser, more sensible fellow never 
 existed." 
 
 " And pray, how can you tell that the 
 poison is out of the blood now V The 
 cases are very rare indeed in which a man 
 who has imbibed any fatal habit of this 
 kind is radically cured. The more allow- 
 ance you make on the plea of its being a 
 species of insanity, the more chance of the 
 sufferer, as an irresponsible agent, relapsing 
 into his old courses. I am not sure that 
 the best tiling that can befall the man is to 
 have to leave the army, work hard for his 
 daily bread, and be out of temptation's 
 way." 
 
 '■ It does no gentleman good to be de- 
 graded," I said rather hotly. 
 
 " There is no degradation in working 
 hard for your daily bread, young sir." 
 
 " No : but there is in having to leave the 
 army for debt ; and, when the man is such 
 a fellow as Tufton, to think of his whole 
 career being ruined, and of his emigrating, 
 as I fear he would, it makes me mad. Is a 
 man to be punished forever for a folly of 
 his youth V " 
 
 " Not forever, I think," returned Mr. 
 Humphrey with composure, " for I do not 
 believe in eternal punishment ; but very 
 often for the period of his natural life. 
 That, however, is not the question. The 
 point is, whether it may not be for his hap- 
 piness, even on this side the grave, to suf- 
 fer the penalty of his folly now. It' the 
 man has the stuff in him you describe, 
 transplantation will not ruin him ; and 
 the world's cold shoulder will not degrade 
 hiin lower than he is already degraded in 
 his own estimation. If the man has a grain 
 of sense, he will see it in that light." 
 
 It was hopeless to argue with him. Our 
 standpoints being wide apart, every step 
 would only sunder us still farther; but a 
 suggestion — like a flash of light — shot 
 through my Ijrain just then. If I could 
 bring him and Tufton face to face, might 
 not a personal knowledge of the man suc- 
 ceed where my feeble eloquence had failed V 
 Succeed in what ? I asked myself the 
 question, but did not stop to answer it. I 
 certainly had given up all hojje now of in- 
 ducing my trustees to yield to my wishes ; 
 but a vague idea that my old kinsman, as 
 a shrewd business man, might, if he so list- 
 ed, be of essential service to my friend, 
 was paramount in my mind, as I said, — 
 
 " 1 would give a good deal, Mr. Penriid- 
 docke, that j'ou should have a talk with 
 
 Tufton. Tlie discussion of his affairs with 
 a man like you would, at all events, be a 
 great thing for him. Perhaps you may 
 bring him round to your view of his ease. 
 At present he has spoken to no one but 
 me, who am ignorant and incapable of giv- 
 ing any advice. I can only speak as I 
 feel in the matter, and I do feel very 
 strongly. You would understand this, I 
 think, if you talked to him for half-an-hour. 
 Would you — would you mind seeing 
 him ? " 
 
 It was nearly a minute, I think, before 
 he replied, — 
 
 " Well, I will see him, — that is to say, 
 if he likes to come here, — after you have 
 prepared him for the sort of visit he must 
 expe(;t. He will hear hard truths i'rom me ; 
 and, if he can't stomach them, he had bet- 
 ter keep away." 
 
 He then said that he should be at home 
 the whole of the afternoon ; and I took my 
 leave, after expressing my gratitude clum- 
 sily enough. Old Humphrey had too 
 much penetration, however, not to read 
 that the sentiment in me was real. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I HAD anticipated no difficulty in per- 
 suading Tuifon to go and talk over his 
 affairs with my old lawyer-cousin ; but I 
 found it less easy than I had imagined. 
 What was the use of it ? AVhy should he 
 bore a stranger, and distress himself, by 
 a discussion of his financial condition ? 
 There was but one course open to him, — 
 unless he went to the Jews, he must sell 
 out. That was plain : not all the talking 
 in the world could alter it ; and it was a 
 mere waste of words, to enter upon this 
 painful topic with a stranger. 
 
 I spent nearly an hour in discussing the 
 point with him ; and when I did bring him 
 at last to consent to this interview, it was 
 due to no arguments of mine in favor of 
 such a course, but arose solely ti-om his re- 
 luctance to pain me, after I had done all 
 that lay in my power for him, and when he 
 saw that his continued refusal would grieve 
 me. 
 
 I do not mean to trouble the reader with 
 any account, at second hand, of several 
 interviews between Tufton and Humphrey 
 Penruddocke, which tuUowed hereon very 
 rapidly. That the latter, with all his ;i])- 
 parent hardness, was a man singularly 
 susceptible to impressions, I had already 
 divined ; that he was generous, where his 
 sympathies were enlisted, I knew ; but I 
 was i'ar from fbrseeing the result of bring- 
 ing him in contact with my friend, ardently
 
 74 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 as I desired to acconiijlish this. Tufton's 
 subtle cliarin, of wliicli I liave endeavored, 
 but vainly, to give some iilea, fairly won 
 over the acute, stiif-necked old man. In 
 liim, Balak and Balaam, so to speak, were 
 fused, — the former had harshly called on 
 him to curse the sinner, and behold I the 
 latter had blessed him altojjether ! Or, if 
 not altogether, at least, with such temper- 
 ate admonitions as saved Mr. Penrud- 
 d<K'ke's kindness from appeariu'^ to be the 
 niei'e weakness of capi'ice. lie lent Tuf- 
 ton the two thousand pounds, with no other 
 security than that of his bond, that the 
 money should be repaid by small instal- 
 ments, yearly. 
 
 1 never was better pleased than at hav- 
 ing been instrumental in bringing about 
 my friend's deliverance ; and my gratitude 
 to old Humphrey knew no bounds, but he 
 was rather churlish in accepting it. He 
 desired tne never to allude to the suljject 
 again, and observed, that the event would 
 aloue prove whether he had been a fool or 
 not. He did not encourage my returning 
 to the house, which — though I Mt but ill- 
 at-ease with him — I should have done as 
 a duty. When John and Elizabeth ar- 
 rived, he would let me know. And so we 
 I^arted. 
 
 Having exhibited myself in no unfavor- 
 able light in this transaction, it remains 
 for me to detail an incident, connected 
 with the same events, in which, no doubt, 
 I cut but a sorry figure in the eyes of the 
 greater part of the world. 
 
 Bcnevento was paid: Tufton had with- 
 drawn his name from the Club, and 
 
 had announced his resolution to abjure 
 gambling in every shape. Selden had 
 been called to Scotland on flimily business, 
 so that the cousins had not yet met since 
 Tufton had won Selden's money ; which 
 fact, it may be remembered, he named to 
 me, as obliging him, in honor, to play once 
 more, should Selden desire it. 
 
 Some athletic sports were got up by the 
 Life Guards at Windsor, to which we went 
 down, a large party of men, on a drag. 
 Tufton was with us ; Lord Algernon," old 
 Jack," and most of the well-known faces 
 about town, appeared there in the course 
 of the day, and staid for the mess-dinner 
 afterwards. Amang those who did so — 
 arriving by rather a late train in the after- 
 noon — were Selden, just come from Scot- 
 land, and Benevento. 
 
 After dinner, what I had foreseen came 
 to pass. Tables were laid for whist ; and 
 W^alter Selden, sauntering up to Tufton, 
 said, — 
 
 " Well, mon cou.fln, though you have ab- 
 jured these naughty delights, you are 
 going to give me my revenge, eh ? You 
 
 cleaned me out the other night, remem- 
 ber." 
 
 " Yes," replied Tufton with a smile, 
 "111 give you a chance of revenge, — but 
 only one. If the gods give it against you, 
 you must abide by their decision. I am 
 never going to J^lay for high stakes again." 
 Was it by accident that Benevento was 
 close to them at the moment, and that Sel- 
 den turned first to him, — there being 
 nearly fifty men in the room, — and said he 
 su|)posed he wouldn't mind taking a hand ? 
 After all, it was natural : these men were 
 accustomed to play almost nightly to- 
 gether. Perhaps I did Selden a wrong, 
 God only knows : the truth has never been 
 quite clear to me ; but the fact, which I can 
 no longer deny, is that I suspected these 
 men of playing into each other's hands to 
 despoil my friend. I had drunk a good 
 deal of wine at dinner, and though I have 
 always maintained that I was not only per- 
 fectly sober, but that my bi'ain was as clear 
 as it ever was, I will admit that I was just 
 fired enough to make me regardless of any 
 prudential considerations in my conduct. 
 
 The rubber was made up, some man 
 whonti I did not know being the fourth ; 
 and when they first cut for partners, Bene- 
 vento and Tufton played together. I felt 
 an unaccountable conviction that my friend 
 wouM win now ; and he did, thus obliging 
 him to go on playing. There were two or 
 three other tables ; and I saAmtered about, 
 apparently watching them all, but, in real- 
 ity, never losing sight of my friend. 
 
 Benevento was seated with his back to 
 the window, against the curtains of which 
 the table was drawn so close that no one 
 could possibly stand between them and 
 it. Wlien the first game was over there 
 was a change of partners, l)ut Benevento 
 kept his place. Selden and Tufton moved ; 
 and the former, having lost an inconsidera- 
 ble bet or two, began to ofTer to lay heavier 
 odds on the rubber, which were taken by two 
 of the lookers-on. Tufton resolutely re- 
 fused to bet. I took up my post near the 
 curtains, as close to Benevento as I could, 
 upon his left hand; and in front of me 
 stood old Jack. One or two Guardsmen 
 were behind Selden, watching his play, 
 which was re(;koned to be fii-st-rate ; 
 another stood upon Benevento's right hand. 
 All idea of collusion between these and 
 any of the players would have been ab- 
 surd — they were officers and gentlemen — ■ 
 fine, frank soldiers, almost strangers to the 
 Italian uj)on whom my suspicions were 
 fixed. I scanned his hard, handsome face 
 the restless glitter of his eye, the rapid 
 movements of his serpentine white fingers ; 
 and on these latter iny attention became 
 riveted. I no longer attendud to the prog-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 75 
 
 ress of the frame, I no lonjrcr watched the 
 cards ; it was the hands that held them 
 upon which my eyes were fastened. Once 
 — twice — I thought I saw it. Did my 
 eyes deceive me ? Was it an hallucina- 
 tion ? I had heard of peojjle brin^■in(T 
 themselves to believe they saw things, such 
 as " winking Madonnas," owing to an ex- 
 cited state of the system. I set my teeth, 
 and breathed hard ; I would wait — I 
 would be quite sure — there should be no 
 selt-decejition about it. 
 
 / saw it a third time. 
 
 And, without a moment's hesitation, I 
 dashed upon him, seizing with both of mine 
 the left hand next me, and calling out, — 
 
 "You blackguai'd! You've got a card 
 up your sleeve ! " 
 
 Before tlie words were out of my mouth, 
 I was on the floor, doubled up liy a blow 
 from his right fist ; but I never relaxed my 
 grasp of his left, dragging him down with 
 me, and nearly upsetting the table as we 
 rolled ton-ether under it. I heard con- 
 fused cries of — 
 
 " What the devil does it all mean ? " 
 
 " Separate them ! By G — ! the boy's 
 mad ! " 
 
 '• What did he say ? " 
 
 " He said he cheated." 
 
 "Take the Italian fellow off! — he'll 
 kill him ! " shouted one ; for his right hand 
 had now seized my throat. 
 
 " For God's sake. Pen, are you drunk ? 
 Get up, man ! " cried Tufton. 
 
 " Not — until you — search his sleeve ! " 
 I gasped out, nearly choked ; but I clung 
 on like grim death, all the same. 
 
 Benevento relinquished his hold of my 
 throat, and we both rose to our feet, while 
 he exclaimed, in a voice quivering with 
 passion, — 
 
 " Gentlemen, I appeal to you — I appeal 
 to you against this unwarrantable, coward- 
 ly attack u[)on a foreigner. You hear his 
 accusation ? Search me. You see his 
 hands have never left me. I demand to be 
 searched ! " 
 
 " Yes, search him ! " I cried ; " and if 
 you don't find the ace of diamonds" — 
 
 1 let go his arm, and he slipped off' his 
 coat, unt'astened his gold sleeve-links, and 
 rolled his shirt-sleeve up. There was no 
 card there. How he had got rid of it, I 
 cannot conceive : that he liad secreted it, 
 I feel morally certain ; but of course pub- 
 lic opiniiMi was dead against me. 
 
 " 1 must say it's a most (ionfbumled 
 shame ! " said Selden. "I never heard of 
 a more disgraceful attack. And, by Jove ! 
 here the veiy card is ! " and he jiickcd it 
 up irom the cunlnsed mass upun the floor. 
 
 " Monstrous ! " said Lord Algy. " Of 
 course, Penruddocke, you will apologize 
 
 amply to Count Benevento for this gross 
 outrage ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes — I will undertake that he 
 does," interrupted Tufton, before I could 
 reply ; and he took hold of my arm. " Pen- 
 ruddocke has had rather more than is good 
 for him ; but in the morning I am sure he 
 will be the first to regret what he has done, 
 and to apologize to Count Benevento." 
 Then turning to me, in a low yoice he 
 added, " Come away ; don't say a word 
 now — it can do no good. Leave it all to 
 me to settle " — 
 
 " But I tell you that I saw " — 
 
 " Never mind ; perhaps yon did. There's 
 nothing for it but to apologize. If you 
 reiterate the charge, after that test, every 
 man will be against you." 
 
 '■ Such a scene as this, I am haptiy to 
 sav, has never occurred before in our mess- 
 room," said a captain in the Life Guards, 
 addressing Tufton, though his wonls were 
 directed to me, " and I am sure that INIr. 
 Penruddocke, as a gentleman, will not 
 refuse to give Count Benevento ample and 
 immediate satisfaction, in the shape of an 
 apology, before all of us here, who have wit- 
 nessed the insult he has just olfered one of 
 our guests." 
 
 Tufton led me away by the arm to the 
 other end of the room. My appearance, 
 no doubt, lent itself to the assumption that 
 I was more than half-drunk. I telt dazed, 
 confounded by the miserable failure of my 
 denunciation, convinced that the testimony 
 of my eyes had not deceived me, yet ut- 
 terly unable to prove its truth; and, ])er- 
 plexed as to what course honesty and hon- 
 or ought now to lead me to pursue, I told 
 Tufton circumstantially what Iliad seen. 
 
 '' My dear boy, you fancied it. You 
 have always been strongly ])rejudiced 
 against that fellow, and you fixed your 
 eyes on his hands with a sort of pre-con- 
 viction that he was not ])laying fair." (I 
 could not deny, that, so lar, he was right.) 
 " Similar hallucinations are not uncommon ; 
 but in your case it has an ugly look, 
 because " — he hesitated. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Because, you see, the world fancies 
 that he has cut you out with Lady Castle, 
 and that }ou arc; jealous." 
 
 " You don't mean that ? You're not 
 serious 'i " 
 
 " Indeed I am. I should never have 
 named such idle gossip to you, but tor this, 
 Pen. And now you see how doubly ne- 
 cessary it is that you should frankly e.\pri:ss 
 your regret (or what you have done. You 
 haven't a leg to stand on, my boy — you 
 haven't, indec;d." 
 
 '• Jf the man wants satisfaction, I'll fight 
 him," said I stubbornly.
 
 76 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " Nonsenpe ! You forcjet that you would 
 lose your commission, and find no one to 
 act as your i'ricnd in such a pieces of folly. 
 /certainly would not. Now, just take niy 
 advice. Come out of the room quietly, 
 and leave me to settle this business. I 
 will not com])romise your honor, depend 
 on it." 
 
 " Remember," said I, at last, as he led me 
 reluctantly away, " I won't eat my words. 
 You may say that I am very sorry for what 
 is past, and that I foel I acted rashly, — that 
 is true enough. I ought to have known that 
 the scoundrel would be clever enouirh to 
 
 J"i 
 
 ■"cle away the card somehow. If he 
 
 chooses to take that as an apology, he 
 may ; but mind, I won't say I was mis- 
 taken." 
 
 Old Jack came up, and took my other 
 arm, as I was leaving the room. AVlth all 
 his faults, the old vaurien is kind-hearted, 
 and thought to help me out of my scrape 
 by imposing on the spectators the fiction 
 that I was unable to walk unassisted. 
 
 " Never mind, my boy," he whispered as 
 he grasped my elbow. " I know you're not 
 drunk ; and I believe you saw it, just as you 
 see me ; but he was too many for you. So 
 there's nothing for it but to knock un- 
 der." 
 
 I have always had a sneaking affection 
 for old Jack from that moment. No one — 
 not even Tutlon, my friend, in whose inter- 
 est it was I had set myself to watch this 
 blackguard's play — believed me (or, at all 
 events, would admit that he believed me), 
 with this exception of " old Jack " ! 
 
 How Tufton terminated the affair, I 
 need not detail at length. That he ten- 
 dered an apology more conciliatory in 
 form than in substance, which was held to 
 be far from satisfactory by the majority ot 
 Guardsmen present, formed the topic of 
 conversation for some days afterwards ; 
 but, at the time, it seems to have been 
 agreed by common consent to regard my 
 attack as the outburst of a jealous, tipsy 
 boy, whom it behooved the Italian to treat 
 with generosity, if not contempt. And 
 Benevento, yielding to the advice of Sel- 
 den and others, graciously consented to do 
 so. 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim was very kind and 
 sympathizing when I told her what had 
 l\appened. Of course she had heard her 
 husband's version of the affair, which was 
 pretty much what Tufton suggested it 
 would be ; and my friend would not have 
 been a woman if she had resisted saving, — 
 
 " All this arises from your having gone 
 so much to Lady Castle's. You met the 
 man constantly there, and took a, violent 
 dislike to him. This was, no doubt, very 
 evident ; and the world put its own con- 
 
 struction — which is always the worst — 
 upon it. Do let this be a lesson to you, 
 that you cannot touch pitch without some 
 of it sticking." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The season was over. All the world 
 
 was at Goodwood; but I, as junior ensign, 
 was not entitled to leave of absence, and 
 was on duty, pretty constantly, for those 
 of my brother subalterns who were away, 
 without which employment, indeed, the 
 time would have hung heavy on my hands. 
 But I fielt more and more every day that 
 soldiering was mv true vocation. I took 
 a keen interest in my men, and they knew 
 it ; while, at the same time, they learnt 
 that it was not easy to humbug me. 
 Having lived as one of them, I was ac- 
 quainted with all their " little ways," their 
 good points and their weak ones; and I 
 believed that I could generally distinguish 
 a lying sneak from an honest fellow better 
 than officers of three times my standing in 
 the service. 
 
 I made the internal economy of my com- 
 pany a study that summer. A man can be 
 a soldier in nothing beyond the name, if he 
 have not a thorough knowledge of the ma- 
 terials at his command. It is as essential 
 as the art of moving a battalion ; and, to 
 obtain influence in that heterogeneous 
 family over which a man is set, I have 
 always held to be as important as to direct 
 its movements on the parade-ground. 
 
 I was coming out of barracks one day, 
 when I observed a private of some regi- 
 ment of the Line speaking to the sergeant 
 of the guard. His back was towards me ; 
 but the well-known j-ellow facings struck 
 home to me like a familiar tune. He 
 turned : it was Joe Carter. He saluted 
 me without a smile — decorum personified. 
 " I was inquiring for you, sir," he said, 
 grave as a judge — no twinkle of re- 
 cognition. 
 
 " I am coinff home : will you come and 
 see me there, Carter ? " and I gave him my 
 address. 
 
 Half an hour later he was standing at 
 attention in my sitting-room, and I was 
 listening to his story. He had been left at 
 the depot, which was at Chatham. See- 
 ing my name and regiment mentioned in 
 some paper, he had come up to London in 
 the hope of finding me, and with the ob- 
 ject, moreover, of preferring a request. 
 His desire was to be transferred to the 
 Guards, and he should like to become my 
 servant. 
 
 " I'm sick of knocking about ; but I've
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 77 
 
 no home, nor friends like, to go to. You 
 and me, sir, was good friends when you 
 was a lad ; and I should like to be your ser- 
 vant. You mind as I always had a taste 
 that way ; but I wants some master as I 
 can take an interest in. I wouldn't be at 
 the pains for any officer as is left now in 
 the th." 
 
 " Well," I said hestitatingly, " I should 
 like very much to have you about me, Joe ; 
 but how about your character of late ? — 
 often in the defaulter's book ? " 
 
 " I'm to go out with the next draught as 
 lance-corporal, if I sticks to the regiment ; 
 but I'm dead sick of it, that's the truth : 
 and if the Guards won't take me, I've a 
 bit of money, and I'll Ijuy my discharge, — 
 that's about the long and short of it, sir." 
 
 We had a long parley, in the course of 
 which he pointed out how badly my boots 
 were blacked; and it ended in my undcr^ 
 taking to do all I could to effect his trans- 
 fer. Had I been a few years older, I 
 should, probably, have hesitated before un- 
 dertaking to ask for the personal services 
 of one with wliora I had been on such terms 
 as I had with Joe ; but I had a great regard 
 for him : he was among my pleasantest 
 memories of the ranks, and the very tact of 
 this request of his proved his attachment to 
 me. With the rash impetuosity of twenty 
 years, I overlooked all the drawbacks to 
 such an arrangement, and — though I am 
 bound to admit these were serious ones — 
 the event justified my imprudence. The 
 transfer was effected, and Joe became my 
 servant, vice the pri\ate who blacked boots 
 so badly. Our mutual relations were pecu- 
 liar. I will not say that he did not permit 
 himself a license of tongue at times, which 
 would have been intolerable in any other 
 servant ; he often lectured me. but it was 
 with the strong interest of a man who re- 
 garded himself as especially instituted to 
 be my monitor, not with the presumjttion 
 of one who encroai^hed upon the limits per- 
 missible in our relative positions. I had 
 occasion, as this narrative will show, to 
 bless the day that Joe Carter entered my 
 service. 
 
 The D'Arnheims were gone to Germany. 
 She gave me, at parting, a little purse of 
 her knitting, and bade me write to her, 
 which I did with tolerable regularity. 
 Tufton Avas in Scotland ; Lady Castle and 
 her set at Cowes ; my uncle paying a round 
 of visits. Exccjit one or two desolate 
 Guardsmen, like mvself, left to defend the 
 metropolis, there was no creature to sjjcak 
 to. We jjlayed at jiool of an evening at 
 the club, or drove to iiichmond, or tried to 
 sit out some dreary extravaganza, the sole 
 point of which seemed to lie in the short- 
 ness of the trirls' skirts. Heavens ! what 
 
 would our fathers, trained in the schools of 
 Kean and Kemble, say to the cohorts of 
 fat girls, crammed into flesh-colored tights, 
 and lean ones, padded to fit the same? 
 What would they say, could they witness 
 their " break-downs," listen to the inane 
 rubbish the poor wretches have to utter, 
 and ])e told that our stage has come to 
 this V 
 
 The monotony of my life was delightfully 
 broken in upon, towards the end of August, 
 by a visit, one morning, from ]\Ir. Francis. 
 He was passing through London with the 
 boys whom he had been educating in Ire- 
 land, and who were now going to the col- 
 lege of St. Omer. Mr. Francis was to take 
 his pupils there, after which his plans 
 seemed unsettled. If employment, such as 
 he liked, came in his way, he would take 
 it ; but, though poor, he was always indif- 
 ferent to money, and it was not every post 
 he would accept. Unless he saw a prospect 
 of usefulness, a field for exertion which was 
 likely to return fruits in kind, he could not 
 throw himself heart and soul into the work. 
 He had been asked to take charge of tlie 
 son of a fond and foolish duchess, wlio 
 wished her dear boy to travel, and enlarge 
 what she was pleased to call his mind. 
 The tutor was to have four hundred a year, 
 and all his expenses paid. '■ But," as Mr. 
 Francis said, •' I saw that any other man 
 would do as well, ])erhaps better than I 
 could, with Lord Reginald. I had one or 
 two interviews with him : but I found there 
 was no ground upon which I could get any 
 firm hold ; and, without that, it is disheart- 
 ening work, Osmund. Every man has 
 something laid out for him to do in the 
 world ; and when he finds out what that is, 
 he should do it, and not turn to other men's 
 work. Most lives are failures, I am afraid ; 
 Inu there would be less of self-reproach and 
 disappointment, if we all stuck to this." 
 
 I could read between the lines of what 
 he said. I knew to what extent his noble 
 character, even more than his fine intellect, 
 had influenced me. My brother had bene- 
 fited by the latter, and had become a rare 
 scholar. I, with my poorer abilities, had 
 imbibed what was of yet more value, — a 
 belief in goodness, a respect and admiration 
 for what was tiiithful and upright. Sur- 
 rounded by much that tended to make me 
 cynical and distrustful of sincerity, from 
 my earliest years, I had never lost my faith 
 in human nature ; and, though too often 
 weak and backsliding myself, I never for- 
 got the high standard of excellence set 
 before me by Ambrose Francis. He was 
 right in feeling that his work lay in higher 
 fields than those of the mere jjedagogue. 
 
 A few days after i\Ir. Francis's visit I 
 had another pleasant burj)rise. In walked
 
 78 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 my Cousin Jolin ; a p^ood deal clian^cd in 
 the fifteen niontlis which had ehipsed since 
 wc liad met at Ghent, lii? face sliowiiiji; the 
 traces of Mitlcrini;, and his fi<inre, whicli 
 had been so active and erect, niucli ben', 
 but tlie same kindly smile, the same heart\ 
 manner, as of old. 
 
 "I'm come from Humphrey, to ask, if 
 vou're not too fine a gentleman, my boy, 
 whe4^her \ou'll eat a slice roast beef at his 
 bouse to-d;iy, at six. We've only been 
 here two days, but there's Liz is wanting 
 badly to see you. She pricked up hen- 
 ears, I can tell you, when she heard from 
 Humphrej' of your visit. The lass is finely 
 grown ; and, bless you ! she parlny-vous now 
 like any French monkey." 
 
 " I shall be charmed to dine with Cousin 
 Humphrey. He is a regular brick, though 
 I confess I feel rather shy of him, but 
 Elizabeth will be tiiere to protect me. I 
 shall be so glad to see her. Hu-.v long are 
 her hoUilays ? " 
 
 "Well, you see, I am not sure; I am 
 half thinking of keeping her here now. 
 Humphrey says her education could be 
 carried on at home, as well as in ibreign 
 parts now ; and, the truth is, my boy, I've 
 been very ill. I'm not the man I was. I 
 feel I may be carried otF any day, and it 
 would just break the lass's heart if she 
 were away from me then." 
 
 " Come, you mustn't talk like that, Cou- 
 sin John. There is many a good year in 
 store lor you yet ; but I think you are (juite 
 right about Elizabeth. Why should you be 
 separated ? A clever girl, as she is, will 
 get on at home quite as well with a gov- 
 erness." 
 
 " Hm ! I don't know about that. She 
 likes her own way, you see ; and, between 
 you and me, I doubt an}^ one woman being 
 able to manage her. At school there were 
 several, besides masters, and even then," 
 he raiseil his ej'ebrows significantly, " they 
 had often a rough time of it. My Liz is a 
 good girl, but she wants a tight hand, and 
 discipline. I'm sadly afraid Humphrey 
 won't be of any more use than I am : he 
 spoils her too ; and what will any gover- 
 ness be able to do against us V I am afraid 
 I ought to send her to school in London, if 
 she doesn't return to Ghent." 
 
 " I wonder," I exclaimed, suddenly fired 
 by an idea ; and then I stopped. 
 
 " Well, out with it, my man ? " 
 
 " I wonder whether Mr. Francis would 
 undertake a girl's education." 
 
 " Who is Mr. Francis ? " 
 
 " The best and cleverest man in the 
 whole world. He was my tutor, — but 
 don't fancy that you can judge of what he 
 is by what I am. He is a man whom Eliza- 
 beth would learn to love and to obey, before 
 
 he had been a week in the house; and she 
 is just the sort of character that would in- 
 terest him. The only thing is, he has 
 never had any thing to do with girls." 
 
 " So much the better for Lizzie. She 
 likes being treated like a boy," laughed 
 Cousin John. " Upon my life, Osmund, I 
 think your idea a very good one. A tutor 
 never occurred to Humphrey or me; but, 
 if we could really find such a man as you 
 describe, nothing could be better." 
 
 I sat down, and wrote to Mr. Francis, at 
 St. Omer; and six o'clock found me at the 
 old house in Chesne Walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVH. 
 
 I WAS ushered into a long sitting-room 
 up stairs, overlooking the river. The ceil- 
 ing was richly ornamented in plaster, after 
 the fashion of Queen Anne's day ; on the 
 walls were some fine old engravings, from 
 Hogarth ; the floor, of polished oak, had no 
 car|)et. The two old gentlemen were on a 
 hard, thin-legged settee at the farther ex- 
 tremity of the apartment, earnestly dis- 
 cussing some matter, evidently of interest 
 to both. At the other end of the room, on 
 one of the window-seats, which were raised 
 a step, so as to command a better view of 
 the river fi'om the high narrow windows, 
 sat Elizabeth, w-ith a book in her lap ; but 
 I rather think she had been watching for 
 me, and not reading her book. Her face 
 was beaming with smiles ; and she ran up to 
 me, as I entered, with a naturalness, an ab- 
 sence oi' 'retenue, which no schoolmistress 
 had been able to spoil. 
 
 I must not be unjust to the school-mis- 
 tresses, however. They had done much 
 for her. She had been a singularly awk- 
 ward child fifteen months ago, — angular in 
 her movements, and slouching in her car- 
 riage. She was now erect, well-grown, 
 free and firm in her walk, and, though not 
 absolutely graceful, fiir from being conspic- 
 uously the reverse. Grace has more to do 
 with the mind than the body ; and it did 
 not belong to my cousin's character : but 
 the education of the body, like that of the 
 mind, had develo])ed, and strengthened, 
 and balanced it. Her face, by force of its 
 great intelligence, could no longer be called 
 ugly, — scarcely even plain, I think; the 
 mouth was so full of play, the eyes so full 
 of light, the whole movement of the fea- 
 tui'es so spontaneous. How many a hand- 
 some mask is spoiled by the absence of 
 this latter charm, beautiful in repose, dis- 
 cordant when animated ! Elizabeth's face, 
 on the contrary, could never be judged 
 properly until she spoke. To the passer-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 79 
 
 bv in the street it had no beauty to recom- 
 iiierid it : few who knew her could fail to 
 think it interesting;. Iler looks, like her 
 nioveuients and like her mind, Hashed with 
 the rapidity of liihtning, — twenty differ- 
 ent fleams of expression in a minute, when 
 she was really excited ; and the eyes never 
 contradicted the mouth, nor the mouth the 
 words to which it gave utterance. 'J'hcre 
 ■was a completeness about the girl's nature, 
 which, in these days of half and halfness, 
 was very uncommon. 
 
 She wore a brown hoUand dress, with a 
 leatlicr belt round her waist ; her red hair, 
 which was not long, was brushed back 
 froin her full, wide brow. Nothing could 
 be more simple than her attire; ; but (I 
 noted with pleasure) every thing about her 
 was scrupulously clean, forming, in this 
 respect again, an advantageous contrast to 
 her a])pearance when we last met. 
 
 '' Cousin Osmund, I am very glad to see 
 you again ! " slie exclaimed, grasping my 
 Land. " It seems about a hundred years 
 since that time at Ghent." 
 
 " How old and wise you must have be- 
 come ! " I said, laughing. '• Well, I am 
 delighted to see you, Elizabeth" — and 
 then, before adding any thing more, I 
 turned to my old host. He held out his 
 hand with a friendly word and a nod. 
 
 He was not a man who dealt in exagger- 
 ated phrases at any time ; but I believe he 
 was glad to see me there : and it needed 
 no acute perception to tell that the pres- 
 ence of John and Elizabeth — especially 
 the latter — made the old fellow really 
 happy. He did not talk much : he left 
 that chiefly to us ; but he threw out a dry 
 little joke every now and again ; chuckled 
 quietly at some of the girl's strange, unex- 
 pected sayings ; and once I observed him 
 stroke her hand, as it lay near his on the 
 table. But it was chiefly the softened 
 expression of his face which indicated its 
 owner's satisfiiction. He had had little to 
 care for in his long life : he had found a 
 living interest in his old age. 
 
 The neat, antitjuated parlor-maid an- 
 nounced dinner; Cousin Humphrey cere- 
 moniously oH'ered his arm to Elizabeth, 
 who looked as if she did not exactly know 
 how to hook on to it, or any thing else that 
 interfered with her perfect independence 
 of movement ; and we descended to an oak- 
 wainscoted room at the back of the house, 
 looking on to a greenery, erst a trim-bor- 
 dered garden, no doubt, now a pleasant 
 wilderness of shrubs, over-shadowed by lar- 
 ger trees. The arrangement of the table, 
 and the repast, were in harmony with the 
 hotise and its master : none of your new-fan- 
 gled arrangements of dessert and flowers; 
 a silver cruet-stand in the centre ; two full- 
 
 stomached decanters, wearing silver neck- 
 laces, labelled '-Port" and "Madeira," at 
 oj)posite angles ; our foo<l before us, in 
 handsome old Nankin dishes; and then, 
 when it was despatched, the cloth removed, 
 and the mahogany revealed, black with age, 
 and bright with daily rubbing, so that 
 fruit, glass, and china stood reflected like 
 so many dazzling islands on a brown lake. 
 
 " Did you make many li-iends at Mad- 
 emoiselle Pla^ant's, Elizabeth ? " I asked. 
 
 " No, I hate girls : they're all mean ! " 
 
 " Come, that is sweeping. Whv, what 
 did they do V " 
 
 "Tell tales, listen at keyholes, blab to 
 mademoiselle, — every thing that is horrid. 
 If I tried to get over the fr u'den wall, one 
 of them was sure to go and peach. My 
 only friends were the Abbe and the gar- 
 dener." 
 
 " The gardener ! What was he like ? " 
 
 " Well, he never tohl. If I stole the 
 apples " — 
 
 " Come, now, I call tJial mean. Stealing 
 apples I " 
 
 " It would have been, if they'd given us 
 enough to eat ; but they didn't. I consid- 
 ered it quite fair that I should get all I 
 could, when I knew dad was paying such 
 a sum for my food." 
 
 " And so you liked the gardener because 
 he let you steal the apples ? " 
 
 Humphrey smiled; Elizabeth frowned, 
 and then laughed. 
 
 " He was very kind to me : that is why 
 I liked him. He used to tell me in which 
 trees the birds' nests were, and I used to 
 climb up and get them. Then he let me 
 keep my rabbit in a corner of the garden, 
 and gave me lettuce and things " — 
 
 " Mademoiselle Pla9ant's lettuces," I 
 struck in, — " what generosity ! " 
 
 " So, on the Jour de I'An," continued 
 Elizabath, heedless of the interruption, " I 
 bought him a beautiful china pipe, with a 
 red-cheeked lady on it — for we were al- 
 lowed to go out, just once, to buy elrennes, 
 — and, after that, he let me do just what I 
 liked." 
 
 " And those are your conditions for 
 friendships, Miss Lizzie ? " said Humphrey, 
 with an amused twinkh- of the eye. 
 
 " N — no. Cousin Humphrey, not exactly. 
 If I respect any one's will — not merely 
 their authority ; but, if I can feel that any 
 one is really my master, I don't mind obey- 
 ing. 1 think I had rather, than have it all 
 my own way." 
 
 " And pray, did you respect the Abbe's 
 will V " I asked. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 " Partly, Vnd partly not. He was a dirty, 
 little old man, who spilt his snulf all over 
 his book ; but he was very clever — 1 re-
 
 80 
 
 PEXRUDDOCKE, 
 
 spected tliat, you sec ; and he was amus- 
 ing, particularly when lie was in a rage. 
 He was very often in a rasje with me ; and 
 vet I know lie liked me better than all the 
 other !j;irls." 
 
 '• You weren't behind the door, Liz, when 
 a good opinion of yourself was served out," 
 laughed John, shaking his head. 
 
 " 1 don't know abuut that, dad. I only 
 say what is true." 
 
 " That is right," muttered Humphrey. 
 " I hate mock modesty." 
 
 " You took to learning, then, after all, 
 Elizabelh, more kindly than you thought 
 you should," I said. 
 
 " Yes : I liked some things. I liked his- 
 tor}'. Cousin O.-^mund ; you were quite 
 riuht, and I didn't mind French and mathe- 
 matics. I hated music, — in I'act, I never 
 did any thing, and gave it up at last. They 
 saw it was no use." 
 
 " Ah ! that was a i:)ity, lass," said her 
 father. " I like to hear a woman play a 
 choone. Your poor mother could play any 
 choone almost 1 asked for, — beautiful it 
 was ! " 
 
 " Well, dear dad," cried the girl, lean- 
 ing over towards him, and putting both 
 bands caressingly round the arm that was 
 near her, " if it is to please you, I'll try 
 again; but I've no talent, — I shall never 
 play fit to listen to. You can't make me 
 an accomjjlished woman, like mother, 
 dad." 
 
 " Try and be as good a one, my Liz, and 
 I shall be satisfied." John sighed, and 
 kissed her forehead. And Humphrey, who 
 never wasted his powder, here fired a shot 
 opportunely in another direction, which di- 
 verted the thoughts of fiither and child from 
 sorrowful memories. 
 
 '• Can you do a rule-of-three sum in your 
 bead, j\Iiss Lizzie ? If twelve hogsheads 
 of hwv cost " — 
 
 •' Oh ! please, don't. Cousin Humphrey. 
 This is holiday-time, remember." 
 
 " There is no holiday from pounds, shil- 
 lings, and pence, I am sOrry to say, in this 
 ■world. As you say you cannot be an ac- 
 com[)lished woman, you must be a woman 
 of business, Elizabeth." 
 
 " No, I mean to be a woman of pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 This innocent speech nearly choked me 
 in the effort not to laugh, which I would 
 not have done for tlu; world. I did not 
 dare look at the two old men ; but John 
 said at once, with the most perfect simpli- 
 city, — 
 
 " You mustn't use that expression, Liz- 
 zie. It means something bad, — something 
 quite diflferent from what you wanted to 
 say, my lass — remember that." 
 
 Elizabeth stared at her father, and her 
 
 cheek flushed ; and then she looked down 
 at the doyley, and presently up into my 
 face, startled, angry, and curious. 
 
 Humphrey came again to the rescue. 
 
 " About this tutor, Mr. Osmund, whom 
 you spoke to John of this morning, what 
 age is he ? " 
 
 " I don't think I can tell you, — past 
 forty, nearer fifty, perhaps. He is a sort 
 of man whose age one never thinks about. 
 One respects him like a father, — one loves 
 him like a boy." 
 
 " Was he your tutor, Cousin Osmund ? " 
 asked Elizabeth eagerly. " And did you 
 i-eally love him V " 
 
 '• Indeed I did ; and if you are lucky 
 enough to get him, Elizabeth, so will 
 you." 
 
 " The only demur in my mind," said 
 Humphrey, '' is whether little miss here 
 may not be at a disadvantage, brought up 
 entirely among elderly men. Now, as 
 Mrs. Nonsuch's Academy at Chelsea, hard 
 by" — 
 
 " No, dear Cousin Humphrey, no. Don't 
 persuade dad to send me there. I know I 
 should hate it worse than Pla9ant's. Let 
 me have Osmund's tutor. I can get on so 
 much better with a man." 
 
 " All, that's where it is 1 " said John, 
 shaking his head, yet unable to repress a 
 fond smile at his daughter. " You want to 
 be more feminine, Liz " 
 
 " I am so sorry, dad," replied Eliazbeth, 
 looking quite penitent ; " but going to a 
 girls' academy won't make me any better. 
 On the contrary, in my disgust at all their 
 nasty, petty ways, I — I'm afraid I try to 
 be as little like a girl as I (!an." 
 
 We all laughed ; and Humphrey pro- 
 posed that we should take a turn on the 
 mall, and have a pipe. Elizabeth fetched 
 her hat ; the two elders strolled on, I and 
 my young cousin followed. 
 
 '• This is to be your home, now, then ? " 
 I said to her. 
 
 " Yes : Cousin Humphrey wishes us to 
 live with him ; and, if we we to be in town, 
 I had sooner it was here than anywhere. 
 I mean to have a boat, and row in the sum- 
 mer." 
 
 " Prav can you seiv as well as row, Eliza- 
 beth ? "" 
 
 " Sew ? Well, I can put on a button, or 
 cobble up my glove. I can't do much be- 
 yond that." 
 
 I said nothing ; and, after a minute's 
 pause, she went on, — 
 
 " I know what you're thinking, — what 
 a useless creature I shall be when I grow* 
 up ! Do you think people can change 
 themselves? I know I would if I could." 
 
 "Would you? Why? You wouldn't 
 be ha])pier than you are, — very independ-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 81 
 
 cnt, and indifferent to what people think ; 
 which is the next thing to contentment, I 
 fancy." 
 
 " You are wrong," said she, fixing her 
 clear eyes upon me for a second, " I am not 
 at all indifferent to what some people think 
 of me. I know dad is right, — men hate a 
 mannish woman." 
 
 '" Dad did not say that." 
 
 " Oh ! but he meant it, — meant it with- 
 out knowing it: do you understand? I 
 know dear old dad's thoughts better than 
 lie does himself; and I am afraid he is 
 right. Of course no man ever really loved 
 tiiat glorious, terrible old queen, my name- 
 sake." , 
 
 " Come, you have been studying history, 
 I see, though not the latest lights, or your 
 entliu-iiasm would not permit you to use the 
 word ' terrible.' After all, if you come to 
 ' what people think,' though no one indi- 
 vidual may have loved her, the country at 
 large certainly did." 
 
 " I should not care about the country at 
 large. I cai-e for individuals Cousin 
 Osmund, I want to ask you about your 
 life. You have made me tell you all about 
 mine, and you have told me nothing in re- 
 turn." 
 
 '• There is very little to tell, — military 
 duty, and London society — hot field-days, 
 and hotter balls at night, — that is the sort 
 of work I have been at for some months 
 past." 
 
 " Then you haven't been fighting yet ? " 
 
 " No, my dear child : there's nobody to 
 fight." 
 
 " Don't call me ' child ; ' I am very near- 
 ly sixteen. How can men in the army 
 distinguish themselves now ? " 
 
 "Ah! that is the question. If there, is 
 fighting in India, by andby, when I have 
 got my company, I shall exchange out 
 there ; till then, there is only one thing to 
 be done." 
 
 " AVhat is that ? " 
 
 " My duty. There isn't much distinc- 
 tion to be gained in it : but Mr. Francis 
 will tell you it pays in the Ion':; run : and I 
 
 1 1 • ^ • T ' • 
 
 uulieve nun. 1 am not going to prose, 
 however. You're sharp enough to know 
 all that, and much more. I say, what a 
 brick old Cousin Humphrey is ! I am still 
 just a little afraid of him ; but I feel that I 
 couhl really love him if I knew him better." 
 
 " Afraid ? /'?n not a bit afraid of him. 
 He'll do any thing I ask him. Cousin Os- 
 mund, you must love him ; for he likes you 
 — I heard him say so." 
 
 " I am glad of it; but he knows nothing 
 of me. And ' — I stopped short. I was 
 goin^f to allude to the great family division, 
 in wliirh Humphrey had taken so prominent 
 a part ; but it was to me so painful and hu- 1 
 6 
 
 miliating a subject that I could not Itring 
 myself to speak of it, even in vague terms, 
 to Elizabeth. She was too acute, I think, 
 not to guess the cause of my sudden silence. 
 She said nothing; and almost at the same 
 moment John and Hum;)hrey approached, 
 the former leaning heavily on the latter 
 for support. I could not see his face ; but I 
 felt sure, from the attitude, he was suffer- 
 ing. Elizabeth flew to the other side of 
 her father. 
 
 " John has had one of his attacks," said 
 Humphrey, " and I must get him back to 
 the house." 
 
 Without saying a word, Elizabeth 
 dashed across the road, regardless of a 
 hansom which was coming down on her at 
 the rate of twelve miles an hour. AVe were 
 some fifty yards from the house ; but, in less 
 time almost than it takes to tell, the girl 
 had flown there and back, bearing a phial 
 in her hand. We had, as yet, advanced 
 only a few paces ; our progress was slow, 
 the suffering man, supported by Humphrey 
 and me, being unable to walk but with 
 difficulty. Elizabeth put the phial to his 
 lips : it was evident that she was used to 
 these attacks, and knew how they were to 
 be treated. John stood still, breathed 
 once or twice heavily, then said, in a low 
 voice, — 
 
 " Thank'ee, lassie, I can get on now." 
 
 The girl's tender solicitude was touch- 
 ing. I, of course, resigned my place at her 
 father's side to her ; thenceforward she had 
 not a thought for anybody else. During 
 the whole way home she did not utter a 
 word ; but one hand held his, while the 
 other was around his arm. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon his fiice ; and he looked down 
 every now and then at her, and smiled. 
 
 When we reached the house, as I could 
 be of no more use, I felt it was best to Ijid 
 Humphi'ey good-night. He took my hand, 
 — we were standing on the doorstep, tiie 
 others had gone in, — and he murmured, 
 between compressed lips, — 
 
 " A bad case, I fear, Osmund Penrud- 
 docke. He has a fatal disease, and he 
 knows it. He mkiht have lingered for 
 years; but anxiety and disappointment are 
 hastening the end." 
 
 I turned away, silent and saddened. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Three days later, Mr. Francis answered 
 my letter in person. He walked into my 
 room, early in the morning, having just 
 landed lr(;m the Antwerp boat. 
 
 " I was coming home, at any rate ; and 
 your proposition only determined ine to
 
 82 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 return at once. You nnderstanrl, Osmund, 
 that loving you as I do, and knoiving all I 
 do, there is nothing I should like better 
 than to be of use to this girl, if I can. I 
 am interested about her and her father; 
 and if I think I can be of service to them, 
 depend on it I v?ill not refuse. But I must 
 see her first. You know my views on tiiis 
 subject : I must have a talk with the child 
 before I decide." 
 
 The result of his visit to Cheyne Walk 
 that afternoon may be told in a few words. 
 My three cousins, after their several fash- 
 ions, were fovorablj' impressed by Mr. 
 Francis ; and he liked what he saw of them 
 enough to accede to Humphrey's proposi- 
 tion, that he should enter the fxmily as 
 Elizabeth's tutor, on a month's trial. 
 Humphrey named the salary, which was a 
 liberal one, and made every arrangement : 
 John left it all to him. Mr. Francis, as he 
 told me, was interested in Elizabeth, but 
 did not feel at all sure that she had not 
 been so much spoilt as to render her quite 
 unmanageable. " I am well pleased, 
 therefore, that there should be a probation- 
 ary trial on both sides. If the girl takes to 
 me — if I feel that I can gain in time an 
 influence over her, and that the two old 
 men's fondness does not entirely neutralize 
 any good results I may hope to effect, then 
 I will stay : not otherwise." 
 
 All that autumn, John's health was 
 gradually failing. He had frequent attacks 
 similar to the one I had witnessed ; and 
 each one seemed to leave him more feeble 
 than before. The decline of a strono; man, 
 — the falling away of the massive lines, 
 the loss of strength in the once powerful 
 limbs — is a sad spectacle. To watch the 
 gradual decay of any living thing is pain- 
 ful ; doubly so of a human being, not long 
 past the prime of life, a grand oak-like 
 frame, eminently fitted for its work. We 
 feel as if these giants auiong men ought to 
 lie down to their rest in the plentitude of 
 stren'j;tli, or else in the ripe fulness of age, 
 not wither branch by branch, as it were, 
 and linger on the bed of sickness, which is 
 no unfitting prelude to the last great 
 change in weaker mortals. And yet how 
 " of the eartii, earthy " is all this ! Little 
 recks John now that he stood six-foot two 
 upon this earth, where he had lived but 
 fifty-eight years. And he would not have 
 given up those last months of suffering, if 
 he could. They were sweetened to him by 
 the knowledge that his child was well and 
 wisely cared for. 
 
 But it did not appear to me that Eliza- 
 beth herself, though full of solicitude for 
 her " dad," had any perception of his real 
 condition. Humphrey and Mr. Francis, 
 howevei", were both fully aware of it. 
 
 I used to walk down to Chelsea three or 
 four times a week, and generally staid to 
 dinner. Before the month was out, Mr. 
 Francis and Elizabeth Avere staunch friends. 
 He told me that he found no difficulty 
 whatever in making her work, nor in exact- 
 ing implicit obedience from his pupil. 
 Though fear was foreign to her nature, she 
 mij,ht — for want of a better term — be 
 said to be afraid of her tutor. Certainly 
 she stood in far greater awe of the gentle- 
 voiced Francis than she did of sharp, taci- 
 turn old Humphrey. For her father she 
 had the tenderest love ; for her guardian- 
 cousin, a strong affection, in whicii grati- 
 tude, and the supremacy which a young 
 creature sometimes feels she possesses over 
 an olil man, formed part; but to Mr. 
 Francis she looked up with the admiration 
 which force of intellect and quiet strength 
 combined were sure to inspire in a girl 
 peculiarly constituted like Elizabeth, Far 
 from rendering her more masculine, in 
 manner and freedom of speech at least, I 
 observed a gradual softening in her from 
 the beginning of Mr. Francis's tutorship. 
 Not that she ever could become like most 
 other girls of her age, nor would Mr. 
 Francis have wished it ; he had too much 
 respect for individuality to have sought to 
 destroy it in his pupil. But that change 
 which the best kind of education — con- 
 tact with a noble, cultivated mind — pro- 
 duces, began to be apparent. Francis was 
 every inch a man ; and he was gentle as a 
 child : the influence of his manner made 
 itself felt on Elizabeth. She was as in- 
 independent in her thoughts and opinions, 
 as averse from feminine employments, as 
 ever ; but she was less brusk, much more 
 silent and reflective at times ; and though, 
 at others, her spirits were still high, she 
 was less vehement and impatient in her 
 discussion. 
 
 I had always liked Elizabeth, and, owing 
 to our constant intercourse at this time, I 
 became really fond of my cousin. She 
 interested and entertained me beyond 
 measure : I found true pleasure in the 
 society of this perfect child of nature, after 
 ihe conventionalities of fashionable life ; 
 but the idea of love in connection with hL-r, 
 I can honestly say, never so much as oc- 
 curred to me. I remember often contrast- 
 ing her mentally with Evelyn (her cousin 
 as well as mine), and wondering how any 
 two creatures cast in the same mould, of the 
 same sex, of nearly the same age, could be 
 so utterly different. There was not one 
 point of similarity : they had scarcely a 
 thought or a feeling in common. And I 
 used to say to myself, " My Evelyn is of the 
 stuff that wives should be made, — sweet, 
 lovable, womanly ; Elizabeth will be a
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 83 
 
 man's hon camarade tlirouc^h life, and never 
 re(]nirc any thing more." 
 
 llow mistaken I was ! Imt I did not know 
 it then ; I little gnessed the mischief that 
 my eonstant presence was working. Oth- 
 ers saw it, however, and, strange to say 
 (proving how the shrewdest and wisest 
 may be deceived), entirely misconstrued 
 the real staie of the ease. I can now look 
 back upon the circumstances dispassion- 
 atel}' ; and this will, perhaps, be the fittest 
 place to relate what only came to my 
 knowledge some months after the time to 
 which I am referring. 
 
 That Humphrey should believe that my 
 attachment to Elizabeth was of more th in 
 a cousinly nature was easily to be under- 
 stood. In the Hrst place, he knew notiiing 
 on earth at)out love ; he had got to hke me, 
 to think well of me, to waive his |n-cjii(lices 
 against my birth, and to entertain, with a 
 certain satisfaction, the idea of a union be- 
 tween the two branches of the family. 
 There was not much of reparation in it to 
 the wronged iiciress, of course ; for he knew 
 exactly the limits of my income ; but he 
 also was aware that I had refused to accept 
 any portion of the Penruddocke moneij left to 
 me hij inij father, — a fact to winch he more 
 than once referred with pleasure in conver- 
 sation wida me. And as to Elizabeth, she 
 would inherit; all his savings, which were 
 considerable, so that she would not want 
 for money. 
 
 Very soon after John's first taking up 
 his residence at Humphrey's, it seems that 
 the possibility of such a union occurred to 
 both the cousins, and neither was inclined 
 to discourage it. I was very young; Eliz- 
 abeth was but a child. It might end in 
 nothing ; but if we became seriouslj^ at- 
 tached, did not the prospect hold out a fair 
 share of happiness for the girl ? John 
 knew his child better than any one ; he saw 
 more than any one saw of the state of her 
 heart. Unhappily, his perceptions were 
 not equally acute as regarded myself. The 
 two old cousins often talked it over, I believe, 
 before John's death ; and they agreed that 
 the interest I had shown in Elizabeth's edu- 
 cation from the first, the pleasure I evidently 
 found in coming to the house, and in pass- 
 ing hours in the girl's society, and that of 
 three elderly men, all indicated a nascent 
 love, which it only required time to de- 
 velop. 
 
 I'liat Humphrey and John, then, should 
 deceive themselves in this matter, I rejjcat, 
 was not surprising ; but that ]\Ir. Francis — 
 wise, deep-sighted Fi'ancis — should have 
 been under the same delusion, is still an 
 inexplicable mystery to me. Had he not 
 been so deluded, his sense of dutj^, which 
 never suffered any compromise, would have 
 
 stopped the mischief at the very beginnino-. 
 He would have bidden me desist from inv 
 frequent visits, and not trouble the peace 
 of that house; l)ut, like the two Penrud- 
 dockes, hope blinded him to the truth. 
 The interest he felt in his pupil strength- 
 ened <laily; he often expressed to me his 
 amazement, notonly at her facility in learn- 
 ing, but at the vigor of her intellect, grasp- 
 ing a difficult subject in all its details, and 
 often bringing acute observation to bear tm 
 it. Penetrated as he was, then, with ad- 
 miration for tlie girl's abilities, and with 
 the conviction that what was noble in her 
 had but to be fostered to render her a fine 
 character, he hailed the signs (as he 
 thought) of my growing attachment. He 
 looked upon my love for Evelyn as a boy- 
 ish fancy belonging to the ])ast. He knew 
 that there was no comnnmication between 
 us, direct or indirect ; he knew that she 
 had not a farthing, — that a marriage be- 
 tween us, under existing circumstances, 
 would be absolute penury, which Mrs. 
 Hanileigh would never hear of. And, over 
 and above all this, Evelyn was so immeas- 
 urably inferior, in his eyes, to Elizabeth, 
 that he regarded the transfer of my affec- 
 tions to the latter as a natural and com- 
 mendable infidelity. Excellent and un- 
 worldly man as he was, too, the flxct that 
 Elizabeth would have a very comfortable 
 fijrtune could not be left out of cunsidei-a- 
 tion in looking at my iuture. That any 
 tiiought, any hope, beyond this, entered 
 into his calculations, I will not affirm. He 
 had my welfare, temporal and spiritual, 
 warmly at heart, as I knew well ; but he 
 was too wise ever to press religious ques- 
 tions upon me, lor which I had no taste. 
 It was liardly possible, in their close daily 
 communion, but that points connected wiiii 
 the distinctive dogmas of the Church of 
 Rome should arise. I was present more 
 than once when Mr. Francis discussed 
 these in a large and liberal spiiit. He 
 never hesitated to admit the corru|)t prac- 
 tices which had grown up in that branch of 
 the Catholic Church. " But," as I heard 
 him once express it, " though olu- Mother 
 may have faults, we believe in her truth. 
 Her arms are ever opened to us, and we 
 cast our burdens there. There are men 
 who feel strong enough to bear their own 
 burdens. Our Church is not for tlicin. 
 They may belong to it in form, but their 
 heart is not in it. Only those who feel the 
 need of self-renunciation should enter its 
 doors." 
 
 Tlie prospect of conversion, I maintain, 
 never [(resented itself to Francis's mind. 
 He had always avoided such ([uestions at 
 Beaumanoir, and it was only when una- 
 voidably driven to discuss them with Eliz-
 
 84 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 abetb that he did so ; but I do think it pos- 
 sible that the joyful hope of seeiiicr ns both 
 brought by conviction to embrace bis faith 
 mai) have occurred to him. I emphasize 
 this wonl, for I i'eel uo certainty about it. 
 But in pondering over my dear old tutor's 
 delusion about me, long afterwards, I found 
 some ground for the assumption that he 
 had indulged in such a day-dream. 
 
 One evening an incident occurred which 
 exercised me much for some days. I had 
 heard from ^Madame d'Arnheim that morn- 
 ing ; she was alone, staying with her friend, 
 the Grand-Duchess of Bodensee, to whom 
 she had been " Hofdame " before her mar- 
 riage ; and d'Arnheim was gone to Vienna 
 and IIunLrarv, where fixmilv business would 
 detain him some little time. They were 
 not to return to England till December. 
 
 I was with a brother-oflicer at the Strand 
 Theatre, when our attention was attracted 
 by a singularly handsome woman in a 
 siage-box. She was evidently not alone, 
 but lier companion remained at the back 
 of the box the whole night. At the first 
 move she made to leave the theatre, my 
 friend rushed from the stalls, and followed 
 her. I was only in time to catch a glimpse 
 of the man's face who was with the lady, 
 as they stepped into a bi'ougham, and drove 
 off. It was D'Arnheim. 
 
 None of the corps diplomntique whom I 
 asked knew of his being in London ; and, as 
 it was no concern of mine, I remained si- 
 lent as to having seen him. My brother- 
 ofiicer, however, whose admiration for and 
 curiosity respecting the lady were more 
 ardent than mine, took some pains to dis- 
 cover who she was. lie saw her, the week 
 following, in a brougham; jumped into a 
 lianson, and followed her to Emanuel's. 
 
 One of the shopmen he knew informed 
 him she was an Hungarian countess, over in 
 England for a few days only. A gentle- 
 man with her had bought a diamond 
 bracelet, into which she had now brought 
 bis photograph to be inserted. I could not 
 join in my friend's laui:h when he told 
 me he had seen it, and that it was D'Arn- 
 heim'?. His wife was not one of the compla- 
 cent kind, who treat these things lightly. 
 She suH'ered enough as it was. If it should 
 come to her knowledge that her husband 
 had not only lied to her, but had outraged 
 all decency in coming over to England 
 with this woman at the time when his wile 
 believed him to be in Vienna, it would be 
 a bitter aggravation to her troubles. 
 
 It was towards the end of the autumn that 
 I had a conversation with our old butler, 
 wdiich first opened my eyes to the extent 
 to which idle gossip had been carried about 
 me. 
 
 Sparshott had come to London, with my 
 
 mother's leave, for a day, upon business, 
 and Avould not return to Beaumanoir with- 
 out seeing me. After the conventional 
 inquiries ihv my "nearest relatives, I said, — 
 
 " You gave my letter to Miss Evelyn 
 last sprinir, that I sent under cover to you, 
 Sparshott"? " 
 
 "Yes, ]\Ir. Osmund; but you mustn't 
 send me no more. I don't know as I was 
 altocrether right, — unbeknownst to her 
 mother." 
 
 " All right. Are they at Beaumanoir 
 now ? " 
 
 " Xo : they went home a fortnight ago. 
 Miss Evelyn's that growed you wouldn't 
 know her, — a fine young lady as ever I 
 saw." 
 
 " Is my name ever mentioned at home, 
 Sparshott V " 
 
 " Y — yes, Mr. Osmund ; sometimes." 
 
 " Do my mother and ]Mrs. Ilamleigh 
 ever talk about me ? " 
 
 " Y^es," returned the old man, after a 
 little hesitation. Then he looked up at the 
 cornice and at the window-curtains, — 
 anywhere but into my face. 
 
 " Well, Sparshott ? Come, out with it, 
 — what do they say ? " 
 
 " Mr. Osmund, I've known you since 
 vou was in arms. If I miGrht give vou a 
 bit of advice," — 
 
 " Go ahead." 
 
 " It is that you should come home, if you 
 can, for a bit. I know that you and my 
 lady ain't altogether just as you might be 
 together ; but, after your running away that 
 time, Mr. Osmund, if my lady did say 
 any thing hard, why, it's best to let by- 
 gones be by-gones. if you never go near 
 her, no wonder my lady believes any bad 
 she hears of you." 
 
 " Some by-gones can't be by-gones ; but 
 what makes you say that my mother be- 
 lieves ' any bad ' of me ? " • 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " I don"t know as I ought to. Servants 
 has no business, — and besides it's more 
 Irom putting two and two together. Mrs. 
 Hamleigh has dropped things, now and 
 then, as I couldn't help thinking was 
 meant for you." 
 
 '• What did she say ? Try to remem- 
 ber, — there's a good old chap." 
 
 " I come into the dining-room one morn- 
 ing, last July, just after the letter-bag was 
 opened. My lady and Mrs. Hamleigh was 
 alone. ]\Irs. Hamleigh was I'eadinsr a let- 
 ter from, — I mind me the name, cause I 
 knew it once, — Mrs. Hawksley. There 
 was sometiiing about a ' scandalous connec- 
 tion ' and ' a gambling brawl ; ' and then 
 Mrs. Hamleigh laid down the letter, and 
 said, ' What awful depravity in one so 
 young 1 ' I don't know as I should have
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 85 
 
 tliou2;lit more of it, but for seeing Miss 
 Evelyn crying that afternoon." 
 
 " You saw her crying ? Yes, — well ? 
 — go on." * 
 
 '' That was on Saturday : the next flay, 
 curious enough, we had ' the Prodigal Son ' 
 in church, for second lesson. I saw the 
 tenrs a-rolling down Miss Evelyn's face, 
 under her veil. I made no doubt then, 
 Mr. Osmund, as what I'd heard related to 
 you." 
 
 Nor had I any doubt, though I did not 
 tell Sparshott so. 1 asked whether Miss 
 Hamieigh's spirits had seemed affected 
 after this. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Osmund. She is not like the 
 same young lady she was in the spring, — 
 seems so dull and quiet like. It's that 
 makes me say you should come home for a 
 bit : it'd do them all good, that it would." 
 
 " I can't, Sparshott : it is no use talking 
 of it." 
 
 " Well, it's a pity, Mr. Osmund : that's all 
 I can say. A young gentleman may get 
 into a scrape, and no great harm perhaps; 
 but if he bides away, and tales get exagger- 
 ated, why, it plays the very deuce with him, 
 that's what I say." 
 
 " If they choose to believe evil of me, they 
 must ; but, by Jove ! it is too bad, without 
 one ])article of proof ! " 
 
 The old man and I had a good deal more 
 conversation ; but the gist of it is here. 
 
 I was much annoyed ; and the worst of 
 it was, I did not see well what I could do. 
 To write to my mother, and betray what 
 I had heard, was impossible. However 
 darkly I might veil the communication, she 
 could not iail to detect that it had reached 
 me through Sparshott ; aud I knew he would 
 be discharged at once. The tittle-tattle of 
 servants was one of those things she always 
 said, in her mild way, she never would tol- 
 erate. Moreover, no good would be done. 
 She would deny that the old butler's infer- 
 ences from what he had picked up were 
 correct ; or else she would decline discuss- 
 ing the point at all, and show me, by her 
 angelic tone of toleration and maternal sor- 
 row, that she remained unshaken in her be- 
 lief about me, whatever that might be. It 
 was as if I had received the letter, I felt 
 so sure what I might expect. 
 
 At the end of three days, I suddenly made 
 up my mind what I would do. Though I 
 had vowed not to enter the doors of Beau- 
 manoir again, there was nothing to prevent 
 my running down to Mrs. Hamieigh's in the 
 New Forest ; except the fact that I should 
 be ])ariiculiirly unwelcome to the mistress 
 of the house. That, however, was a second- 
 ary consideration. Taken unawares, Mrs. 
 Hainlei.rh, I thought, could lianlly prevent 
 my seeing Evelyn. One word with her was 
 
 all I wanted. If the mother attacked me, 
 so much the better. I asked for nothing 
 but to have an opportunity of meeting any 
 anonymous slander against my character. 
 
 I obtained leave from parade the follow- 
 ing day, and left Waterloo by the eight, 
 A M., train for the New Forest. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 It was a gokh i autumn morning. The 
 sunset of the year, as of the day, illuminates 
 all objects in nature with a richer and more 
 mellow li2;ht. The burninor brilliancy of 
 noon among the flagrant greens of midsum- 
 mer is harsh and monotonous ; the evening 
 glory, tremulous through the mist of the 
 gathering annual twilight, plays with infi- 
 nite variety through the thinned silver 
 branches of the beech, the brown, burnt-up 
 ferns at its feet, the silent rain of yellow 
 leaves, falling without a flutter through the 
 still, blue, misty air. 
 
 My three-miles walk through the forest, 
 from the station, I keenly enjoyed, though — 
 it seems a contradiction — my thoughts 
 were engrossed with matters foreign to the 
 silvan scene. But, ardent lover as I always 
 was of the country, after my long im- 
 prisonment in London, the perfect stillness, 
 unbroken save by a woodpeckei', the sweet 
 smell of fallen leaves, the divine sense of 
 liberty and repose in those deep woodland 
 hollows, winding away to right and left of 
 the main road, filled me, almost uncon- 
 sciously, with a delight to which I had long 
 been a stranger. 
 
 The village clock was striking twelve as 
 I lifted the latch of Mrs. Hamieigh's gate, 
 and walked up the gravel circle to tlie door, 
 which, like many of the doors in this prim- 
 itive district, was wide open. There stood 
 the old oak up which I had climbed that 
 memorable night, and, over against it, my 
 darling's window, with its box of mignon- 
 ette, now running to seed, on the ledge, 
 and embowered by the scarlet leaves of the 
 Virginian creeper which covered this side 
 of tlie cottage, and even sent its tendrils 
 over the rich brown tiles of the olil roof. 
 
 I hesitated whether to enter unannounced, 
 but I decided against this course. A 
 woman who was a stranger to me answered 
 the bell ; and, on my incjuiring for Mrs. 
 Ilamleigh, said she believed her mistress 
 was at home. I felt my heart come into 
 my mouth as I followed her. I believe it 
 is a nustake to think that men are not, mor- 
 ally, as nervous as women, very (jften. I 
 was going to sec my darling at last, and I 
 never doubted how her heart would meet 
 me, even if her manner should be constrain-
 
 86 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 eil ; 1>nt T must also see lier mother; and 
 how much miijlit depend upon this inter- 
 view ! I was in some measure on my own 
 deience (never a very airreeable position). 
 I should probably have to listen to a jxood 
 deal tliat would try my patience ; and the 
 ■worst of it was, in one direction, my tongue 
 ■was tied. 
 
 The maid took my name, and I was shown 
 into the (h'awini:j-room. It was empty, and 
 I was left, alone here for at least a quarter 
 of an hour, at which my impatient spirit 
 chafed. There stood her open piano, with 
 an (I'mle of Heller's on the desk ; there her 
 workbox, with tlie neeille in the piece of 
 muslin, just as slie had left it ; on another 
 table, lier dear little s-arden-gloves and scis- 
 sors, with some heliotrope and a rose or 
 two, the last spoil of the garden, now ahnost 
 flowerless, upon which the wide-open win- 
 dow looked. I stole a rose, and did not 
 ])ut it in my button-hole, but treasured it 
 next to my heart ; for I knew my darling's 
 hand had plucked it this very morning. I 
 have that rose still. Its cream-colored 
 leaves are brown and shrivelled^ like an old 
 man's cheeks ; no vestige of scent is left ; 
 but it lies in the secret drawer of my desk, 
 among the precious relics of " a day that 
 is dead." 
 
 Among the books upon the table — I 
 turned them all over, a volume of travels, 
 horribly instructive, some religious novels, 
 and an emasculated edition of Shakspeare 
 — I came, to my surprise, upon a miniature 
 edition of Victor Hugo's poems. Glancing 
 at the title-page, I found it was a present to 
 Evelyn " de la part de sa tres aflectionnee 
 Cecile Gretry," — a French music-mistress, 
 who, I now remembered, came here every 
 year for six weeks, in her summer holidays, 
 to give Evel}n lessons. Mrs. Ilamleigh, I 
 should think, had never looked into the 
 book. Slu! was not strong at poetry, nor, 
 indeed, at French either. But Evelyn, who 
 had had a Swiss governess at one time, 
 spoke it with facility ; and, as I turned over 
 the pages, I saw by the pencil-marks that 
 some, at least, of these poems had been 
 read, and i-e-read, with all a girl's enthusi- 
 astic admiration. The one at which the 
 book seemed naturally to open, and which 
 was more scored, be-crossed, and underlined 
 than any other, was that beginning, " Es- 
 ]>ere, enfant, demain." It was new to me ; 
 and, as I read it, it seemed as if I were 
 placing my hand upon the heart of the dear 
 child, and could understand the applica- 
 tion which she had given to that second 
 verse. 
 
 "Nos fautes, mon pauvrc ange, out causees nos 
 soull'rances, 
 Peutt'tre qu'en rcstant bien long temps a genoux, 
 Quand il aura borii toutes lose innocences, 
 Paid tous les repeutirs, Dieu linira par nous." 
 
 I had just finished reading this for the 
 second time, when the door opened, and 
 Mrs. Hamleigh entered, grinniu'j; as usual ; 
 but then it is true tlrat she could not open 
 her month without producing this effect, 
 however far off her soul was from merri- 
 ment. It was partly a constructive, partly 
 a spasmodic peculiarity ; whenever she was 
 nervous, or had any disagreeable business 
 on hand, she grinned worse than ever. 
 
 " You are surprised to see me, Mrs. Ham- 
 leigh ? " 
 
 '•I — I am indeed surprised, Osmund. I 
 had no idea you were in — in this part of 
 the country. Have you — come from 
 Beauraanolr ? " 
 
 " No, I am come down from London, ex- 
 pressly to see you and Evelyn, and go back 
 again." 
 
 The boldness of this avowal seemed to 
 stagger Mrs. Hamleigh. She coughed, and 
 repeated, after her wont, — 
 
 " Back again ? Oh ! won't you sit down ? 
 Perhaps you — you would take something — 
 after your journey ? " 
 
 " Thank you. 1*11 wait till you go to 
 luncheon." 
 
 "Luncheon? I — I a:n sorry to say I 
 am going out to luncheon — an engage- 
 ment " — Here she coughed again, and 
 leant one haiul upon the table. 
 
 " And is Evelyn going out too ? " g^ 
 
 " Oh ! she — she is out. I am sorry — 
 very sorry." 
 
 " Come, Mrs. Hamleigh, no humbug. 
 She is at home, and you don't choose me to 
 see her. Why don't you say so honestly ? " 
 
 "I — I am very sorry, Osmund. I had 
 rather not say anything unpleasant. It is 
 very painful to me — very painful indeed. 
 You are placing me in a most — most dis- 
 tressing position. My duty to my child 
 compels me to treat you thus. It is really 
 unkinil — very unkind of you to — force 
 yourself u])on us in this way. If you had 
 any right feeling, you would feel that — 
 yes, feel that." 
 
 " Will you tell me what I have done to 
 deserve this treatment ? " I asked, with 
 concentrated anger. 
 
 " Deserve this treatment ? Oh ! you 
 know as well as I. Your life in London — 
 I — I really blush to allude to it — has 
 been such as to unfit you, even in your own 
 eyes, from returning to the pure atmosphere 
 of your angelic mother's home ! How can 
 you expect that I can permit Evelyn to be 
 contaminated by your society? It is very, 
 very sad I Having known you ever since 
 you were born, I " — 
 
 " Stop, Mrs. Ilandeigh. You have known 
 me ever since I was born ; and you never 
 knew me tell a lie. I expect you to be- 
 lieve me, therefore, when I say that ray
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 87 
 
 refiisina; to return to Bcaumanoir has been 
 the result of no conduct of mine. I will 
 never set foot in a place to which I know 
 my brother has no right. That is the long 
 an<l short of the matter." 
 
 '• No right ? " cried Mrs. Hamleigh, grip- 
 ping the table nervously. " That itself is 
 such a shocking, wicked thing to say, after 
 all that your dear mother and that angel, 
 Ray, have gone through ! But indeed, Os- 
 mund, denial is useless. We know too much 
 fH of your life — poor Lady Rachel and I — 
 and — and she is quite agreed with me that 
 all communication between you and Evelyn 
 must cease henceforth — quite agreed — 
 quite." 
 
 " Mrs. Hamleigh, I insist upon knowing 
 what you have heard. I don't leave this 
 house until you tell me." 
 
 "Oh! it is no use — no use at all." Her 
 voice quivered, and her hand shook ; but she 
 replied very much to the point. " Of course 
 you would deny every thing ; but I can be 
 firm - — verij firm when occasion ref[uires. 
 It is impossible that I should let Evelyn 
 see you, Osmund. I am very sorry — very 
 sorry, indeed ; but you have brought it on 
 yourself" 
 
 " And you think yourself a good woman ! " 
 I cried, beside myself with rage. " You 
 believe any vile scandal you hear, rather 
 than me, when I give you my sacred woi'd 
 it is a lie ! Should I come down here to 
 court an explanation, if I had not a clear 
 conscience ? Your conduct is cruel and 
 unchristianly, — yours and my mother's 
 too, though you do say so many prayers I " 
 
 " So many prayers ? Ah ! your irreli- 
 gious tone, Osmund, is only what one can 
 expect. But it is too, too sad to hear you 
 speak of your angel mother in such a way ! 
 Such an example as she has set you ! " 
 
 " V/ell, we won't talk of her. But just 
 listen to me, Mrs. Hamleigh. If you think 
 you are going to separate Evelyn and me 
 forever, you are mistaken. You can't pre- 
 vent our meeting when she comes out. I 
 love her, and she loves me — oh ! it is no 
 use your denying it, she does, and she will 
 not forget me — I know that." 
 
 '■ This is too bad ? Really, Osmund, this 
 is quite enough to show how demoralized 
 you have become ! There was a time when 
 you would not have treated a parent's au- 
 thority with such contempt. But Evelyn, 
 thank (Jod ! is a dutiful child, who would 
 never fly in the face of my authority — 
 never ! " 
 
 " Evelyn will not disobey you by writing 
 to me, I know, but " — 
 
 " Yes, she shall — she shall write to you," 
 interrupted the agitated lady; "that you 
 may have no delusions ; but, understand, 
 I will not have her receive any letters Irom 
 
 you. If you send any, they will be returned 
 unopened." 
 
 " Don't be afraid. Like Ravensworth, ' I 
 bide my time,' Mrs. Hamleigh. I have no 
 fear of Evelyn's tsrning false to me : and 
 when she goes into the world, no one can 
 prevent our meeting. I am glad to know 
 exactly how I stand in your estimation and 
 mother's, — there's nothing like frankness, 
 depend on it." 
 
 " I am very, very sorry you came down 
 here," quavered Mrs. Hamleigh, in an hy- 
 sterical counter-treble. " It is most un- 
 pleasant to me to — to — to " — 
 
 " To turn out of the house the son of the 
 man who was your best friend 1 Well, I 
 should think it was. Some day, perhaps, 
 you will change your opinion of him, and 
 be sorry. Good-by ; " and seizing my hat 
 and stick, I strode out, without another 
 word. 
 
 My Parthian shot, I flattered myself, had 
 told. She had been under heavy obliga- 
 tions, as. I knew, to my father ; my mother, 
 though she liked Mrs. Hamleigh's flattery, 
 and invited her to Bcaumanoir for many 
 weeks at a time, would never have helped 
 her in the substantial way he had done ; 
 and this was her gratitude ! His favorite 
 son was treated thus, in order to curry favor 
 with Lady Rachel ! My blood boiled within 
 me. How I had been able to answer her at 
 all, was a marvel to myself. I glanced up 
 at Evelyn's window, as I reached the gate ; 
 but there was no sign of life there, — not 
 even a little hand waving a handkerchief 
 to me. She had probably been kept in 
 ignorance of my visit, or else she was sent 
 into some other part of the house. That 
 she would not have let me depart, had she 
 known it, without some signal, I felt sure. 
 
 Full of bitterness at heart, but never 
 daunted in my determination to persevere, 
 to win her, sooner or later, in spite of 
 mother and every one else, I walked back 
 again into the forest, broke my fast at a 
 little road-side inn, and caught the after- 
 noon up-train, which landed me at Water- 
 loo by six o'clock. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 I PASSED two miserable days. I felt there 
 was nothing to be done. I nmst sit down 
 and chafe under the knowledge of misrepr*- 
 sentation and injustice ; and my heart was 
 very bitter within me. On the third morn- 
 ing I received the following lines from Eve- 
 lyn, which, though written with restraint, 
 were not certainly dictated by her mother ; 
 indeed, I think, if that lady had seen the 
 letter which she permitted her child, ia
 
 88 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 tlic plenitude of confidence, to send me, I 
 should never have received it : — 
 
 "Dear Osmund, — Mamma tells me 
 you have been down here. It is very sad 
 not to see you ; but our meeting just now 
 would be painful to us both, I think. You 
 will not return to your home, and they tell 
 me you are cjuite changed. I can scarcely 
 believe it; and yet I feel 7n?/seZ/' so differ- 
 ent from what I was two years and a half 
 ago, that there may be as great an altera- 
 tion in you. But 1 cannot think, however 
 wild you maybe now, that you will not 
 repent ; and then our meeting will be hap- 
 ))ier than it could bo now. Oh ! dear boy. 
 if you love me still a little, try to be a good 
 man. Go home, and beg de^-r Lady 
 Rachel's forgiveness. I shall never see 
 you otherwise, I fear. 
 
 " Your affectionate cousin. 
 
 " Evelyn." 
 
 Though this brief epistle made me 
 wrathful, in one way, as proving how suc- 
 cessfully our two mothers had impregnated 
 my darling's mind with the belief in my 
 moral turpitude, the tender childlike way 
 in which she still clung to the hope of my 
 repentance, and of our meeting when my 
 filial iniquities were wiped away, comtbrt- 
 ed me beyond measure. It is true that 
 that which she looked for as the touchstone 
 of my reformation would never come to 
 pass ; but time would surely disprove the 
 truth of the allegations against me, even 
 though I should never play the part of the 
 prodigal son at Beaumanoir. 
 
 Evelyn was changed ; yes, I could per- 
 ceive that ; but the sweet, faithful nature 
 remained unimpaired, tliough, as regarded 
 me, the implicit confidence of childhood 
 had given place to a state of feeling in 
 which hope was largely mingled with sor- 
 row and anxiety. She would never desert 
 me, — that I felt confident of; yet she had 
 believed — or, at all events, had not re- 
 fused utterly to disbelieve — the evil she 
 had been told of me. And how could it 
 be otherwise V Loving her own mother as 
 she did, and reared in the blind acceptance 
 of all that fell from Lady Rachel as the 
 utterances of an oracle, could she suddenly 
 emancipate herself from the traditions of 
 her young life, and refuse to give credence 
 to what she was told ? Elizabeth would 
 have done so under like circumstances ; 
 but then she was cast in a different mould. 
 Such self-assertion would have been foreign 
 to Evelyn's nature. She would chug with 
 tlie tenacity of ivy to the wall, however 
 fierce the storm that beat against it ; but 
 slie had none of the bold, thorny character 
 of the aloe. 
 
 I liad not been to Chelsea for nearly a 
 week, — quite an unprecedented absence, 
 since I had acquired the liabit of going 
 there ; but I did not feel in spirits to cope 
 with Elizabeth's " cliaff," should she chance 
 to be in a merry humor; and so it was not 
 until Wednesday afternoon that I made my 
 way to Clieyne Walk. 
 
 It was a warm, gray autumn day ; there 
 seemed but little life left in any thing ; the 
 very current of the river appeared languid, 
 as I watched it from the doorstep of Cou- 
 sin Iliunjihrey's house. Old Anne, the 
 parlor-maid, who was now a great friend of 
 mine, came to the door. Master was in his 
 own den wi'itlng, she said ; poor Mr. John 
 was in his bed, — he had been very ill, but 
 was better; still the doctor ordered him to 
 be kept quiet ; Mr. Francis was out ; Miss 
 Elizabeth was in the garden, — would I iro 
 to her ? 
 
 Of course I went ; threading the tangled 
 mass of lilac-bushes and seringas, over a 
 moss-grown path, till I came to what had 
 once been a summer-house, the roof of 
 which hail now fallen in, and the boarded 
 sides were gradually droj^ping away. It 
 was a dreary haunt enough, but apparently 
 Elizabetli thought otherwise ; for here she 
 was, seated on a three-legged stool, leaning 
 her elbows on her knees, and her chin in 
 her hands, with a plate of chicken-bones, 
 parings of cheese, and fi-agraents of pud- 
 ding on the ground before her. 
 
 " What ou earth are you doing here, 
 Elizabeth ? " 
 
 She started up, and a flush came into her 
 cheek. 
 
 " At last ! I thought you never were 
 coming again. O Osmund ! I have been 
 so wretched, — so wretched these last few 
 days. Have you seen poor dad ? " 
 
 " No. I am sorry to hear from Anne 
 that he has been ill again ; but he is bet- 
 ter." 
 
 Her eyes were filled with tears ; she 
 looked at me steadily, with an expression I 
 could hardly mistake. 
 
 " Yes, he is better, or I shouldn't be here. 
 But he is changed, — oh ! so changed, Os- 
 mund. He will never be the man he was 
 again. He sleeps now most part of the 
 day ; and I never leave him, except to get 
 a breath of air out here. jVIy bed is moved 
 into his room. Poor, dear dad ! He doesn't 
 suffer now, — he seems stunned since this 
 last attack." 
 
 " When did it happen ? " 
 
 " The very night you were with us last, 
 — Thursday, wasn't it Y It was terrible, — 
 much worse than it ever was before. His 
 usual medicine had no effect : we sent for 
 two doctors, and I thought they never 
 would arrive. He was so exhausted with
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 89 
 
 the violence of the spasms that he lay mo- 
 tionless as a eorpse for hours." 
 
 " Mr. Francis and Humphrey were with 
 ■ you ? " 
 
 " Yes : if it hadn't been for Mr. Francis, 
 I don't know Avhat I should have done, — 
 he was so wise and cahn, and told me wliat 
 to do, — only I couldn't obey him quite. 
 Poor Cousin Humphrey has never seen any 
 illness in his life ; he was no use. Mr. 
 Francis got a sceu7' de charite next day, 
 who lias been here ever since ; he tried to 
 persuade me not to sleep in dad's I'ooni. I 
 told him I would sleep on the bare boards ; 
 but I would not be j^arted from my dad 
 when he was so ill." 
 
 '• WeH, I think you were right ; but 
 now that he is better, you must try to get 
 some good nights' rest, for you look very 
 seedy ; and, if you were to fill ill, you could 
 be of no more use to dad — eh ? " 
 
 " I'm not going to fall ill," said Eliza- 
 beth resolutely. " I'm not such a poor 
 creature as not to be able to stand two or 
 three nifhts' watchinii. It isn't that makes 
 me look seedy, Osmund: it is — it is " — 
 she turned her face suddenly away from me ; 
 and the next words came out in a sort of 
 hoarse moan, — " it is that I know I shall 
 not have him long with me. They think I 
 don't see it, — they think I am blind ; but 
 I am not. He may rally now, but another 
 of these attacks will kill him. I read that 
 in the doctors' faces, — I couldn't be de- 
 ceived." 
 
 I murmured something about never 
 knowing the limits of resistance in a fine 
 constitution like her fother's. Then I 
 said, — 
 
 " Will he like to see me presently, do 
 you think V " 
 
 " He is asleep ; he will see you before 
 you go ; you're not in such a hurry, are 
 you ? " she added, almost sharply, as she 
 brushed the back of her hand across her 
 eyes, — still keeping her face from me. 
 
 " No, I am not in a hurry." 
 
 " You might have come to see us, all 
 these days, I think." 
 
 " I didn't know your father was ill ; and, 
 to say the truth, I have had a good deal to 
 worry me this week. That must be my 
 excuse, though of course, if I had known 
 you were in trouble, I should have come 
 here at once, in spite of every thing." 
 
 " What is ' every thing ' ? U hat have 
 you had to worry you ? " and she turned 
 now, and scrutinized my fice anxiously. 
 
 " Private concerns. Tiiere are certain 
 things one can't talk to any one about; 
 don't you know that, Elizabeth V " 
 
 She made no reply ; and by way of 
 changing the conversation, I said, — 
 
 " And now tell me, lor I am really curi- 
 
 ous to know, — what are you doing here 
 with that plate ? I see neither cat nor dog." 
 
 " I should hope not, indeed ! " replied 
 Elizabeth, swallowing the bait, and with 
 more animation in her tone than I had yet 
 observed. She then pointed to a hole in 
 the boards, in a corner of the shed just op- 
 posite to her. " Look there ! She won't 
 come out, though, while you stand here. 
 Go outside the door, and watch from 
 there." 
 
 I obeyed, and Elizabeth began a low coo- 
 ing whistle. For nearly a minute this pro- 
 duced no results ; then from my post of 
 observation, I perceived a long gray whis- 
 ker protrude from the hole, followed by a 
 sensitive nose, that sniffed cautiously from 
 right to left, and, finally, the body belong- 
 ing to it, that of a very large old rat, ap- 
 peared, followed by three young ones. They 
 all gathered round the plate at Elizabeth's 
 feet, and then began a family repast which 
 was really curious to watch. The mother 
 permitteil her progeny to devour up the 
 pudding and cheese parings as they chose ; 
 but the bones she selected, dividing the 
 small ones with impartiality among her 
 young, and keeping the big ones, which re- 
 quired tougher teeth, for herself. I, whose 
 ideas of a rat were inseparable from a ter- 
 rier, and who had never seen one at Beau- 
 manoir but in either a fugitive or a bellicose 
 attitude, was astonished as much as I was 
 entertained by a peep into this domestic 
 interior. Elizabeth half-turned her head 
 towards me with a smile ; and, putting her 
 finger to her lips, she produced from her 
 pocket an egg, which, as soon as the plate 
 was cleared, she placed there. The old rat 
 raised herself on her hind legs, leant over 
 the edge of the plate and smelt the egg. 
 Having satisfied herself, she carefully rais«l 
 it in her fore-paws, and as carefully deposit- 
 ed it on the floor. Then she rolled it along, 
 as a man rolls a barrel, to her hole ; but 
 now came the difficult part of the operation. 
 Evidently there was a drop of four or five 
 inches from the flooring to the ground be- 
 neath, which the astute animal was con- 
 scious might smash the egg. She, therefore, 
 descended first ; and, standing on her hind- 
 legs, one of the young rats pushed the egg 
 towards her, ami she raised it in her 
 fbre-|)aws. I never saw any thing more 
 cleverly done, and could not resist an ex- 
 clamation, which sent the three juniors 
 scampering down their hole at a pace which 
 must have somewhat imperilled the egg, I 
 fear. 
 
 " Bravo ! Elizabeth. How on earth did 
 you ever tame the brutes to come to you like 
 this V " 
 
 "Oh! by perseverance. Somehow all 
 animals get to know me very soon."
 
 90 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 *' Well, but, like every otlier acquaint- 
 ance, there must be a bejiinning." 
 
 " I saw the ohl rat onv day run into that 
 hole; and then 1 brought something here 
 evory ihiy for her to eat, and always whis- 
 tled when I came. At first I put it close to 
 the hole, then a little farther off, and so 
 on. It has been my only little amusement 
 since dad's attack, coming here once a 
 day to feed my poor rats. They are always 
 so glad to see me ! " 
 
 " 1 should think so — accompanied by 
 such a repast. What a strange child vou 
 are ! " 
 
 She looked annoyed. 
 
 " Strange is another word for barbarian. 
 Is it so very odd to be fond of all animals V " 
 
 " I never met with any other girl who 
 ■would make pets of a family of rats. You'll 
 be having a menao-erie of tame lions and 
 leopards some day." 
 
 " Yes," she said quite gravely, " perhaps 
 so. Whenever I am left utterly alone in the 
 •world, I shall make my friends of animals, 
 of one sort or another." 
 
 There was a rustle among the bushes, 
 and Mr. Francis appeared. After shaking 
 my hand, he said, — 
 
 " Mr. John is awake, and would like to 
 see you. He is certainly better this even- 
 ing, Elizabeth. Suppose you come and 
 take a short turn with me ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " I must go back to dad." 
 
 " He wishes to see Osmund alone for a 
 few minutes. Tlie air is fresher by the 
 river than in this close garden. Come." 
 
 She made no further objection, and we 
 all three retraced our steps to the house. 
 
 I was shown up stairs, into a room which 
 ■was almost completely filled by a huge 
 four-post bed, hung with white dimity fur- 
 niture. A narrow passage was practicable, 
 and no more, on either side of this bed, and 
 in the passage nearest the window stood the 
 sosur de charite, with a cuji in her hand. At 
 the foot of the bed was a sofa," and a mat- 
 tress was rolled u[) in the corner of the room. 
 I approached, and was painfally struck with 
 the change in John since we had parted a 
 week before. He held out his great brawny 
 hand, the flesh from which had shrunk away, 
 leaving the bones and muscles painfully de- 
 fined ; then he turned, and said, in a low, 
 but tolerable firm voice, — 
 
 " Sister Marv, vou can leave us for a few 
 minutes." 
 
 She glided out, and I and the sick man 
 ■were left alone. 
 
 " Osmund, my boy, I wanted to say a 
 ■word with you," he began. " I've been very 
 ill, and I don't know how long I may be 
 here. God'll take me when he sees fit, and 
 I'm ready to go, if it wasn't for leaving 
 
 my poor lass without a protector in tho 
 world but Humphrey ; and, ye see, Hum- 
 phrey is fifteen years older than me ! It 
 ain't likely that he will Ije long after me, 
 and then she'll be quite alone. Now, you're 
 the only one of the old stock we can say 
 we know, — the only relation I have in the 
 world who's any thing more than a stran- 
 ger, and I feel, somehow, almost as if you 
 were my son. You're an honest young chap, 
 Osmund ; I'm fond of you, and so " — here 
 John fastened his hollow eyes on mine, 
 and paused for a second — " and so, you 
 know, is Liz. She's very fond of you, is 
 Liz — and there ain't many that she likes. 
 I want you to promise that you'll look after 
 her when both of us old fellows are gone — 
 that you'll never desert her, but be like a — 
 well, like a brother to her — there 1 I 
 would he here happier if I heard such a 
 promise from your lips ! " 
 
 " Make your mind easy then. Depend 
 on it, as long as I live, I'll look after li^liza- 
 beth's interest before my own, feeling as I 
 do, what injustice she has suffered ; and 
 I'll protect her in every way I can. John, 
 until she finds a protector for herself." 
 
 He pressed my hand gently. 
 
 " She won't be so ill off, you know, my 
 boy. I've saved very little, it's ti'ue : but 
 Humphrey has shown me his will, in which 
 he has left every thing to her. She won't 
 be so ill off." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it. After your cruel 
 disappointment about the Penruddocke es- 
 tate, of course Humphrey's money is a drop 
 in the ocean ; but I'm very glad that she is 
 at least fairly provided for." 
 
 He scanned mv face wistful) v, 
 
 " Kiclies don't make happiness, my lad. 
 Maybe she'll be happier with just enough 
 than she would be as a great heiress." 
 
 " I hope she may." 
 
 " And that's what I look to, that she 
 should be hapj)y. I've never been ambi- 
 tious myself (if it hadn't been for Liz, I 
 wottldn't have tried for the estate) ; and 
 now that the sand's nearly run out, Os- 
 mund, I'm not ambitious for my lass. I 
 hope she'll marry any honest young fellow 
 who loves her, — no matter his fortune. I 
 and my dear missis were very happy, 
 though we were as poor as church-mice." 
 
 " A suspicion of John's wishes flashed 
 upon me for the first time as he spoke. I 
 felt rather confused, with those large hol- 
 low eyes riveted on me, and scarcely know 
 what I said ; but I remember his reply- 
 
 " Well, my boy, you'll give her your best 
 advice when I'm gone. She'll obey you, 
 for she's fond of you ; and Liz is one 
 who'll go through fire and water for those 
 she loves, but'U never be driven."
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 91 
 
 I shook John's hand, and bade huii good- 
 by, promisiii'j; to return in a day or two. 
 ■vvlien I hoped to find liim better ; and then, 
 without waitinn; to see Elizabeth again, I 
 h!{'t the house. 
 
 I ft'lt perj)lcxed how to act. Had sim- 
 ple-hearted Jolin hinted to any one but 
 myself his visionary scheme? He was dy- 
 ing', I felt very sure ; and I could not bear 
 to grieve him at such a time by undeceiv- 
 ing him, unless, indeed, he should speak 
 more openly. On the other hand, if I 
 went there almost daily, as my feelings 
 would prompt me to do at such a time as 
 this, might not Jolin be encouraged to be- 
 lieve what as yet could be but a vague 
 hope ? Might not both poor Elizabeth and 
 myself be placed thereby in a position 
 which would render my subsequent conduct 
 very eml:)arrassing ? I had promised him 
 what I most I'ully meant to carry out ; and 
 this being so, it was unnecessary, per- 
 haps would be unwise, that I should be too 
 often at Cheyne Walk just at present. 
 Not that I, lor a moment, suspected the real 
 state of Elizabeth's feelings. I only feared 
 that John might be led to speak to her on 
 the subject, and thereby estrange the j^roud 
 and sensitive child from me. 
 
 On reaching home, I found a telegram on 
 my table. It was from Tufton in the High- 
 lands, and was in these words : — 
 
 "Just got news of Loi'd Tufton's death. 
 Hope to catch evening mail, and be in town 
 at 5, A.M." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 " It was very sudden," said Tufton, as 
 we sat at breakfast the next morning. 
 " He had a fit on Sunday night, and died 
 in a i'ew hours. The letter followed me 
 about, and only reached me in Invernes- 
 shire yesterday morning. I telegraphed 
 that I couldn't get to Somersetshire before 
 this afternoon. Fancy, he died without a 
 friend, without a creature, near him, but 
 the village apothecary ! I'm not a humbug, 
 ycu know. I can't pretend to feel any re- 
 gret for a man I never saw but two or 
 three times in my life, and who, I am per- 
 fectly sure, has left every farthing lu; could 
 away from me ; but tliere's something aw- 
 ful in the idea of dying like that, — utterly 
 uncared for ! Poor old fellow ! I wish he 
 hail not always kept me at arm's lenglh " 
 
 " \\'hat's the entailed property worth, 
 Arthur? " I asked, after a while. 
 
 " Upon my soul, I can't say : three thou- 
 sand a year, j)erhaps — not more. The 
 {»la(;e is wretched, I fancy, — has been neg- 
 ected for years. He never would spend a 
 
 farthing on it, as it was entailed. Suppose 
 you come down on IVIomlay (when the fune- 
 ral's over I shall have enough to look after, 
 and must remain at Tufton Kuynald for 
 some weeks) ; suppose, then, you get leave, 
 — you can easily do so now, — and come 
 down to me ? There'll be an odd pheasant 
 or two for you to kill, at all events ; and 
 we'll wander about the old place, and see 
 what can be done to it — eh ? " 
 
 I gladly assented.. The proposal would 
 have been a i:)leasant one to me at any 
 time ; at this moment it exactly jumped 
 with my humor to absent myself from Lon- 
 don for a while, and enjoy the country 
 quietly with my friend in his new domain. 
 
 I saw Elizabeth twice befbi-e I left town. 
 John had rallied sufficiently to be in the 
 drawing-room on the occasion of my last 
 visit to Cheyne Walk. Still, I entertained 
 no hope of his ultimate recovery, nor I 
 think did any one of us, though we all 
 talked cheerfully. I pleaded an engagement 
 when pressed to stay to dinner; and, at 
 ])arting, begged that either Francis or 
 Elizabeth would write and give me tidings 
 of the invalid. 
 
 " How long shall you be away ? " said 
 Elizabeth sadly, as she opened the hall- 
 door for me. 
 
 " I am not sure, — some weeks at all 
 events. I have got my winter's leave ; but, 
 as 1 never go to Beaumanoir, when my 
 friend leaves his place, or has had enough 
 of my society, unless I pay some other 
 visits, I shall return to town." 
 
 " I hope so. How I wish I were going 
 too ! that we wei-e all going to leave this 
 dismal hole for the country ! " and she 
 looked up at the fog-laden sky with a sigh. 
 " I hate gloomy, sorrowful London. ]),id 
 would get well, I think, if he saw the fields 
 again. Well, good-by once more. Come 
 back soon — do come back soon." 
 
 And her earnest face peered out through 
 the half-open door into the twilight, and 
 was the last thing I saw, as I looked back 
 towards the house. 
 
 Arthur Tufton had said no more than the 
 truth when he told me that his uncle had 
 neglected the small family estate to which 
 my friend now succeeded. Partly, 1 am 
 inclined to hope, from a horror of cutting 
 down a tree, partly from indolence and 
 want of interest in the place, the late Lord 
 Tufton had allowed the woods, which sur- 
 roundtid the damp and desolate old house 
 on all sides, to go to ruin for want of thin- 
 ning. It was a ])erfi'ct wilderness, where 
 more than half the trees, which, if allowed 
 air and room to expand some years ago, 
 would now have been valuable timber, were 
 absolutely worthless ; a tangle of miserable 
 sa^jlings, struggling upwards to the light
 
 92 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 ■with an impenetrable un(lei"<^rowth of 
 briers. The house had this distinction, 
 that it was, without excejition, the most 
 hiik'ous and hopeless buililing I over be- 
 held. One's heart died within one as one 
 drove up to the door over a heavy, wet 
 gravel sweep, which, being on an inclkie 
 downwards, enabled a small lake to settle 
 round the house, imparting a fine green 
 tone to the lower part of the walls. Archi- 
 tecture there could not be said to be any. 
 Four walls ])ierced with holes for windows, 
 and a long straggling tail of offices, no vis- 
 ible roof, and a depressing portico sustained 
 by pillars, from which the stucco was peal- 
 ing in flakes, — this was the first aspect of 
 Tufton Reynald. Inside, the only tolerably 
 comfortable room was the librai-y. There 
 Arthur Tufton received me ; and there we 
 always sat, as long as I was in the house. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he said to me one morning, 
 " when I look back six months, I feel like 
 a man just awoke from a nightmare. I've 
 had a stroke of luck I didn't deserve. 
 When I see so many poor devils who have 
 never tempted fortune live and die pau- 
 pers, I feel how unjust is the division of 
 the loaves and fishes in this world." 
 
 " What I can never make out," I said, 
 " is how on earth you ever took to gam- 
 bling. Some fellows take to it from love of 
 excitement, but you never got excited ; 
 indeed, you always seemed to dislike and 
 avoid excitement." 
 
 " I did it to try to drown thought," he 
 said slowly, "just as some men drink. It 
 was the only thing except music that could 
 absorb me for a time. However, we won't 
 talk of that. I registered a vow, when, 
 thanks to you, dear Pen, I pulled through 
 my difficulties, that I would never touch a 
 card again ; and I mean to keep it." 
 
 " And now, Arthur, I declare you must 
 marry. This place wants a woman's eye : 
 nothing else will set it to rights ; and 
 now you're a lord with a castle (like the 
 lover in those religious little novels — he's 
 always a lord), why, you've all the world 
 to pick from." 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with something between 
 a smile and a sigh. '• There you are, at it 
 again. Well, Pen, when I find my ideal 
 woman, she shall be Lady Tufton ; but I 
 fancy I shall have some time to wait." 
 
 '• What is she to be like, Arthur ? De- 
 scribe her, am' I'll look out for the article." 
 " Fair, and fabulously beautiful, of course. 
 Very young, very innocent, and utterly ig- 
 norant of the ways of this wicked world." 
 
 " Hum ! we'll ride those two old screws 
 about, and make acquaintance with the 
 neighborhood, Arthur : who knows what 
 may turn up ? There's a table covered 
 with the cards that have beeu left for you. 
 
 We'll penetrate every house within fifteen 
 miles." 
 
 This sort of chaff was constantly re- 
 newed : his way of taking it only convinced 
 me more than ever that it would be diffi- 
 cult indeed to find the woman who should 
 touch Arthur Tufton's heart. 
 
 The days sped swiftly. There was a 
 septuagenarian keeper and a couple of half- 
 blind old dogs, in whose company I wan- 
 dereil about whenever Arthur was enoiaged 
 on business. There was a great deal to be 
 done, and he went at it manfully. It was 
 a pleasure to watch the change in him. 
 Even in the days of his profound depres- 
 sion I had always preferred his society to 
 that of any other man ; but now that the 
 load was lifted, as it had never before been 
 lifted during my knowledge of him, he was 
 a most charming companion. More char- 
 acters lose than gain in prosperity. His, 
 like a picture steeped in shadows, needed 
 sunshine to bring out its luminous corners. 
 
 Early in December I heard from Mail- 
 ame d'Arnheim of their return to Lon- 
 don ; and, by the same post, Tufton and I 
 received invitations to Kendal Castle for 
 the beginning of January. The D'Arn- 
 heims, I knew, were to be there ; for she 
 named it in a recent letter from Germany. 
 I had some little difficulty, in persuading 
 my host to accept the invitation, his indif- 
 ference to general society having in no 
 degree diminished ; but I succeeded at last 
 — partly by the assurance that, even if the 
 rest of the company bored him, he could 
 not fail to like ^ladame d'Arnheim, whom 
 he had never yet met. 
 
 The Duke of Kendal, as of course every 
 one knows, is the father of Lord Ancastar ; 
 and a gceater conti'ast than exists between 
 these two men cannot be found. The duke 
 is a fine old Tory peer, — none of your 
 milk-and-water Conservatives, but a genu- 
 ine old Tory. Need I say that his son if 
 an out-and-out Radical ? His grace is a 
 good classic, and an indifferent French- 
 man. Ancaster tells you he despises dead 
 tongues, and ever}- thing else that has not 
 within it the elements of vitality and prog- 
 ress. The duke is Lord Lieutenant of tht 
 county, and commands the militia ; his son 
 delivers lectures in the town-hall, wrires 
 letters to the papers to prove that the sole 
 hopes of the country are in the volunteers : 
 and, on the smallest provocation, will head 
 a processional demonstration against some- 
 thing or other, with a baldric and a ban- 
 ner in his hand. 
 
 And, utterly unlike as the father and 
 son are, the duchess and her daughter-in- 
 law are yet more violently opposed. The 
 duke and Ancaster have at least this in
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 93 
 
 common : tliey have strong natural affec- 
 tions ; and, in spite of all their quarrels and 
 essential ilifferences of opinion upon every 
 subject under the sun, they are attached to 
 each other and to their homes. As much 
 cannot be said for the ladies. The duch- 
 ess is a proud, rigid lady of the old school, 
 whose conduct has always been as unim- 
 peachable as her manners, and her tongue 
 as cruel as her eye. When people say of 
 a woman, " It is better to have her as a 
 friend than an enemy," you know what 
 you have to expect. 
 
 The only point of resemblance between 
 the duchess and Lady Ancastar is their 
 height. They are both nearly five ii?et 
 eigiit, without heels to their shoes. But 
 Lady Ancastar is graceful, as stature is 
 graceful ; and the duchess is only erect, 
 like a niedia?val image of the Virgin. The 
 one is of marble, the other of wood and 
 paint. Her Grace's clothes hang on her 
 — they don't sit ; Lady Ancastar's dra- 
 peries ilow rhythmically about her limbs. 
 The duchess is peculiarly bitter against 
 M'hat she calls •' the low-lived ways of the 
 j)resent day ; " Lady Ancastar, as I have 
 already hinted, is one of the fiistest of the 
 fast. Her dress, or rather undress, is in 
 itself an offence which the duchess cannot 
 find language strong enough to condemn. 
 That her daughter-in-law should hunt, and 
 shoot, and have a betting-book, and make 
 parties to Evans's, and smoke cigarettes, 
 ai-e enormities which make the duchess's 
 blood run cold : no high-bred woman ever 
 thought of imitating cocottes in her day. 
 Lady Ancastar hates her mothei'-in-law, 
 and is delighted when any one will turn her 
 into ridicule ; but if it comes to a sparring- 
 match between them, she always gets the 
 worst of it — for the one is clever, and the 
 other is not; indeed. Lady Ancastar, for 
 all her noisy clatter, is a dull woman. 
 
 The Ancasters stay at Kendal Castle 
 twice a year. In January there is always 
 a large party and a ball, and Her Grace is 
 a good deal troubled, for at least two 
 months beibrehand, as to the making up of 
 her party. If she can possibly help it, 
 she will never invite any of the fast Ancas- 
 tar set, — that is, the women ; for, as to 
 men's morals, she is not particular, though 
 she is about their manners. The laissez- 
 aller of the younger generation, their talk- 
 ing to her with their hands in their pock- 
 ets, sprawling over the sofas, and leaning 
 their elbows on the table, she is most se- 
 vere upon; still one cannot do without 
 young men at a large country-house, and 
 the duchess is obliged to tolerate a number 
 of dancing boys " of good birth, but exe- 
 crable breeding," as she says. As to the 
 women, there are politic or political rea- 
 
 sons for asking some, whom the duchess 
 squares it with her conscience by snubbing 
 when they come ; and then the duke, in 
 his good-nature, occasionally asks others, 
 whom the duchess receives with polished 
 sarcasm, and over whose backs she empties 
 the vials of a virtuous indignation. They 
 require to be of the very toughest material 
 — like Mrs. Chaffinch, or that beautiful 
 cruche casse'e, Mrs. Hartman "Wild, who, by 
 patronage in high places, has crept into 
 the best society — ever to pay a second 
 visit to Kendal Castle, after the treatment 
 they experience ; but it shows what suffer- 
 ing humanity will stand — few of theip ever 
 refuse. The rest of the society there is 
 maile up much as the society of every other 
 country-house is, the solidly dull and high- 
 ly respectable element being well repre- 
 sented. It is this strange contrast and 
 combat between the old style and the new, 
 the duchess's friends and her daughter-in- 
 law's, like antagonistic liquids in one ves- 
 sel, fizzing at each other, which is the pe- 
 culiar characteristic of Kendal Castle. 
 
 Wq got there late in the day, the jour- 
 ney from Tufton Ileynald being a long one 
 across country. There was a hard i'rosi ; 
 and the huge outline of the 'castle stooil 
 out against a star-lit sky, as we drove up 
 to the old iron-bound door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 Only the duke and a ?ew men were in 
 the library when we entered; the ladies, 
 (with such of the men as enjoyed a novel 
 in their dressing-gowns and slippers) having 
 retired for that hour before dinner, which 
 is a sort of moral " pick-me-up " between 
 the social exertions of the morning and the 
 evening. 
 
 Among the knot assembled I was sorry 
 to find Selden. Since that disaiireeable 
 affair between Benevento and me, he and I 
 had not met. He had blamed me, as I 
 knew, in no measured terms, and had de- 
 fended his Italian friend very warmly ; and, 
 moreover, if it were possible that so old a 
 stager could be jealous of a boy yoiuig 
 enough to be his son, I was inclined to 
 think that Tufton's fondness for me irritated 
 his cousin. He had written to offer him- 
 self at Tufton Ileynald soon after Arthur 
 came into possession ; but the latter had 
 maile some excuse for deferring his visit ; 
 and Selden was aware that 1 was his cous- 
 in's guest at that moment. So, there was 
 no love lost between us ; but, being English- 
 n)en of society in the nineteenth century, 
 of course we shook hands as though we 
 were the best friends.
 
 94 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 The only other f;xee I recognized, and 
 recoirnized with pleasure, in the <iroup, was 
 old Jack riorton's, — kind old Jack, who 
 had iJ|)oken a friendly word in good season 
 to me at the time of my puljlic discom- 
 fiture. 
 
 The dnke received me very courteously. 
 I am not at all sure that he knew my name. 
 I was one of the ruck of young men whom 
 the duchess asked occasionally, and he cer- 
 tainly had once shaken hands with me in a 
 crush at Kendal House. Still, I am in- 
 clined to think that he did not know me 
 from Adam when he greeted me to Kendal 
 Castle. 
 
 Tufton he had never seen before ; but, 
 wifh a fine geniality of manner which be- 
 longs to old Englishmen of the highest 
 class, he said, as we stood round the fire, — 
 " You and I ought to know each other, 
 Lord Tufton, for we are related. My great- 
 grand-mother's brother's daughter was your 
 orand-molher's mother ; did you know 
 That '! " 
 
 No, he did not. He laughingly confessed 
 that he was not well up in his ancestry ; 
 but added that he should improve the 
 acquaintance of his great-grandmother 
 fortinvith, if she was a link connecting him 
 to the house of Kendal. 
 
 '• All relations beyond first cousins are 
 humbugs, and should be abolished," said a 
 young man in a frieze coat, and very dirty 
 boots ami gaiters, who had entei'ed the 
 room while Tutton was speaking. 
 
 "My son, Ancastar — Lord Tufton — 
 Mr. Penruddoeke. My son," continued 
 his grace, with a laugh which was a little 
 forced, " my son's law is what I call ' the 
 law of topsy-turvy,' Lord Tufton. What- 
 ever has been is wrong, and must be re- 
 versed. But you were not aware that 
 Lord Tufton was a third cousin of yours, 
 I am sure, when you made that speech, 
 Ancastar ; as to myself, I hold'by relation- 
 ships very much, and hope never to see tlie 
 day when the claims of kindred are set 
 aside. ' Blood is thicker than water ; ' 
 but all ties seem to be considered as water 
 in the present day." 
 
 •• Isn't a man's individual claim to re- 
 gard," began Lord Ancastar, " better than 
 one founded on the fact that two people 
 whom none of us know or care any thing 
 about " — 
 
 "I beg your pardon," interrupted the 
 duke, " i both know and care about my 
 ancestry." 
 
 " I never heard of one of them doing 
 any thing worth being remembered for," 
 said his son. 
 
 •' That is to say, none of them were So- 
 cialists or Radicals," returned the duke, 
 with an extraordinary command of temper. 
 
 " I am all for remembering a man who 
 is useful in his generation, — not otherwise, 
 — whether he is my ancestor, or my ances- 
 tor's shoe-black." 
 
 " But yoti'd rather he were the shoe- 
 black — you know you would, Ancastar ! " 
 laughed Selden. 
 
 •' As to that, if I only looked long enough, 
 I might find one among my forefathers, I 
 dare say. In my mother's family (though 
 she never will own it), I know that a man 
 was hanged lor" — 
 
 " Come, come, Ancastar, ' De mortuis nil 
 nisi bonum !'" said the duke, rather im|)a- 
 tiently. " If you can remember nothing 
 good of your ancestors, at all events do not 
 drag their names through the dirt." 
 
 Ancastar shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Castle, who is always poring over 
 musty old folios, tells me he traced his ped- 
 igree up to a butcher of oxen in Edward 
 the Third's reif>n, when he thought it time 
 to stop." 
 
 " He still assumes the horns as one of 
 his crests," laughed Selden, sotto voce. 
 Either the duke did not hear, or he did not 
 choose to understand. He was one of 
 that loyal old race who discourage scandal, 
 and was always chivalrous in defence of 
 women's reputations. There was a laugh, 
 more or less audible, but the duke only 
 coughed, and said, — 
 
 "We expect Lord and Lady Castle here 
 to-morrow." 
 
 And then he turned to some of the older 
 men, whom I did not know, and began 
 discussing the prospects of the next ses- 
 sion. 
 
 "By the by, where is Benevento, Sel- 
 den V " asked Lord Ancastar. I never could 
 decide whether he was absolutely tact- 
 less, or had some sixth sense ibr discover- 
 in"- awkward subjects, which he felt must 
 
 O t/-" ^ 1111 
 
 have been given him to use, just as he held 
 it to be his duty to " speak his mind " upon 
 every occasion. 
 
 " Benevento has been making a sort of 
 royal progress through Scotland all the 
 autumn," replied Selden, glancing at me, 
 — " made immensely of, wherever he went ; 
 a,nd no wonder ! The best-looking fellow 
 I know, and certainly one of the cleverest." 
 
 '• Yes," muttered old Jack. " Clever 
 enough." 
 
 " He is now in Ireland — at Castle Orey, 
 I believe," continued Selden. 
 
 " What ? The Guildmores ? " cried old 
 Jack. " Is he trying to capture that castle 
 now by a coup de main f " 
 
 " If he is, it will prove to be a Chateau 
 en Espagne" said Ancastar. 
 
 " Yes," returned Selden. " He isn't the 
 heiress's style — and he knows it. I have 
 heard it whispered that she showed some
 
 PEXRUDDOCKE. 
 
 95 
 
 weakness for Arthur," he added, Liuci;hiii;^, 
 " but he would Iiave nothin<4 to say to her. 
 Sounds increililjle, doesn't it? " 
 
 " What stulF you do talk, Walter ! Your 
 hair is i^ettinjj; gray — and yet you're just 
 like a schoolboy, repeating such rubbish." 
 
 " I can't change my ways : all I can do 
 is to change my hair. I'm going to take 
 to ' Rossiler.' I'm only four years older 
 than Benevento, and I don't see why I 
 shouldn't be juvenile and seductive a little 
 longer as well as he." 
 
 " Some people," said Ancastar, with a 
 twinkle of his eye, " would account for 
 Benevento's not requiring ' Rossiter ' by 
 saying that he was already of the ' blackest 
 dye.' By the way, hadn't you and he 
 some row, Mr. Penruddocke '? I never 
 heard the riglits of that story." 
 
 I grew crimson, and was casting about 
 for a reply, when Arthur came gallantly to 
 my rescue. 
 
 " Yes, there was a row on my account. 
 Penruddocke, with more generosity than 
 prudence, interfered once, when it would 
 have been wiser not to have done so. 
 That's all. It is one of those subjects 
 upon which 'the least said, the soonest 
 mended.' " 
 
 " I shall, always maintain," said my old 
 champion, Jack, lifting up his voice, "that 
 Penruddocke behaved with more moral 
 pluck than one young fellow in fifty would 
 have shown on that occasion. To denounce 
 a man publicly in a mess-room is a job 
 which most men would shrink from. Of 
 course he was mistaken — the man is Sei- 
 dell's friend, and he answers for him — but 
 that's no matter ; it was a devilish plucky 
 thing to do." 
 
 Selden and I both " rose to speak " as 
 they say in the House ; but I was the 
 (juicker, feeling that it was time to put a 
 stop to these awkward discussions in my 
 presence. 
 
 •' Thank you, Horton. It's very kind of 
 you to say all that; but the subject is a 
 disagreeable one to me, and I hope no one 
 will introduce it again. I wish I could 
 forget all about it." 
 
 After this, there was a moment's silence 
 in the knot among which I stood. It was 
 broken by the sound of the gong : the 
 duke turned to us, and rang the bell. 
 
 " The gi-oom of the chambers will show you 
 your rooms. We dine at eight o'clock." 
 
 Tufton and I inhabited the same tin-ret. 
 As we went up the stairs, he said, — 
 
 "My dear Pen, you did that capitally. 
 If you hadn't si)oken out firmly, you'd 
 have been annoyed with chaff oa that sub- 
 ject all the time you were here. Ancastar 
 is an ill-conditioned hound, in my opinion." 
 
 And so wc separated. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 I ENTERED the drawing-room, a lon^ 
 gallery hung with crimson satin, in which 
 are all the famous Vandyeks of the Ken- 
 dal family, just as the second gong sound- 
 ed. The duchess held out the tips of her 
 fingers to me. 
 
 " Have you come from Beaumanoir, Mr. 
 Penruddocke ? " 
 
 '• No, — I came with Tufton from his place ; 
 and an awfully cold journey we had across 
 countrv." 
 
 " I liope Lady Rachel is well ? " 
 
 " Yes, — when I last heard from her, 
 Duchess." 
 
 " I hope you are not remiss in writing 
 to your mother, Mr. Penruddocke ? Young 
 men in the present day are to apt to call it 
 ' a bore.' " 
 
 " I always answer my mother's letters 
 at once. Duchess." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. I have not seen 
 Lady Rachel for many years ; but she was 
 one of the most beautiful persons I ever 
 knew, and had a distinction which all the 
 young women now seem to have lost." 
 
 Her grace spoke with an incisive clear- 
 ness which penetrated farther than louder 
 voices ; and two girls, who had just entered 
 the room with their mother, looked ])ain- 
 fuUy conscious that the remarks of their 
 stately but sharp tongued hostess applied 
 but too well to them. Their mother was a 
 marchioness, and their veins were filled 
 with the bluest blood ; but less aristocratic- 
 looking young females I never beheld. I 
 found them good-natured, however, full of 
 fun and high spirits ; and, on the whole, I 
 am inclined to think they added more to 
 the hilarity of the party than had they pos- 
 sessed more dignified patrician manners. 
 
 The room began to fill. Lady Ancastar 
 glided in like a white swan, on a wave of 
 pale green satin. Her arms were bare to 
 the shoulder ; indeed, sleeves there were 
 none. I saw the duchess raise her double- 
 glass, and scan her daughter-in-law, and 
 her nostrils curled as she did so. I went 
 forward and shook hands with the beau- 
 tiful nude, and with her friend, jMrs. Hart- 
 man Wild, whom I knew slightly, — a 
 lovely, r)each-like woman, excessively vain 
 and foolish, whose hold on society consisted 
 chiefly in the dimples on her shoulders. 
 Lord Henry, Algy Littleton, the great 
 leader of cotillons, and general master of 
 the revels. Lord Wilverly, and half a doz- 
 en other men, now came in ; then three or 
 four women, whom I oidy knew by sight, 
 in London, as belonging to the " cream of 
 the cream." But even superlative cream may 
 be kept till it turns soin- ; and two of these
 
 96 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 ladies, sisters, of unimpeacliable manners 
 and morals, were decidedly cnrdled. The 
 Ladies Pynsent were ^rroat fi'iends of the 
 diK'lu'ss's : they had the remains of beauty, 
 and were considered clever, I l)elieve. 1 
 can only say, I never talked to them with- 
 out havinj; my blood chilled : I infinitely 
 preferred the wholesome bitter of the duch- 
 ess's tirades, which were honest and to the 
 point, to the spitefulness, veiled under a 
 thin watery smile, which stun<r every thing 
 it tonehed throughout the talk of the two 
 faded beauties. But enough of them, whom 
 I only name now, as I shall have to refer 
 to them once or twice in the course of this 
 visit. 
 
 Almost the last who appeared — and 
 we sat down thirty in the great banquet- 
 ing-hall — were the U'Arnheims. 1 was 
 standing near the door, waiting for her. 
 Her sweet face beamed out all smiles; but 
 I was shocked to see how thin and ill she 
 looked, as she returned the pressure of my 
 hand. 
 
 "I am so delighted to see you again," I 
 began. " It seems such years since we 
 met. Mayn't I take you in to dinner ? " 
 
 D'Arnheim had walked on, without ob- 
 serving me. 
 
 " This is the house, above all others in 
 England, for strict etiquette," she said. 
 " We must go down with whom we are 
 told. But you can, at least, try to sit near 
 me." 
 
 And I did so, by the force of will and of 
 what I thought was good luck, combined. 
 I tell to the lot of a Miss Douglass, a con- 
 nection of the duchess's, and not a bad 
 girl ; only I wished her at the bottom of 
 the sea, tor I wanted to talk exclusively to 
 my other neighi^or : but this was not so 
 easy. The Board of Trade, or the Colo- 
 nies ([ forget which), had taken JNIadame 
 d'Arnheim in to dinner ; and I was quite 
 provoked at her being drawn into a long 
 argument as to the state of feeling in 
 Germany, and the " Bund," and the politics 
 of the Grand-Ducal Court, and a great 
 deal more, of which I caught snatches. 
 I felt aggrieved, as though I had an undis- 
 putable right to monopolize my friend's 
 conversation. At last, towards the middle 
 of dinner, after I had made several efforts 
 to induce her to devote her attention to 
 me, she turned, and said with a smile, — 
 
 "Not now. Be a little patient. We 
 shall have plenty of time to talk by and 
 by. I see you are not improved — as 
 inconsiderate as ever — and, please, don't 
 crumble your bread about in that way." 
 
 I turnwd wrathfully to j\Iiss Douglass, 
 and talked unmitigated rubbish to her for 
 the next half hour, which accounts for the 
 opinion that young lady, I am told, ex- 
 
 pressed of me, that I was " nice, but cer- 
 tainly very odd ; silent and absent at one 
 moment, and then, the next, with such a 
 (low of conversation." 
 
 '• Now, presently, we can have our chat," 
 said ISIadame d'Arnheim, as the ladies rose 
 from the table. 
 
 I hate sitting long over one's wine ; and 
 there was some '34 claret, with an argu- 
 ment on female suflfrage, broached to- 
 gether, which threatened to keep us till 
 midnight. It was curious to hear the 
 duke, that most chivalrous of men, inveigh 
 against the extension of the franchise to 
 women ; and Ancastar, who treated the 
 fair sex — as he did every thing in heaven 
 above, and on the earth beneath — with 
 far too little respect, fighting for the re- 
 moval of their disabilities; but the dis- 
 cussion bored me after after a time, and I 
 was thankful when the duke at last rose, 
 and we adjourned to the music-gallery. 
 
 There was a piano at one end of it, 
 round which were sathered Miss Douglass, 
 and the half-dozen other girls who were 
 in the house. Near one of the fireplaces 
 there was a colony, headed by the duch- 
 ess, supported by the marchioness, the 
 Ladies Pynsent. and the cabinet-minister's 
 wife. Lady Ancastar and Mrs. Hartman 
 Wild were of course not with these : they 
 had set up a rival camp conjointly, at the 
 other fireplace, where they meant to get 
 all the men of their own set. D'Arnheim 
 was of the number, devoting himself the 
 whole evening to Mrs. Hartman Wild. 
 They were well mated. And some dis- 
 tance off, by herself, sat Madame d'Arn- 
 heim, at a table, turning over a volume of 
 valunble drawings by old masters. Of 
 course I instantly joined her. 
 
 " At last ! Well, I hope you'll deign to 
 give me a little of your attention now? 
 After six months' absence, it is too bad to 
 treat me as you did at dinner. You don't 
 know howl have missed you all this time." 
 
 " Have you V " she said, looking up with 
 a sweet, but sad smile. " It is pleasant to 
 hear. I often think how very few would 
 miss me at all if I were to die." 
 
 " Don't talk like that. Besides, isn't it 
 enough to have one or two who really 
 care ? I don't believe in ' large circles or 
 mourners ; ' but, tell me, how did you 
 enjoy your visit to Germany?" 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 " Why didn't you come back, then, 
 sooner ? I'd have given any thing for you 
 to have been in London this autumn." 
 
 " I will tell you why. Karl did not 
 choose to take me into Hungary ; and, on 
 the other hand, I did not choose his family 
 to say that I had left him to return to 
 England Therefore, I said I should stay
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 97 
 
 the grand-duchess till he came 
 
 to 
 
 with 
 letch nic." 
 
 '' W'cll, at all events, she is a great 
 friend of vour.s, — you liked being with 
 her ? " 
 
 " What can one like, when one's heart 
 is sore V I sometimes longed to go and 
 hide myself in a desert, where no one 
 sLouM ever hear of me again. The 
 grind-duchess was very kind, but I was 
 miserable. You can't understand it, — no 
 man can, I think, — that delaisse'e feeding, 
 that feeling that one is of no good to any 
 cue!" 
 
 " Dear Madame d'Arnheim, don't talk 
 so. You. are of the greatest good to me. 
 I don't know what I should do without 
 your friendship." 
 
 My hand was near hers, on the sofa: 
 she pressed it gently, for all reply. Then 
 she began to talk of abstract matters, — 
 of poetry and philosophy, of elective affin- 
 ities, and of the undue predominance of 
 the objective over the subjective in our 
 lives. Her conversation evinced, as it 
 always did, a cultivated intelligence, with 
 just that dash of transcendentalism, which 
 would raise a smile on the lips of those 
 who could not appreciate her, as I did. 
 
 More than half an hour passed thus. 
 At last she said softly, — 
 
 " And now tell me about yourself. Yon 
 know how truly interested I am in all that 
 concerns you. Have you heard of the 
 little cousin lately ? " 
 
 I told her every thing, very nearly as I 
 have told it here. When I had done, — 
 
 " Ah ! it all comes," she said, " of that 
 unfortunate intimncy of yours with Lady 
 Castle's set. I warned you how it would 
 be. All this gossip about you and Lady 
 Castle has been written to your mother ; 
 ami she and Mrs. Hamleigh very naturally 
 think it ric,dit to keep the little y;irl out of 
 the way of such a Don Juan. 1 am not 
 surprised." 
 
 " Nor am I, though I don't exactly take 
 your view of it. My mother is bent on 
 my marrying a girl with money — that is 
 the real secret, as regards her." 
 
 '■ Take my advice," said she, fixing her 
 eyes uj)on mine, and laying her hand upon 
 my arm at the same moment — "take my 
 advice, and don't do that. Let nothing 
 ever induce you to marry a woman bul 
 because you love her. Think of my words 
 when 1 am no longer by, perhaps when 
 I am gone. People who have loved may 
 be miserable in after-life, but at least they 
 have ihat to look back to. Dante is wnjng, 
 I think, when he says, ' Nessun maggior 
 dolore die ricordarsi del tempo felice ncUa 
 miseria.' No, no! There is a far greater 
 misery, — that of feeling that one has 
 7 
 
 wrecked one's OAvn life ; that one has 
 placed all one's happiness on the cast of 
 a die, and that one has lo-it." 
 
 She spoke with unusual vehemence for 
 her. And long, long afterwards, I did 
 recall her words, with the very look and 
 gesture that accompanied them, — recalled 
 them at a time, and under circumstances 
 that I little anticipated then 1 
 We were interrupted. 
 " M idame d'Arnheim, arc yon telling 
 Mr. Penruddocke a ghost-story V" said 
 Ancastar, as he sauntered up, with his 
 hands in his pockets. " I've seen nothing 
 so tragic as your face since Rachel." 
 
 She had recovered her etjuanimity, and 
 replied, — 
 
 '• Though we Germans are said to be so 
 stolid, we never attain to that impassive, 
 expressionless way of speaking which you 
 fashionable people in England" — 
 
 '' Don't call me a fashionable person, for 
 Heaven's sake ! " 
 
 " ' Your speech bewrayeth you,' Lord 
 Ancastar. You know you carefully mask 
 any emotion when you talk." 
 
 "Oh! no -Englishman has emotions — 
 at least, in public. They keep them for 
 home-consumption." 
 
 " Well, the result is a very level, — may 
 I say the word? — apathetic delivery. 
 Englishmen of your class seldom pro- 
 nounce more than half their words; and 
 those they let drop from them as if it was 
 a trouble : the rest they swallow." 
 
 " You are very severe on us, Madame 
 d'Arnheim." 
 
 " Remember, it was you who began the 
 attack — -But hush! who is that beiiinnin"- 
 to sing ? " 
 
 " One of the Tenby girls. How she 
 bellows ! By heavens ! Come, tJiat ain't 
 English apathy." 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim shook her head with 
 a smile. 
 
 " She shouts, it is true ; but she does not 
 pronoiuice one word. Can you tell what 
 language she is singing?" 
 "It's Italian," I hazarded. 
 " It's French," said Ancastar authorita- 
 tively. 
 
 " It's English," pronounced IMadanic 
 d'Ai-nheim, after a couple of minutes. " I 
 caught a th. No language but yours has 
 that sound. Pity such a good voice should 
 be thrown away, — should say nothing at 
 all to one ! " 
 
 " What could a puddingy little thing 
 like that ever say to you ? She is of 
 dough — doughy," I remarked. 
 
 " Then that accounts lor her music. She 
 is in the key of ' do natural ' " said Ancas- 
 tar. " I only wish she would rise." 
 
 " She sings in tune, at all events : that
 
 98 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 is soinetliing," said Tufton, who ha'l just 
 joincil us. His t'at-e of comical suflcriu'j; 
 uinicr the iiiflictiou was a stu'iy. I intro- 
 duced liim to JMadaiiie irAi'nli«aui. 
 
 " I know you are a f;;reat musician. Lord 
 Tufton," she said. '■ I wish vou would 
 phiy to us." 
 
 "Not now," he answered, with a signifi- 
 cant smile, whicli was fully justified a mo- 
 ment later. 
 
 " Shall we have a round pjamc ? " called 
 out Lady Ancastar, in a loud voice, from 
 ber throne near the fire. " It is really too 
 dull doiuii nothiu'T. Let us play at pips." 
 
 All her faction — the Fronde, us 1 got 
 to call them at last — rose and came near 
 us, there being a large round table in our 
 vicinitv. Madame d'Arnheim thou'jjht it 
 civil to get up, too, though she hateil cards. 
 There had i:)een a lull at the piano. " The 
 first round," as Ancastar expressed it, was 
 over; but the little lady had " come up to 
 the scratch again," and was now barking 
 at " Roliert, toi que j'aime " with such fury, 
 as would have struck terror, rather than 
 pity, into the heart of that unworthy Nor- 
 man, could he have heard her. She yelji- 
 ed, she snarled, she panted between eadi 
 bar, like a plethoric spaniel; it was really 
 distressing to listen to, and Tufton showed 
 signs of much mental anguish. Still I 
 thou'jcht it hardly well-bred to break in 
 upon these exertions with the clamor of a 
 round game. But Lady Ancastar was 
 proof against any misgiving of the kind : 
 and, with unabated cackling, the counters 
 were divided, and the chairs collected. 
 
 Suddenly the duchess stood like a fate 
 in the midst of us. 
 
 " I think you can hardly be aware, Ara- 
 bella, that Lady Sarah Tenby is singing 
 at this moment." 
 
 " I don't see how any one who isn't deaf 
 could be ignorant of the fact," muttered 
 her son. 
 
 '* Does your Grace mean to prevent our 
 having our innocent little game ? " saiil 
 Lady Ancastar, with tlie air of a victim. 
 
 " I wish to prevent any act of ill-breed- 
 ing in my house, if I can prevent it," re- 
 sponded the duchess severely. " If you 
 must make a noise, go into the drawing- 
 room." and with this she stalked away. 
 
 " She knows there's no c^ird table in 
 the drawing-room," ejaculated Lady An- 
 castar, — "that's the reason she sends us 
 there. It is really too slow ! Never mind, 
 we wont remain here ; we'll do something 
 at all events. I've g )t an idea," and she 
 clapped her hands, and led the way into 
 the adjoining room. 
 
 About eight or nine men followed, and 
 the three or four women who were round 
 the card-table ; excepting Madame d'Arn- 
 
 heim, who, not wishing to enroll herself in 
 the noisy faction, bad glided away, follow- 
 ed by Tufton. There was a change of 
 performance at the piano. Lady Sarah 
 Tenby had made way for the thinnest and 
 sharpest of the Ladies Pynsent, who was 
 " reckoned a viny fine player — a pupil of 
 Herz's, you know," as the duchess said, 
 hoping to awe the muhitude into silence. 
 
 '■ Go and ask those girls wheth(;r any of 
 them like to join a game," said Lady An- 
 castar to me just as she reached the door. 
 And my errand was successful ; for the mer- 
 ry little Tenbys infinitely preferred a romp 
 of any kind to sitting in solemn silence tor 
 twenty minutes, while Lady Louisa Pyn- 
 sent punished Henri Herz for all his sins 
 of" variation " from the truth. Miss Doug- 
 lass, bound by ties of various kinds to 
 the duchess, did not venture to do what 
 she knew would be disj)leasing to Her 
 Grace, and so she continued her duty of 
 sitting by the performer at the piano, and 
 thanking and applauding at the end of 
 each ])iece. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I propose," said Lady 
 Ancastar, in a sort of stage-whisper : " we 
 will hive a paper-chase over the castle. 
 rU be the hare. You must give me three 
 minutes' start ; by that clock it is just a 
 quarter past eleven." 
 
 "And the duchess ? " suggested some one. 
 
 " Oh I she gives the signal for retiring 
 a quarter before twelve always. We 
 have a good half-hour — plenty of time ; " 
 and away she started, with a bag of paper, 
 evidently ready torn up for the pur;)i)se, 
 slung over her shoulder. I suppose we all 
 felt there was safety in numbers. The 
 duchess could hanlly resent a frolic in 
 wliich sixteen people were conc-erned. And 
 at the expiration of the three minutes, the 
 hounds, headed by Mrs. Hartman Wild, 
 set out upon the chase. 
 
 The track of paper led us up the great 
 stair-case, along corridors, in at one bed- 
 room door, and out at the dressing-room, 
 down a winding turret into the servants' 
 hall (where our appearance caused great 
 consternation), up again into high liie — 
 up, up, and yet liiLcher up, into the I)aclie- 
 lor's towers — nothing sacred from our 
 invading feet — laughing, shrieking, bark- 
 ing, stumbling along; at one moment 
 fancying that we liad gained upon the 
 hare, and that another vigorous etFort would 
 run lier to earth ; nay, even catching a 
 glimpse of her sea-green garments at the 
 farther end of a corri(ior, and giving a 
 " tally-ho ! " thereupon, that rung through 
 the castle, — but only to find, at the end, 
 that she had doubled upon us, through a 
 suite of rooms, and was farther from us 
 than ever.
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 99 
 
 Ko sot of schoolboys ever iii'lul'jjed in a 
 madder chaso ; and when I rellcctt'd after- 
 wards, in cooler moments, that I was very 
 much the youngest man present, and that 
 three out of the six ladies were married, it 
 did seem a sinj!;ular diversion ibr persons 
 of such mature years. 
 
 The clock in the hall was just striking 
 the three quarters as we followed the 
 paper-track down the great stairs once 
 more, to the drawing-room, where we knew 
 that the hare mu>t have ariived, trium- 
 phant at her speed having baffled pursuit. 
 But one or two of the foremost hounds were 
 now fairly out of breath; and the excite- 
 ment of the pursuit being over, they lagged a 
 good deal as we trooped across the hall. I 
 was fourth ; and when the drawins-room 
 door was thrown open, my eyes fell upon a 
 tableau which was not calculated to acceler- 
 ate the speed of our foremost hound, — 
 Mrs. Hartman Wild. 
 
 There stood Lady Ancastar, panting, 
 scarlet from her exertions, wiping the per- 
 spiration from her face, her hair rumpled, 
 her lace flounces torn, her arms scratched, 
 a more undignified figure, a more deplora 
 ble contrast to the marble goddess I had 
 been admiring an hour ago, it was impos- 
 sible to imagine. And beside her — alone, 
 with a silver bed-candlestick in her hand, 
 stood the duchess, rigid, inexorable, terri- 
 ble to behold. Not a hair of lier head 
 was ruffled ; the stiff crepus curls stood 
 carved round her fice as if nothing short 
 of an axe could dissever them ; the folds 
 of her moire antique, every separate point 
 of her black lace, were exactly where they 
 ought to be, and where they had been since 
 the beginning of time. She was close to 
 her daughter-in-law ; and she had been 
 speaking to her, — of that tliere could be 
 no doubt. Lady Ancastar's face, usually 
 so stolid, showed some discomposure ; ami 
 Her Grace's thin, drawn-in lips told me 
 that they had jus( uttered some sharp and 
 trenchant reproof But she was far too 
 well-bred to make us party to any family 
 scene: she was silent as we, entered, turn- 
 ed, and eyed us, one by one, as we poor 
 hounds slunk in, so to speak, with our tails 
 between our legs. U[)on the luckless Mrs. 
 Ilartman AVild, as foremost, fell the duch- 
 ess's only words, like sharp little hail-dr(ips, 
 after a nunute's pause. 
 
 "I should think you must be tired, Mrs. 
 Hartman Wild, — you look so, — and per- 
 haps will not object to going to bed now." 
 
 With that she stalked into the gallery, 
 and we all followed. There stood the vir- 
 tuous ladies whose; steps had not been led 
 astray over the castle, each with a bed 
 candlestick in her hand, like the seven Miss 
 Flamboroughs with their oranges ; or, as 
 
 Ancastar said, " like the wise virgins with 
 their lamps, only in this case it is they who 
 are sleepy, and the foolish ones who are so 
 very wide-awake ! " 
 
 I looked roiuid for Madame d'Arnheim, 
 but she was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXTY. 
 
 The next day the frost was harder than 
 ever, and the ice on the lake was pronoimced 
 to be some inches thick. Those who had 
 not brought skates sent in by a messenger 
 to the large neighboring town to procure 
 them. Among these, at my urgent request, 
 was Madame d'Arnheim. 
 
 '• But I never put on a pair but twice in 
 uiv life," she objected. " I cannot skate a 
 bit." 
 
 " Never mind. You shall be my pupil. 
 You'll see how quickly you get on." 
 
 By twelve o'clock we were all down on 
 the ice, and a pretty sight it was, — the 
 flower-like knots of brilliant ladies, among 
 whom Lady Ancastar, in a costume whicli 
 was a combination of an Esquimaux and a 
 " Crncovienne," was the most conspicuous ; 
 and the lithe dark figures of men gliding 
 over the polished-steel ice, powdered wltli 
 silver, which glittered m the winter sun, 
 as the skates cut their way, leaving fantas- 
 tic figures on the agate-like surf ice behind 
 them. The frame that bound this picture 
 was banks of frozen grass, above which 
 rose dark masses of wood, fringed with a 
 delicate tracery of branches against the 
 clear-swept sky. The wind had done its 
 work up there, driving every little cloud 
 befoi-e it, in its passage from the north ; 
 and now it was so still that not a dead leaf 
 stirred upon the frozen lake, but as it fell 
 it lay. 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim's pliant, well-bal- 
 anced figure rested upon feet which were 
 not the ideal of an artist perhaps, but the 
 perfection of agrandedame, — - long, elastic, 
 slender-ankled. She was not nervous ; and 
 with the help of my hand she got on rap- 
 idly. 
 
 " It is really very pleasant," she said, 
 looking up into my face with a sn'iile. " I 
 have not enjoyed myself so much, I don't 
 know when. 
 
 " And you look all the better for it — you 
 have (juite a color. Now, then, strike out 
 more with your left foot." 
 
 She did so, but S(jme little inequality in 
 the ice caught her foot ; and, before I could 
 save her, she fell — very ligtitl}-. however. 
 
 " I am not the least hiu-t," and she 
 scrambled on her feet nimbly; "but it 
 seems to me there are too many spectators
 
 100 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 just here to go on exposinfj my awkward- 
 ni's.s. Could we not get to some quieter 
 corner ? " 
 
 '• By all means. Several stran^jers, T see, 
 have- appeai-ed on the scene. I hear that 
 the duke has given all the country houses 
 round leave to come and skate here. I 
 dare say in the afternoon the lake will be 
 crowded." 
 
 We doubled a tongue of land, on the 
 farther side of wliith we were screened — 
 at ail events, from the great mass of non- 
 skiiters, though a path ran round the lake, 
 which, of course, commanded every corner 
 of it. Here the lesson went on steadily 
 enough for nearly an hour. 
 
 •■ I like your friend, Lord Tufton, very 
 nuich," she said, as we glided cautiously 
 along. '"Hearing he was such a gambler, 
 I expected a very different sort of man." 
 
 *' He has given up play, I am happy to 
 sax', entirely. That love of speculation, 
 V, aich is ineradicable in some men, is turned 
 now into a lietter channel. He is devoting 
 himself to all sorts of farming experiments 
 on his new estates. He'll probably lose 
 money, but that doesn't signify. The land 
 and the tenants will both benefit ; and he 
 will buy his experience." 
 
 '• He is very handsome ; but he is not 
 what is called ' a lady's man,' I see. He 
 talked very little to any one last night. Is 
 he a woman-hater V " 
 
 " Honestly speaking, I am afraid he is 
 rather inclined to underrate women. He 
 has never been in love, you see. Whenever 
 he is, it will be a serious matter." 
 
 " Lady Castle comes to-day, I hear. Who 
 knows, perhaps he will succumb to her ? " 
 
 I laughed aloud. 
 
 " You little know Tnfron. To begin with, 
 he knows her ; and then she is the last 
 person to attract him. By the by, have 
 you heard that Lady Ancastar is trying to 
 cet up some tableaux for to-night, or to- 
 morrow .' 
 
 " The duchess spoke of it just now ; but 
 they are put off till later in the week. 
 There is not time to get them up to-night ; 
 and to-morrow is the ball." 
 
 •• And the duchess makes no objec- 
 tion ? " 
 
 *• On the contrary. Tableaux were the 
 great fashion in her day ; and she considers 
 them a comme-il-f aut -dmuxment, — better 
 than steeple-chasing over the castle, as half 
 her guests did last night." 
 
 " That is a hit at me ; but what could I 
 do when Lady Ancastar proposed it ? 1 
 should have seemed a horrid prig if I had 
 refused." 
 
 " I don't blame you." 
 
 " You look as if you did. Of course one 
 must do what the rest do in such a case." 
 
 " Excuse rac, I don't think that. I like 
 people who are indepiMidciit," — here slie 
 let go my hand, and tried to get on alone, 
 
 — '* who are not guided entirely by others, 
 who choose their own path for tliemselves, 
 and pursue it, regardless of — Ah ! " 
 
 She uttered a sharp cry, as her feet went 
 from under her ; and, before I could save 
 her, she was lying doubled up upon the 
 ice. 
 
 " That comes of being too independent," 
 r said, laughing. " But you are not hurt, 
 I hope?" 
 
 She did not attempt to ri^e. 
 
 '• I am afraid I have sprained my ankle 
 
 — it gives me such pain." 
 
 " Let me take off your skates, then, at 
 once. Don't move ; " and I knelt down be- 
 side her on the ice, and began unbuckling 
 the straps round her pretty feet. 
 
 " It was very foolish of me," she sighed, 
 with a faint smile, " and I am properly pun- 
 ished. I was so conceited, I thought I 
 could get on without you." 
 
 •' I should rather say you were so plucky, 
 you tried to carry your theories into prac- 
 tice, which isn't always to be done." 
 
 " I have to do it alw.iys. There is small 
 merit in that. I am used to walk my own 
 road, you know, which makes one dread to 
 become dependent upon any one — in anv 
 way." 
 
 '• Well, pride must have a fall," I replied, 
 willing to appear to ignore the application 
 of her words ; " and you'll have to lean 
 much more heavily on me now, in order tu 
 walk at all, I am ali^aid. Don't atteinf)t to 
 stand on that foot : let me lift you up." 
 
 '• She was very light. I put my arm 
 round her waist, and raised her ; but she 
 was obliged to cling to my shoulder, for as 
 soon as her foot touched the ground, she 
 found it impossible to rest her weight upon 
 it. I saw by her face that she was in pain. 
 She became very pale, and leant her head 
 back upon my arm for a moment. 
 
 " Shall I put you down on the ice again, 
 while I go off for a chair ? 1 can push ) ou 
 along in one to the bank." 
 
 " No, no. — don't leave me. In a min- 
 ute or two I shall be able to limp along. 
 It was only the first moment of standing. 
 It is nothing." 
 
 I heard the sound of voices near us, and 
 looked up. About fifty yards off, on the 
 edge of the lake, four ladies were walking; 
 they were not of the castle party ; their 
 dress and general outline I did not recog- 
 nize ; but their faces, tightly veiled from 
 the sharp north wind, it was impossible to 
 see. One was tall and very slight : I just 
 saw so much in the hasty glance I gave 
 them. They were walking slowly along, 
 and their faces were turned in our direc-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 101 
 
 tion. It occurred to me that they had. per- 
 haps, driven here, and that I might ask 
 them to allow their carriatre to convey 
 Madame d'Arnheim to the castle ; but Just 
 as tliis idea struck me, and I was thinkini^j 
 how I could carry it into execution, Tuf- 
 ton came skating round the little point 
 of land which concealed us from the greater 
 part of the lake, and I called to him. After 
 explaiuin;^ the state of the case, I begged 
 him to see if he could procure some con- 
 veyance for ]Madame d'Arnheim, who was 
 quite imfit to walk as far as the castle. He 
 skated away, and I watched him approach 
 the three ladies, ami take otfhis hat. Then 
 one of them held out iier hand ; there was 
 an evident recognition between her and 
 Arthur. 
 
 '* It is ]\Irs. Hawksley," he said, on his 
 return to us. " She has driven over from 
 her place near this, and will desire her car- 
 riage to drive to that corner, where the 
 road comes close to the lake. You can 
 walk so far, I hope V " 
 
 "Yes," she said faintly, '-I can walk so 
 for." 
 
 " A surgeon should see your ankle." 
 
 " Yes,""l returned quickly. "I will tell 
 D'Arnheim. I will send for one, if you will 
 remain here, Arthur." 
 
 " No, no, — neither Carl nor the surgeon, 
 please ; one is as unnecessary as the other. 
 Arnica and cold water is all I want. Karl 
 would vote it a dreadful bore. Husbands do 
 not care about their wives' sprained ankles." 
 
 " Perhaps that depends on the ankles," 
 said Tufron, ti-ying to treat the remark as 
 mere badinacje ; '' in which case Count 
 d'Arnheim cannot be indifferent." 
 
 " Men never care for what belongs to 
 them. If it is anybody ehe's, — yes, there 
 is interest enough, and to spare." 
 
 (We had been watching D'Arnheim and 
 Mrs. Ilartman Wild flying over the ice to- 
 gether for the last hour.) 
 
 " You are hard on the institution of mat- 
 rimony," said Arthur, a little dryly, as, 
 with the help of our two arms, she limped 
 to the bank. 
 
 " Not on the institution, — ach, no ! " 
 she sighed. " What in this world can com- 
 pare with the union of two souls in perfect 
 love ? But it is so rare." 
 
 We had now reached the spot where the 
 barouche was waiting. The owner was 
 not there. After lielping jMadame d'Arn- 
 lieira into the carriage, Arthur returned to 
 the skaters, and I accomj)anicd my poor 
 friend to the house, that I might give her 
 my arm across the hall and u[) the great 
 stairs. On our load we passed the Ladies 
 Pynsent and Walter Selden, who stared 
 W(jnderingly into the carriage. I saw the 
 latter smile. 
 
 I wasrettirning to the ice, when the gong 
 for luncheon sounded, and I saw most of 
 the party coming up the terraces. The 
 ground here is steep, and to avoid a long 
 flight of steps, beneath the lower terrace, 
 broad pathways lead, to right and left, by 
 a gradual descent, to the lake. I leant 
 over the balustrade, half concealed by a 
 Cuba-laurel, clipped orange tree fashion ; 
 so that, unless the groups ascending the 
 slope immediately beneath me were minded 
 to glance up, they were unaware of my 
 proximity, while every word they uttered 
 reached me distinctly, upon tjhe frosty air. 
 
 I recognized the duchess's sharp tones 
 even before I saw her. 
 
 " Xo lady in my day ever skated, and I 
 think it a most unbecoming exhibition." 
 
 " Particularly in a married woman of her 
 age," struck in Ladv Louisa Pvnsent. 
 
 " I must say it serves her right," contin- 
 ued Her Grace severely. 
 
 '' Oh ! I don't think she is much hurt" 
 sneered the aciil spinster. " We met them 
 driving to the ca>tle just now, looking very 
 .comfortable, — and I hear she was actually 
 lying in his arms upon the ice', — too 
 shocking, — really ! " 
 
 ''In his arms? Impossible! So quiet, 
 so well-conducted as she always seems ! " 
 
 " I don't know about well-conducted. 
 Did you see the way she was going on with 
 him last night ? And last season they say 
 she went on in a very odd way with this 
 boy. He was there every day of his life. 
 The husband encourages it, I am told, that 
 he may amuse himself in his own way ! " 
 
 The speakers passed on, and I lost the 
 duchess's rejoinder. I stood petrified. 
 Poor innocent Madame d'Arnheim to be so 
 traduced! Words cannot paint my rage, 
 ^ly impulse was to face this hag, and charge 
 her with uttering the basest calumnies. 
 Fortunately my better sense came to my 
 aid. What could I say V The actual /aci 
 was not to be denied ; Madame d'Arnheim 
 in her faintness had been supported by me, 
 and her head had lain upon my shoulder; 
 it was the tone in which Lady Louisa had 
 spoken which was so injurious to my friend ; 
 and would not my championship do her 
 more harm than good ? It was her hus- 
 band's pi-ovince to defend her ; but she 
 might wait long enough for that. 
 
 While debating how I shoidd act under 
 the circumstances, I heard two men's 
 voices, which I recognized as Selden's and 
 Tufton's. They were coming up the lower 
 slope, in animated discussion. 
 
 "I tell you it is all nonsense," said Ar- 
 thur. 
 
 " Hm ! ' Still waters run deep,' " sneered 
 his cousin. 
 
 " But the waters in this case are any
 
 102 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 tliiivj l>ut still. She is a pushing, si-nti- 
 incntal (jerman, — you don't understand 
 the sort of" woman." 
 
 " Yon must he greener than I take you 
 to lie, Arthur, if you believe all tliis is Pla- 
 tonic." 
 
 •' 1 am any thinix hut 'screen ' aV)out wo- 
 men. Ferha])s 1 tiiink too ill of them <j;en- 
 erally. — hut I don't believe there is any 
 harm in this one. I don't care i'or those 
 ' femmes incomprises ' myself; but Pen has 
 conceived a boy's enthusiastic friendship tor 
 a^ woman nmcli older than himself and has 
 always been boriufjj me to know her. There 
 is nothing more in it than this, I am cer- 
 tain." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't blame her. With such 
 a husband as d'Arnheim, I think she is 
 quite ri'j,ht, — only she nii'^ht have found 
 somethinsx better than that youni; jacka- 
 napes. She has a deuced good foot and 
 ankle!" 
 
 I was furious. It was too bad ! It had 
 never occurred to me that my intimacy 
 with Madame d'Arnheim could be so mis- 
 construed. She was so unlike the women 
 of wiiom I heard such things said every 
 day, that it seemed hard she should not be 
 allowed one friend, — so much her junior 
 that she could lecture him with all a moth- 
 er's freedom, — -ixhen she bore her wrongs 
 and sorrows with such uncomplaining dig- 
 nity ! It was shameful! — it was incon- 
 ceivable ! I bo:led over with indignation, 
 and stamped about the garden for half 
 an hour, more perplexed than ever what to 
 do. 
 
 Should I speak openly to D'Arnheim him- 
 self ? No : I knew too well the cold sneer 
 wiih whii.-h he wouLl receive my communi- 
 cation, and assure me that he was not in 
 the least jealous. Let the world talk — 
 what did it matter? It would talk about 
 something; and he had perfect confidence 
 in ine. There was no use in looking for 
 hel|) in that direction. 
 
 I would consult Arthur. Though he did 
 not appreciate Madame d'Arnheim as she 
 deserve!, he was just and clear-sighted, as 
 regarded her, and showed always the in- 
 terest of an elder brother in me. 
 
 Luncheon was nearly over when I enter- 
 ed the dining-room. I slipped into a chair 
 beside Lady Ancastar. 'The conversation 
 was apparently about some new beauty, 
 whose name 1 did not catch : and mv fair 
 neighbor remarked that " she seemed to 
 have a scraggy figure ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " said her lord, with his mouth 
 full, *' if you were diplomatic, Car, you'd 
 swear she was the loveliest creature you 
 ever beheld. Freshness, you see, is every 
 thing. The girl's got the dew of the morn- 
 intr oo her still." 
 
 "Jove!" cried Selden, "how poetical! 
 Ancastar wants to play the part of the 
 sun." 
 
 " He has my full liberty," said La<ly An- 
 castar, with a laugh. " If Miss Hawks- 
 ley " — 
 
 " SIk; is not Miss Hawksley. That 
 dreadful woman never gave birth to this 
 divinity. I forget the name Mrs. Hawks- 
 ley told me, but the girl is to come out to- 
 morrow night ; and, if all you fellows don't 
 fall dep)erately in love, you are made of 
 ice!" 
 
 " What a pity you are not free ! " tittered 
 his wife. 
 
 " Well," lie replied demurely, while he 
 peeled an apple, "as, unfortunately, I am 
 not, I did llie next best thing for her I 
 could, in promising IMrs. Hawksley to in- 
 troduce a friend of mine, — a Manchester 
 man, worth a couple of millions. What do 
 you think she had the conscience to say ? 
 — that she ' wanted blorjd ' ! Sanguinarv 
 idiot ! " 
 
 " From what I could see of her face 
 through a thick Veil," said Arthur to Lady 
 Ancjistar, " she looked to me ratlier like 
 the girl in Millais' ' Huguenot.' Could 
 you not get up that among your ta- 
 bleaux?"' 
 
 " And how abmit the man ? That is the 
 difhculty. The girl's mammal should think 
 would object." 
 
 " Oh ! you had better get Penruddocke 
 to do it," saiil her incorriu^ible lord ; " Ppu- 
 ruddocke and Madame d'Arnheim. They 
 were rehearsing the attitude just now, — 
 they'll do it to perf(2Ction." 
 
 " Call that rehearsal ? What must p<.'r- 
 formance be ! " said Selden, not so low but 
 tliat I cau2;ht the words. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," I blun- 
 dered out, with flaming cheeks, " about 
 rehearsing attitudes. I — I — helped Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim up, and " — 
 
 " Never mind them, Mr. Penruddocke," 
 giggled Lady Ancastar : " it was Xkiry 
 graceful, — very graceful indeed ! " 
 
 " Penruddocke is no Huguenot, but 
 Catholic in his devotion to the lair sex." in- 
 terposed Arthur readily, seeing that I 
 needed a friend to the rescue ; " and I ad- 
 mire him for it, having so little chivalry in 
 my own composition." 
 
 " No one can say / am not chivalrous," 
 said Ancastar. " I am Koiny; in tor the 
 ' Ri'ihts of Women ' and ' Female Suffrage.' 
 I hope when I get upon my legs in the 
 House, the image of my wife with a vote 
 won't rise up and choke me ! " 
 
 " I am sure, if 1 were your wife, / should 
 choke you. Lord Ancastar," cried Mrs. 
 Ilartman Wild ; and then there was a 
 "eneral rise from the table.
 
 PENEDDDOCKE. 
 
 103 
 
 I took Arthur's arm, and drew hiiu away. 
 In a corner of the library I poured out my 
 tale of indignation, and asked him what 
 I should do. Should I go to the duclu^ss ? 
 
 " Certainly not," he replied. " What 
 could you say ? It would be making your- 
 self ridiculous, and placing Madame d'Arn- 
 h^im in a false position. You ought to 
 know something of the world, my dear 
 Fen, by this time. If you are much with 
 any woman, it will talk, — you must know 
 that." 
 
 " Well, I certainly am not going to let it 
 interfere with my friendship with Madame 
 d'Arnheim," said I hotly. 
 
 " By all means ; only don't complain, in 
 that case, of its gossip." 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim was not well enough 
 to appear at dinner. The count was de- 
 voted to Mrs. Hartman Wild all the even- 
 ing ; but, as I heard Lady Louisa Pynsent 
 observe, " it is his way, you know, — he is 
 alwnys like that, — it means nothing." 
 This was the worlil's justice! But, unh'ss 
 I was much mistaken, the way in which 
 D'Arnheim's eyes followed the handsome 
 Creole's every movement, indicated more 
 than a passing atti'action. 
 
 Lord and Lady Castle and Mrs. Chaf- 
 finch arrived that evening. Laily Castle 
 looked ill ; but I had no conversation with 
 her. She seemed on the most affectionate 
 terms with her husband. CouM it be that 
 she had " turned over a new leaf? " 1 was 
 undeceived by Tufton. 
 
 '• Walter Selden says that Lady Castle 
 and Benevento have had another row, — 
 worse than ever this time, and that she has 
 behaved very badly. That is his version 
 of it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 After breakfast, the next day, the frost 
 turned to rain. It came down in that deli- 
 cate, noiseless way which indicates continu- 
 ance all day. Some men went out shooting, 
 nevert heless ; others, with D'Arnheim, Sel- 
 den, Tufton, and myself, repaired to the 
 billiard-room, 
 
 A match between D'Arnheim and Selden 
 was going on. The betting had been pretty 
 even at first, for both were admirable 
 players ; but, after a few strokes, it was 
 clear that the German was not " in good 
 form " this morning. 
 
 " Five to four on Selden." 
 
 A knot of ladies, among whom was INIa- 
 dame d"Arnheim, entered the room at this 
 inonient. They were come to relieve the 
 tedium of the day by watching the play. 
 1 had not seen my Iriend since the previous 
 
 morning : she leant upon a stick, but did 
 not seem very lame. I joined her, and 
 found a seat near her on tlie settee, Mrs, 
 Ilartman Wild was next to her, and on the 
 other side of me sat the incorrigible Mrs, 
 Chaffinch, 
 
 " It is but fair that I should have my re- 
 venge," said Selden, as he glanced at the 
 score, after two clever strokes. " You re- 
 member how you licked me into fits that 
 last time at Richmond," 
 
 " And he'll do it again, now that the 
 ladies have come in, if you don't look sharp, 
 Selden," said old Jack Ilorton. " D'Arn- 
 heim requires the eyes of beauty to inspire 
 him, you know," 
 
 " Yes, — and tliey always distract me, 
 confound it ! which shows how much more 
 I really care for them than he does," 
 
 " That is another way of saying that our 
 room is better than our company ! " said 
 Mrs. Chaffinch, 
 
 " Pray, whose were ' the eyes of beauty ' 
 that shone on you both at Richmond ? " 
 asked Mrs. Hartman Wild, with a laugh. 
 
 " The barmaid's, I suppose," said D'Arn- 
 heim quickly. He had just missed his 
 stroke, and turned away, 
 
 " I d<jn't believe it ! I am sure it was 
 ' Nine-Pins,' or some lovely creature of 
 that sort. Now, be honest, wasn't it, Sir 
 Walter ? " 
 
 " ' Je u'ose pas, pour un empire, vous la 
 nommer ! ' " hummed Selden, lookin.;; up at 
 the lady, after making a carrom, with an 
 amused twinkle in his eye. " You were 
 not in town, Mrs. Wild, or we'd have asked 
 you to join our Richmond party ; but it 
 was in October, and you wei'e in Scot- 
 land." 
 
 D'Arnheim became scarlet. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Selden, — it was 
 in July," 
 
 I saw that he was trying to catch Selden's 
 eye, whose back was now towards us. Ap- 
 parently he faileil ; for our antagonist per- 
 sisted obstinately, as he would certainly 
 not have done had he known all that -de- 
 pended on his silence. 
 
 " Wrong, my dear fellow. I happen to 
 remember, for it was my birthday, — 7th 
 October." 
 
 D'Arnheim played ileliberately ; but his 
 hand shook, and he missed his stroke. He 
 then walked roiuid the table, ostensibly to 
 chalk his cue; but he brushed very close 
 to Selden, 
 
 " 1 was in Hungary in October ; so I as- 
 sure you, you are mistaken." 
 
 Selden paused a moment, 
 
 " Ah 1 well — yes — perhaps so. It may 
 have been in July. It was Alverstoke, I 
 remember now, I played with in Octo- 
 ber."
 
 104 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " Delightful ! " screamed Mrs. Chaffinch. 
 " Xo\v, I ciill that actiiTj; really like a 
 fiienil ! Uiitbrtunately, I\Ir. Alverstoke 
 was with us in tin; IIij;hlan(ls in October." 
 
 " Certainly, D'Arnheini, I could swear I 
 saw you in London in October," said An- 
 castar, who never lost the ojiportunity of 
 addin;:; to any one's discomtbrt, from his 
 wife downwards, and did so as though 
 it were a matter of principle. "Yes, I am 
 positive I j)assed you twice in a hansom." 
 
 " Ah ! likenesses are very deceptive. 
 You are really mistaken, — I was in Ger- 
 many." 
 
 " D'Arnheini has a double," said Selden. 
 " I have ol'tcn met him, and taken him at 
 first sight for our friend here." 
 
 Mrs. Chaffinch shouted with laughter. 
 
 " Even to the point of playing billiards 
 ■wiih him. How very ready of you. Sir 
 Walter, to come to the count's rescue in 
 that way ! He was drowning, he was sink- 
 ing rapidly, when you held out that hand. 
 13ravo ! Isn't it fun, dear Madame d'Arn- 
 heim, to see men floundering in this 
 way ? We manage our prevarications so 
 much better." 
 
 My poor iriend's face had become white ; 
 but she replied with perfect calmness, — 
 
 " We did not return from Germany till 
 November, so Lord Ancastar must be mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " And are you sure you never lost sight 
 of him, my dear? Ah! well, we won't 
 press the point ; but we have a right to 
 ask who the lady was, haven't we Mrs. 
 Wild? — the lady who presided, like Mi- 
 nerva, over these games in July ? Have 
 you confounded her, as well as the date, Sir 
 Walter ? " 
 
 " I did confound hc>r at the time ; for she 
 made me lose the game by chattering to 
 me." 
 
 " The wretch ! That is meant for me. 
 I am shut up. I shall not open my lips 
 again." 
 
 " And they have never told us who it 
 was ! " pouted the Creole beauty. " That 
 is the way of getting out of it." 
 
 " There is nothin<i; ' to sret out of,' " 
 laughed D'Arnheini, who had regained his 
 composure. " It was Mrs. Ward, the 
 American. I have' not seen lier since that 
 day." 
 
 '• Ha, ha ! I should be surprised if you 
 Lad,'' said Mrs. Chaffinch. " This is de- 
 lightful ! Why, the Wards left England 
 in May. Better luck to you the next time 
 you invent, count ! " 
 
 " You see how little impression the lady 
 made dTl either of us," said Selden, " that 
 we have really forgotten who it was. Now, 
 had it been you, or Mrs. Hartman Wild," — 
 
 " Ob ! connu, mon cher, that is too old a 
 
 story, — a very lame way of getting out of 
 a scrape." 
 
 " Of course, every compliment to you, 
 Mrs. Chaffinch, ifs an old story ; but you 
 wouldn't deprive a ftillow of such an inno- 
 cent irratification ? " 
 
 " When lie has so few ! What wretches 
 men are, Madame d'Arnheim ! No trust- 
 ing one of them ! If it wasn't for our 
 little revenges, life would be unendurable, 
 wouldn't it? " 
 
 But Madame d'Arnheim had reached 
 the door ; and, as her back was turned to 
 Mrs. Chaffinch, she apparently thought it 
 unnecessaiy to reply. I sprang forward 
 to open the door ; and then, catching sight 
 of her face, I offered her my arm, for I 
 really was afraid she would faint. 
 
 As the door closed behind ns, she leant 
 back against the wall of the corridor, and 
 jiressed both her hands to her eyes. An 
 inward sob convulsed her frame, and ihe 
 long-controlled passion found a momentary 
 vent in words : — 
 
 "Blind! blind! AcJi ! da lieher Golt! 
 — treachery and falsehood ! — nothing but 
 treachery and falsehood ! How much long- 
 er can it last ? " 
 
 She forgot that I was beside her ; she 
 forgot every thing, until a door opening 
 at the farther end of the gallery roused 
 her. She withdrew her quivering hands 
 from her face, took my arm, and, by a 
 great effiDrt, dragged herself along ; but 
 it was hardly possible that her agitation 
 should escape notice. Her whole frame 
 shook, the burning tears still trembled on 
 her eyelids; and, to my disgust, I saw i^, 
 was Lady Louisa Pynsent who approached. 
 She stopped us, ostensibly to m:d<e a chilly 
 infjuiry for the countess's sprained ankle, — 
 in i-eality, as I felt sure, for the purpose of 
 prying into my poor friend's face. Madame 
 d'Arnheim murmured that she did not feel 
 well, and was going to her room. At the 
 top of the stairs she dropped my arm with 
 a little silent nod, and limped on alone. 1 
 saw her no more till the evening. 
 
 Nor, strange to say, did I see Lady 
 Castle, who appeared neither at breakfast 
 nor luncheon ; until, late in the afternoon, 
 when the rain cleared off, I beheld her, to 
 my surprise, walking arm-in-arm with her 
 husband on the terrace. Of course I took 
 care not to interrupt the tcte-a-tele. The 
 wife's way of gazing up into her pale com- 
 panion's fice seemed to indicate perfect 
 confidence and well-ordered affections. 
 He had rather a moth-eaten look, — with 
 his spectacles and stooping shoulders, he 
 might have passed for a kindly f)edagogue, 
 and she (at a little distance), for his youu"- 
 and favored pupil. 
 
 What a strange couple !
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 There are occasions when all the wo- 
 men of one's acquaintance, bv some coinci- 
 dence, shine their very brightest ; and the 
 ball at Kendal Castle was one of those rare 
 occafions, as I well remembi-r. Lady Cas- 
 tle, to my thinking, had never looked so 
 well. The color she wore became her ; 
 her face, which was apt to be too much 
 flushed, was pale ; the diamond net which 
 held her hair revealed the lovely shape 
 of her head, which I used to see concealed 
 undi'T some vast pyramid oi friset.tes and 
 flowers. Madame d'Arnheim, too, whom I 
 sometimes accused of despising personal 
 appearance too much, had ibr once taken 
 evident pains with hers. Why, on this 
 particular night, it puzzled me at the time 
 to account for. Perhaps I could do so bet- 
 ter now ; but it is sufficient to remember 
 that it was written in the book of fate 
 that these two women should appear to 
 unusual advantage on this cccasion. Mad- 
 aiiie d'Arnheim wore, for the first time, cer- 
 tain old Bohemian jewels of rare value, 
 lately be(^ueathed to her. The massive 
 firclet for the head and waist, the throat- 
 collar and pendants, somewhat barbaric as 
 they were, distinguished their wearer more 
 eti'ectively than all the contents of Hunt 
 and Ruskell's could have done. The long 
 •lines of her graceful figure were seen to 
 the utmost advantage in some dark flowing 
 drapery, which contrasted with all the bril- 
 liant-tinted gossamers of the ball-room. 
 She sat the whole night in a deep bay- 
 window, where the light was softened by 
 palms and other exotics, against which the 
 whiteness of her shoulders, and her lumi- 
 nous iiiir hair, told well — but I am getting; 
 on too fast. 
 
 My dinner was dull enough. I took in 
 one of the Tenbv girls, and tried to get 
 something out of her ; but it was updiill 
 work, though scarcely less fatiguing than 
 the jolting rattle of the cabinet minister's 
 wife on my other side, which might, in dis- 
 tinction, be designated as a rapid descent, 
 from which there was no pulling up into 
 the dismal swamps of bahlerdash. Lord 
 Castle sat next but one to me. I had 
 never s[)ok(m to him before, but when we 
 " closed up " after dinner, we talked ; and 
 I found, rather to my surprise, how agree- 
 able a man he was. He looked physically 
 weak — was he morally so V I could 
 hardly doubt it, knowing all I did ; yet the 
 upper part of the face was intellectual, and, 
 though the lines of the mouth were j)liant, 
 they were not undecided. His voice and 
 manner were gentle — a little too gentle, 
 perhaps, to jjlease me ; but what he said 
 
 showed him to be a man of refimnl taste, 
 of considerai)le cultivation, and with an 
 unusual felicity in expressing his ideas. 
 He said his health and inclination alike 
 ilisposed him to a quiet country life, but 
 added that of course he could not impose 
 this on Lady Castle. She naturally ])re- 
 f'erred London, and he was very glad she 
 should amuse herself there during a certain 
 number of months. All that be bargained 
 for was not to be obliged to go too. This 
 kind of thing — the staying out in coun- 
 try-houses — was quite out of his line ; but 
 Lady Castle had persuaded him to break 
 through his rule for once, and to accom- 
 pany her. As to the ball, he certainly 
 could not stand that — he should go to bed. 
 One thing he said struck me much. I re- 
 marked that a country life must be a 
 change for Lady Castle — did she visit a 
 great deal ? 
 
 " Oh, no ! " he replied, with a smile, 
 " very little ; and, with the exception of 
 one or two of her friends occasionallv, we 
 see but few people at home. I dare say 
 you, like many others, fancy that my wife 
 is nothing but a fine London lady, who 
 only cares for dissipation ? You should 
 see her in the village, with her school and 
 her poor people. She is the most domes- 
 tic creature possilile when we are alone." 
 
 I stared, — inwardly, that is to say. I 
 was provoked with the man ; and yet I 
 could not help feeling both a pity and a 
 liking for him. 
 
 The carriages had begun to set down 
 some of the company before we left the 
 dining-room. I was surprised to see Tuf- 
 ton, generally so indifferent on such occa- 
 sions, evince an interest in the arrivals. 
 He posted himself near the door of the ball- 
 room, where he could see and hear each 
 person announced who entered, and he 
 wanted me to take up a similar position ; 
 but I was more anxious to seek out Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim, with whom I had not ex- 
 changed a word since the morning. I 
 looked round the saloon, but could not see 
 her, and was moving on to the other recep- 
 tion-rooms, when Lady Castle stopjied me. 
 " I want to speak to you, Mr. Penrud- 
 docke. Will you take a turn with me be- 
 fore the rooms (ret crowded '.■' " 
 
 Something in her manner struck me as 
 peculiar. I gave her my arm, and we 
 walked on. She began at once, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 '•Mr. Penruddocke, I am going to do a 
 very odd thing. I don't know what 3-ou 
 will think of me." 
 
 She stopped ; and, as I was at a loss what 
 to say, I remained silent. She continued. 
 " I want your advice. I am in the most 
 painful position. I feel that 1 can trust
 
 106 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 you, anil you are the only man here 1 would 
 trust. Youii'j; as }ou are, I have implicit 
 confitlenee in you." 
 
 "I am miieh flattered by your gon<l opin- 
 ion," 1 blurted out, wondering what was 
 cominy;. 
 
 '• Yes, you are a man of honor, and you 
 are prmUmt; and, above all, you know what 
 love is. Your conduct iu your own ailairs 
 shows that you have true delicacy of feelin;r 
 for a certain person. I know all ab(jut it." 
 
 " Upon my lite, it's more than I do ! I 
 haven't an idea what you mean. I have 
 no" — 
 
 " Oh ! of course you will deny every 
 thiu'j. I never expected you to make a 
 conjidante of me, — why should you ? Be- 
 sides, you would never talk of this to any 
 one, I am sure. It is my own affairs I 
 want to speak of. I am in a most difficult 
 position ; and there is no one here I would 
 so soon ask an opinion of as yourself. As 
 to a woman, I would never trust one." 
 
 I said bluntly, — 
 
 " There is certainly one woman here — 
 perhaps several — who would give you bet- 
 ter advice than I can, Lady Castle I have 
 but little knowledge of the world at pres- 
 ent; and though I hope your confidence is 
 not ill-placed, it seems to be tbunded on 
 something or other which exists only in 
 your imagination. I do know what love is, 
 but I assure you, solemnly, there is no 
 secret, no mystery in it. VV^hat 1 feel all 
 the world may know." 
 
 She smiled, and nodded her head. 
 
 " Your denial is useless. I know much 
 more than you think ; but let that pass. 
 To come to myself — Castle tells me just 
 now he has made your acquaintance, and 
 likes you. I am so glad. If you knew 
 how good he is ! So much too good for 
 such a wretch as I am ! Unfortunately he 
 does not know what love is ; he never did. 
 Ho is very fond of me in his own way, 
 and lu! has the most awfully blind trust in 
 me, that's the worst of it. If he was 
 jealous, I should not have such self-re- 
 proach ; but, you see — wait, let me tell 
 you my history in a few words, that you 
 may better understand me. Let us sit 
 down here. I was married when I was 
 seventeen, without knowing any thing of 
 the world. I had a dream of what love 
 was to be, — as all girls have, — and I sup- 
 posed it would come after marriage ; but 
 the fact is, we were neither of us in love, 
 as I soon found out. My husband was 
 not the sort of person I ought to have 
 married. Some women, I dare say, would 
 have asked for nothing more than he had 
 to give ; but I required a very different 
 man, — one who would have ruled me. 
 even had it been severely, but to whom I 
 
 could have felt I was necessary, part of" 
 his existence. It was just the reverse. 
 Castle has always been too indulgent, too 
 anxious that I should do exactly as I like ; 
 but I gradually got to feel that I was not 
 the least necessary to his life, and I felt a 
 want in mine. You can guess the conse- 
 cpience ? I went into the world, and had 
 a great deal of nonsense talked to me. At 
 first I cared for no one, and only went out 
 pour me dis'rnire. At last, I suppose I 
 ought to say utifirrtunatebj, I met the no- 
 blest and truest man I have ever known, 
 one who would have sacrificed every thing 
 to me if I had allowed him. He remained 
 faithful to me six years, and then it was / 
 who gave him up. His family wished him 
 to marry his cousin, a charming girl, of 
 large fortune, who was in love with him. 
 I resolved not to stand in the way. Well, 
 since that time, though I have often been 
 culpably foolish, I admit, I have never 
 really cared for any one^ until in an evil 
 hour I met Cesare Benevento. From the 
 first moment I saw him, I felt the man's 
 power, and he knew it. He pretended to 
 be devoted to me ; and, like a fool, I be- 
 lieved him. Then began a terrible time 
 for me : I am ashamed to tell you how I 
 eared for this wretch, in spite of all the 
 proofs I gradually had of his heartless and 
 mercenary nature. It was an infatuation : 
 I can't explain it in any other way. We 
 often had quarrels : I often tried to free 
 myself from a chain which I felt to be de- 
 grading; but it was useless. He pretended 
 that he had given up his profession, and 
 sacrificed his life to me ; and this he maile 
 the jilea for draining me of every farthing 
 I could give him. If I told him I was 
 over head and ears in debt, and really had 
 not wherewith to supply his reckless ex- 
 travagance, he made a scene, declared he 
 would shoot himself, that his death would 
 be at my door, and so on ; but my spirit 
 latterly was roused, when I learnt that 
 what he got from me he either (ram'jled 
 away, or spent upon other women. And 
 now he has taken a new line. He has 
 kept all my letters, it seems, since I first 
 knew him, three years ago, and he threat- 
 ens to forward them to Castle, if I don't 
 send him money ! " 
 
 " The infernal blackguard ! " I burst out ; 
 "but it is impossible he could do such a 
 thing. Of course, it is only an idle thn»at, 
 none the less cowardly for that. What 
 could he gain by carrying it into execu- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " This : he thinks he would extract the 
 price of those letters, and of his silence, 
 from Castle ; and he is right. It would 
 probably kill my poor husband, this reve- 
 lation ; but he would do any thing to save
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 107 
 
 niv roputation, though at the same tune 
 (f know him well), he would never see me 
 a^nin if he lived for years. You are sur- 
 prised, you think, perhaps, so careless a 
 husband would not mind much ? but you 
 are mistaken. He has the highest sense 
 of truth and honor. He trusts me uupli- 
 citly ; if he once found he had been de- 
 ceived, it would be all over between us. 
 What on earth am I to do ? Unless I sell 
 uiy jewels, 1 have no means of raising 
 
 money to send him; and besides, a few 
 months hence, it would bo the same story 
 over again. Do advise me ! Do tell me 
 what i ought to do, for I am really half 
 dead with fright and anxiety 1 I get one of 
 this wretch's letters every two or three 
 days, and each one is more peremptory 
 than the last." 
 
 " You have not seen him then, late 
 ly ? " 
 
 " Not since October." 
 Then I remained silent for some min- 
 utes, considering what I should say. We 
 had seated ourselves in one of the empty 
 rooms; and of the few people who had 
 strolled in, no one had interrupted our 
 te'e-a-lele. I happened, in this pause, to 
 turn my head towards the door, and saw 
 two ladies retreating. The first was al- 
 ready passin'j; out of siy;ht ; in the second 
 I reco'^nized Mrs. Hawksley. 
 
 " It seems to me," I said, at last, " that 
 there are two courses open to you, but one 
 of them I doui)t your adopting." 
 '^ What is it?" 
 
 "To be beforehand with this scoundrel, 
 and make a clean breast of every thing 
 to your husband." 
 
 " Impossible 1 " she replied instantly — 
 "quite impossible. I would sooner die 
 first ! Poor, dear Castle ! Any thing rath- 
 er than that." 
 
 " riie other course is this. Write to 
 the fellow tor the last time, saying that, 
 after the use he proposes making of your 
 letters, you must decline all further corre- 
 spondence, and that ids letters will be 
 returned unopened ; that you have placed 
 the alfiur in the hands of a friend, who 
 vill comnmnicate personally with him in 
 the course of a few weeks, and then you 
 must ajjpoint some man in whom you have 
 conlidence to negotiate this matter for 
 you." 
 
 " But how ? What can he do? " 
 "1 think the fellow may be intinudated 
 into giving up your letters, when he has a 
 man to deal with, who tells him plainly 
 that he'll kick him out of society if he 
 doesn't instantly yield them up." 
 She shook her head, with a sigh. 
 
 " There is no one I could ask." 
 
 "Why not Sir Walter Selden ? He 
 knows Benevento better than anv one, 
 and " — 
 
 " Oh ! I hate that man. I would not 
 trust him for the world." 
 
 "I cannot say I like him; but he is a 
 thorough man of the world; knows exactly 
 what ought to be done under such circum- 
 stances. I fancy he could, and would, 
 force this scoundrel into giving up your 
 letters." 
 
 " Oh ! I couldn't speak to him on the 
 subject. I know he has spoken of me to 
 Cesare in terms any woman would resent. 
 He is the last man I would ask to be my 
 friend in this affair." 
 
 •' And is there no other man of standing 
 in society to whom you can apply ? You, 
 who are surrounded by friends and admir- 
 ers ! What an idea you must have of the 
 world ! " 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. 
 " There are women who have a right to 
 look for chivalrous devotion. I suppose I 
 have none. There is not one of these men 
 iiere who, if I applied to him for help, would 
 not fancy that — that I was in love with 
 him, in short ! " 
 
 " Well," I said with energy, " I'm young 
 and inexperienced, and not the sort of man 
 best suited to this embassy in many ways ; 
 but if you choose to trust me. Lady Castle, 
 I'll undertake it." 
 
 " Dear buy ! " she exclaimed, as she 
 pressed my hand, and wiped away her tears, 
 " you are worth all of them put together ; 
 but I will not drag you into this mire for 
 me, and nothing was further from my 
 thoughts when I asked your advice. In- 
 deed, what you suggest never occurred to 
 me. I will try and think of some one " — 
 and she stopped. 
 
 " Remember, if you find no one better, 
 I'll do it. He and I know one another. 
 Though I f;iiled to convict him of cheating, 
 when we had that row, he knows I'm a 
 rough customer, and perhaps will mind me 
 a little more than most fellows of my stand- 
 ing." 
 
 " Lady Castle 1 " cried young Ashridge, 
 running in at this moment, " you promised 
 me the first quadrille, and it is begun I 
 don't know how long ! " 
 
 '• Has it V " 
 
 She rose slowly, looked at herself in the 
 pier-glass opposite, and arranged her tuck- 
 er, took the eager boy's arm, and, while she 
 uttered some commonplace, turned her head 
 and nodded to me, with one of those tender, 
 expressive glances which had proved dan- 
 gerous to so many.
 
 108 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 " I HAVE been lookin<jf for you everv- 
 •where," I said, when, at the end of a (quar- 
 ter of an hour, I discovered Madame 
 d'Arnheim in the deep embrasure of the 
 window I have already described. 
 
 " You brushed past me nearly an hour 
 aso." she said (juierly. Somehow the tone 
 of her voice sounded ditferent from what it 
 generally did in my ears. " But you were 
 too much en;j:rossed to see me, though you 
 actually trod upon mv dress." 
 
 " Did I ? I'm awfully sorry ! " (I felt 
 myself coloring.) " Well — yes — the fact 
 is, I was listening to something Lady Cas- 
 tle was telling me, and " — 
 
 '' And vou were so engrossed vou had no 
 eyes for any thing else. So I saw. You 
 are just like all men, I see." 
 
 " Y'^ou are angry, because I had a few 
 minutes' conversation with Lady Cas- 
 tle ? " 
 
 " A few minutes ! I like that. You were 
 certainly in that farther room more than 
 half an hour; and I hear your interview 
 •was a very moving one. No, I am not an- 
 gry ; I am disappointed to find you so very, 
 t'firy weak — that is all. I had deluded 
 myself into hoping you were not so. I was 
 mistaken." 
 
 '• You certainly are mistaken, if you 
 return to that old ridiculous idea that there 
 is a flirtation between me and Lady Castle 
 — poor woman ! " 
 
 "'Poor woman!' Much to be pitied, 
 truly ! It reallj' makes one sick ! These 
 are the women who meet with all the sym- 
 pathy in the world ! " 
 
 " You know that is not the case as re- 
 gards me" I replied quietly. " The sym- 
 pathy I feel for your trials, though I seldom 
 venture to express it, the admiration and 
 pity, are unmingled with a reproach. I 
 think you simply the best woman I have 
 ever known, and Lady Castle one of the 
 most unfortunate." 
 
 " And pray why ? AVhy is she more 
 unfortunate than any other ill-conducted 
 wife ? " she pursued, with still some degree 
 of irritation. 
 
 " Because she is unfortunately constituted, 
 to begin with, has been badly educated, 
 anil, having made an unsuitable marriage, 
 has no legitimate interests in life." 
 
 " The worse people are, the more they 
 are to be pitied, in one sense," she replied ; 
 " but when you look around, and see what 
 other women have to suffer, I do not see 
 why one is to be lenitmt to a woman like 
 Lady Castle, whose married life has been a 
 succession of intrigues." 
 
 " I dare say she would have been a good 
 
 wife if she had married a different sort of 
 man." 
 
 " As men go. Lord Castle is a Phoenix," 
 she said, with a bitter smile. '' I am sure 
 he has never told or acted a lie. He is true 
 to his wile, and only too indulgent. Pray 
 do you think many of us are so fortunate ? 
 Would she have been better if she had 
 married a man whose whole life was one of 
 cruel ne»ilect and systematic deceit ? " 
 
 " No, I don't say that ; but I do believe 
 that many a worse man might have made a 
 better husband for hnr. She is not a wo- 
 man of intellect, she has no children, and 
 she needs strong affections, — wants to feel 
 herself the necessity of some one's life. Had 
 Castle been passionately jealous of her, she'd 
 have been all right — if he'd had a hundred 
 faults, instead of being the cold, calm, trust- 
 ing husband he is." 
 
 " Your knowledge of woman's nature is 
 much enlarged since I first knew you." she 
 said, with a touch of sarcastic vehemence. 
 " Y'our arguments in defence of your friend 
 are specious ; but to any woman who has 
 suffered as I have, and who respects her- 
 self thuy seem miserably weak. What 
 would become of us all, if we accepted such 
 excuses as these ? " 
 
 " Tiials, you must remember, depend 
 upon temperament. What are trials to one 
 would not be so to another." 
 
 The blood rushed to her temples. 
 " Do you think my nature, then, so cold 
 that I cannot sutFer from neglect — that I 
 never long to be ' a necessity to some one's 
 life ' ■? You know too much of what I have 
 to endure ; and yet not half — ach 1 not 
 half I This UKjrning you — all who listened 
 to those men — must have seen what I did, 
 — that Carl had deceived me by pretend- 
 ing to be in Vienna, while he had come 
 over to England to visit his mistress. It is 
 Ijut one drop more in my cup, which was 
 full enough before, God knows ! And you 
 talk to me of Lady Castle's trials ! " 
 
 "I never thought of comparing them 
 with vours for a moment. It was you who 
 did that." 
 
 " But you are right — though I am not a 
 stone, as you seem to think." 
 
 " Dear Madame d'Arnheim — " 
 " Do not interrupt me. Yes ! Natures 
 are different ; and what you please to ex- 
 cuse in her would be inexcusable in me, 
 just because I know what love is, and feel 
 far. far more deeply than such a woman can. 
 Ach! du lieber Go/t ! '' she cried, clasping 
 her hands. " Such amours resemble real 
 love as — as a succession of muddy pools 
 resemble the pure sky darkly reflected 
 there ! " 
 
 She looked like the picture of some suffer- 
 
 in^: saint I had seen, one of the " noble
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 109 
 
 army of martyrs," as she continued, after a 
 lew moments' pause, with raised eyes and 
 qnivoi'inij; lips. 
 
 " I brlieve in self-sacrifiee here, in the 
 endeavor to do our duty, however mueli we 
 may sutler, and I beUeve tliat our best af- 
 fections will survive the sorrows of this 
 world. ' Durch Schatten nach dem Licht.' 
 If I did not believe this, I should go mad. 
 But aet like this woman — never, never ! 
 1 could understand the open renunciation 
 of every tie for one — I should grieve, but 
 I could feel for her, then, — but the life 
 that is one lon.2; lie, and for a succession of 
 lovers — it is horrible ! I have no pity for 
 that." 
 
 " I don't defend her ; but I can t help 
 feeling for a woman whose conduct has 
 certainlv brought its own punishment with 
 it." 
 
 " How so ? " 
 
 " Well," I stammered, " I suppose' no 
 woman in her position, but must feel " — 
 
 " She has been making you her confi- 
 dant ! " said my friend, coming down upon 
 me like a falcon. " She has got you into 
 her toils, and you will be ruined I I knew 
 it ; I saw it all along ! " 
 
 " I give you my word of honor." 
 
 '• Honor ? Pshaw ! Shall I tell you 
 what I heard just now? Two ladies 
 passed me, one of whom said, ' It confirms 
 what I told you about him and Lady Cas- 
 tle last spring ! It is very shocking in a 
 mere boy, such wholesale profligacy ! ' 
 The other murmured something alaout 
 ' poor dear Lady Rachel ' as she passed on, 
 which removed any doubt as to whom they 
 were talking aliout, Now, this is what the 
 world ssiys, — this is what will be carried 
 to your mother ! " 
 
 " If you only knew half it chooses to 
 say," I began vehemently, " you would — 
 well, you would know that no one is safe 
 from malevolence. As to what is told my 
 mother, enough mischief lias been done al- 
 ready : she has made up her mind to be- 
 lieve every thing bad she hears of me — so 
 I can't help it," 
 
 " But you can help giving people grounds 
 for gossiping about you at all," said Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim earnestly. I almost start- 
 ed, as I thought of the application those 
 words might bear to herself. " You are 
 standing on the very brink of a precipice. 
 Be warned by me, ere it is too late. If you 
 see much of Lady Castle, on nnjj pretence 
 vhotdver, you will rue it some da}'. Have 
 nothing more to do with her Promise me 
 this, if you care for me at all." 
 
 She leant forward, and, laying her hand 
 on my arm. looked eagerly into my face for 
 the reply she wanted to extract 
 
 But as she uttered those last words I 
 
 heard the rustle of a gown behind my chair ; 
 for my back was turned to the loom, 
 and I could not see any one who passed. 
 But my name was uttered, — uttert;d by a 
 man's voice that I recognized as Ai'thur's, 
 and I turned quickly round. I started up, 
 as if I had been shot. Two figures were 
 moving away. The man was Arthur, the 
 girl in white upon his arm was Evelyn. 
 There was no mistaking her. In spite of 
 the great change, development of the child 
 into the woman, I had not a moment's 
 doubt about it. She was very tall ; the 
 face was much longer, the features more 
 formed ; her hair, which used to hang over 
 her shoulders, was coiled tightly round her 
 head, and had Q-rown some shades darker ; 
 but the eyes remained unaltered, — those 
 sot't lustrous brown eyes, from which I 
 caught one startled, saddened look, before 
 she passed thorugh a door-way, and was 
 lost in the crowd beyond. 
 
 I stood there petrified for a moment or 
 two. 
 
 " ^Vliat is the matter ? " asked my com- 
 panion. 
 
 "I must leave you — you will excuse 
 me, won't you V " 
 
 " Oh ! by all means." 
 
 " There is some one here whom I must 
 see at once ? Shall I take you to the ball- 
 room ? " 
 
 " No," she said with a sigh, which re- 
 curred to me long afterwards, " I am 
 accustomed to be left alone. Do not think 
 of me. I prefer remaining here." 
 
 I flew off, without giving Madame d'Arn- 
 heim another thought. I was in a fever of 
 excitement. How came Evelyn here V 
 Why did she not speak to me ? What did 
 that look, so full of sad meaning, portend? 
 Had she heard and misapprehended those 
 last words of Madame d'Arnheim's — " if 
 you care for me at all ? " 
 
 The first question was answered, even 
 as I revolved these (juestions over in my 
 mind. There, in the doorway of the ball- 
 room, stood Mrs. Hamleigh, with Mrs. 
 Hawskley. My cousins, then, were stay- 
 ing with this hateful woman — it was them 
 I had seen and not recognized through 
 their thick veils, on the ice ; and Evelyn 
 was the beauty I had heard discussed. 
 Then, followed rapidly upon this revela- 
 tion, another conviction flashed upon me, 
 — that Mrs. Hamleigh and Mrs. Hawskley 
 were the two ladies whose words concern- 
 ing me Madame d'Arnheim had overheard. 
 It was an adverse conjunction of circum- 
 stances, which boded me no good. 
 
 I carefully avoided Evelyn's mother. I 
 passed into the ball-room by another door, 
 and sought Evelyn, but for some time 
 without success.
 
 110 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 As is commonly the case at balls, there 
 vt'i'e many more girls than partners for 
 tlicm. Plialanxi'S of youn<^ maidens, in 
 (h-esses new for the occasion, blocked the 
 doorways and corners of the room, eyin^ 
 wi^tt'iiUy tiie couples who floated past, and 
 tlunkin;j; no doubt that this jj;ran(l " Castle 
 Ball," whieh was the great social event of 
 the year to the entire neighborhood, was, 
 after all, not half so pleasant as those little 
 unpretending dances where the competi- 
 tion was more in proportion to the demand. 
 
 " Are you engaged V " said Lady Ancas- 
 tar, panting from the waltz, as I passed 
 her. " If not, do be good-natured, and 
 trot out one of those girls in pink. They 
 haven't danced to-night ; and their father 
 is one of Ancastar's most influential constit- 
 uents." 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry, but I'm engaged ; " 
 and I hurried on. 
 
 My eyes wandered over the crowd as I 
 stood behind old Lady Tenby, whose 
 daughters were not dancing ; and I heard 
 her say, — 
 
 '• Really too bad ! Lord Tufton dancing 
 with that girl three times running ; and, 
 after all, I'm sure / see nothing in her. 
 But I should be very sorry to see you mak- 
 ing yourself so conspicuous, my dear 
 Laura." 
 
 By dint of a gentle persistence, I pushed 
 my way round to where I caught sight of 
 Arthur's handsome face, beaming with un- 
 usual animation, and a small head close to 
 him, whose coil of dark chestnut hair I rec- 
 ognized, though the face was turned from 
 me. Then, just as I was within a few 
 yards of them, he put his arm round her 
 waist, and they waltzed off. For the first 
 time in my life I knew what a pang of jeal- 
 ousy was. It was silly, unreasonable, 1 
 lelt ; but so it was. 
 
 After a turn or two they stopped, vevy 
 nearly in the same place; but this time 
 Evelyn's face was towards me. For two 
 or three minutes I stood watching, without 
 attempting to interrupt them ; and I saw 
 that others watched them too. Is she 
 happy ? Is her head turned by her suc- 
 cess ? Has she actually forgotten me ? 
 were the questions that tortured me as I 
 scanned the sweet young countenance that 
 looked up at Arthur every now and then 
 with a smile ; and then across which an 
 absent look would pass like a cloud, until 
 chased away by some observation of his. 
 I noted that she said but little herself — 
 she listened, she laughed once or twice at 
 the grotesque dancing of a couple to which 
 Tufton drew her attention ; but the far-off, 
 wistful expression came back into her eyes 
 a moment alter. No, my darling has not 
 yetforgot^ten «iQe, I said to my beating heart, 
 
 as the waltz came to an end ; and moving 
 forward a few paces, I held out my hand to 
 her. 
 
 Though, of course, she was prepared for 
 our meeting, the blood rushed into her 
 face, and tlnv small gloved hand she gave 
 me trembleil ; but there was no smile, no 
 welcome : a deep sadness reigned in the 
 large brown eyes that were bent upon me ; 
 and, for a moment or two, neither of us 
 spoke. 
 
 '• It is strange our meeting like this, isn't 
 it? " I began at last ; " and you are grown 
 such a tali, grand. young ladv. I was afraid 
 for a moment you would forget me, E\elyn. 
 Miss Ilamleigh and Fare cousins, Arthur." 
 
 " I thought you would be surprised to see 
 me," she said, in a very low voice. 
 
 " Su!prised is no word for it. But come 
 and take a turn with me. AVe'll go into the 
 tea-room, and you'll dance the next qua- 
 drille with me, won't you ? " 
 
 " T am engaged, Osmund." 
 
 " Throw the fellow over, whoever he is." 
 
 " But the fellow has no idea of being 
 thrown over," laughed Tufton. 
 
 " You ! Come, that's too bad, Arthur. 
 But, at all events, my cousin's going into 
 tea with me now. You must come and find 
 her there presently." 
 
 She hesitated, I saw, for one moment ; 
 then, yielding to the impulse of lici- heart, 
 she placed her hand upon my arm without 
 a word. I smiled and nodded to Arthur, 
 and we left. him. I gave myself great 
 credit for having controlled my feelings so 
 successfully before a third person. As soon 
 as we were out of the crowd, I said, — 
 
 " This is the happiest moment I have 
 had, Evy, since I wished }ou good-by 
 from the branch of the old ehn-tree. I'm 
 afraid you can't say as much : you don't 
 seem as glad to see me." 
 
 I felt her hand tremble on my arm. 
 
 " I don't know whether I am glad or 
 sorry. I wish " — and here she stopped. 
 
 '• What ? Look here : I've lots to say 
 to you, and lots to a>^k of you. There has 
 been no end of lying about me, Evelyn ; and 
 I want to explain many things to you which 
 it is no use telling your mother. She won't 
 listen ; she has made up her mind not to 
 believe me, I know. We haven't time 
 now, but you'll keep all the dances you 
 have disengaged for me, dearest Evy, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 She shook her head with a sigh. " I 
 cannot keep one, Osmund." 
 
 " Do you mean that your mother has 
 made you promise not to dance with me ? " 
 
 '' Yes ; and she would be very much an- 
 noyed if she thought I was walking about 
 with you now." 
 
 " Why V By Jove ! such tyranny is in-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 tolerable ! What on earth have I done 
 tliat we are to be separated completely in 
 this way ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she murmured, looking 
 down. 
 
 " After being brought up together, Evy, 
 isn't it hard I should be kept more aloof 
 than any stranger you meet here to-night 
 fur the first time ? " 
 
 '• Ah ! " she said, looking up sadly into 
 my eyes, " but you are changed — you are 
 not the same Osmund I loved as a child. 
 Yon are so different — oh ! so different 
 from what I fancied you could ever be ! " 
 
 " You mean in appearance, for you can 
 know nothing else of me, Evy ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course — I cannot explain, — 
 there is no use talking of it. You are 
 become what they call ' a man of the 
 world,' and I thought you would always 
 have I'emained the same dear b.>y I loved 
 as a child. You see, I'm sti'l an ignorant 
 little school-girl in some things." 
 
 She attempted to smile as she said this, 
 but the effort was feeble. 
 
 " So that you think it quite natural and 
 right that we should be separated ? " I 
 as'ked bitterly. " If you really think that, 
 I have no more to say ; only, in that case, 
 you are far more changed than / am, Eve- 
 lyn." 
 
 She grew pale, and I saw the tears 
 gather in her eyes. 
 
 " They say you are so awfully wicked — 
 is it true ? " she asked, with child-like 
 naivete. 
 
 " No : that is the rubbish of horrid old 
 scandal-mongers like Mrs. Hawksley, be- 
 cause I did not make u]i to an heiress they 
 all ihou'^ht I niiirht have married last 
 season." 
 
 She shook her head and looked down. 
 
 "Speak, Evy, — say something, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 " What can I say ? They tell me you are 
 in love with some one who is not at all 
 good." 
 
 " And you believe that old cat who tells 
 your mother all these lies ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it is not only Mrs. Hawksley. 
 There is Lady Louisa Pynsent, and some 
 other people, told mamma yesterday the 
 B:mu: thing." 
 
 " They are a nice lot ! I should like to 
 sec them all at the bottom of the sea ! 
 They have such vile imaginations, Evy. 
 they i)ut the worst construction on every 
 thing." 
 
 She looked sadly distressed. 
 
 " Lady Rachel, herself, you know, has 
 warned me." 
 
 " My mother and I are two. You mustn't 
 listen to a word she says." 
 
 " Oh, dear Osmund ! don't say that — so 
 
 good as she is, — and you ran away, and 
 have never come home since 1 I always 
 say that you will some day, — that you are 
 only led astray, and that when you find out 
 how bad all the peojjle are by wh(jm you 
 are surrounded, you will return and be as 
 you once were again. I can't believe" — 
 here she broke off 
 
 " Evy, will you believe me when I swear 
 to you that all you have heard is false ? I 
 love you, my darling, as I did when I was 
 a boy, — only a hundred-fold more ; and I 
 never have loved any one else." 
 
 She flushed up to her temples, and raised 
 her clear brown eyes to my face. Then she 
 faltered, " But — but even this evening " — 
 " You overheard some words that fell from 
 Madame d'Arnheim, when you found us to- 
 gether ? Well, my darling, you misunder- 
 stand their nature entirely. She " — 
 
 " Miss Hamleigh, our dance has began," 
 said Tufton, approaching. 
 
 " You must give me an opportunity of ex- 
 planation," I whispered. " You will take a 
 turn with me, when this dance is over ? Say 
 that you will, darling." 
 
 She had turned very white, and was lean- 
 ing against the table. 
 
 " A glass of water ! " was all she could 
 say. 
 
 Tuflon poured one out, and gave it her. 
 " The heat," she murmured, after a minute 
 or two. " Lord Tufton, I think if you will 
 forgive me, I will go and sit by mamma in- 
 stead of dancing. I feel giddy." 
 
 As she took his arm, our eyes met for an 
 instant. I saw what an effort it cost her, 
 poor child, to maintain her composure ; but 
 no more passed between us. 
 
 A few minutes later I heard some one 
 say, — 
 
 " The beauty has fainted, or something 
 very like it, and has had to leave the ball. 
 Tufton is in despair. I never saw a man 
 so bitten." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVni. 
 
 Those last words rang in my ears all 
 the remainder of the night. I danced, I 
 took some one in to supper; I did all that 
 could be expected of me, without being 
 more than half conscious of what I was 
 about. At last I slipped away, got up to 
 my turret-bedroom, and sat down before 
 tlu! fire to think. 
 
 What ought my course now to be ? 
 There was no question about it, that my 
 darling's mind h.id been poisoned about 
 Madame d'Arnheim. I remembered now 
 that Evelyn must have seen my poor friend 
 in my arms upon the ice the previous day ;
 
 112 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 all the idle gossip regarding us liad reached 
 her ; and now, this evening, she had seen 
 us again together, and ha(i heard words 
 spoken whiidi had evidently left an impres- 
 sion on luT mind tiiat my asseverations 
 h;id not tlispellcd. 
 
 I was bitterly hnrt and disappointed. T 
 had thonnlit that half a dozen vvords li'om 
 me would have prevailed with her against 
 all the rest of the world ; and yet, the 
 longer I thought over it, the more clearly 
 I saw, that, unless Evelyn's mind had re- 
 mained in the plastic condition of child- 
 hood, the iniluence and warnings of both 
 our mothers, the weight of the world's evi- 
 dence against me, — nay, the evidence other 
 own senses, — must preponderate against 
 my hasty disavowal in this matter. She 
 was no longer a child, although retaining 
 some. of the nai'ye/e of childhood. She had 
 reflected, and sutrereil, as any girl of strong 
 feeling must have done, separated from the 
 ol)ject of her first aiFections, and hearing 
 his delinquencies reprobated and mourned 
 over. She did not believe in my hopeless 
 depravity ; her mother had not succeeded 
 so iiir : I was led astray ; I had fallen into 
 evil company ; I should one day repent 
 and be forgiven. This, I saw, was the 
 frame of mind in which my darling was 
 respecting me. If I chose to bow down to 
 the reigning gods at Beaumanoir, why, 
 then I might be restored to favor, and my 
 delinquencies forgotten ; but I swore J 
 would not so bow down. I would be justi- 
 fied ; I would not be forgiven the sins I 
 had never committed. 
 
 The moment had arrived when I felt 
 that I ought to write to my mother. The 
 only possession in which I could distance 
 all competitors for Evelyn's hand was ray 
 unswerving love from early boyhood until 
 now ; and this it was sought to discredit. 
 She was told — and my mother had clearly 
 helped in the telling — that my fire was 
 laid upon other altars ; and, however leni- 
 ently the world might judge such peccadil- 
 loes, the charge was destructive to the 
 claim of unalterable attachment to my 
 cousin. Probably, on that very account, 
 had it been hailed by Lady Rachel and 
 Mrs. Hamleigb. The latter, who saw 
 every thing through my mother's eyes, wns 
 shown that it was of the last importance 
 to detach Evelyn from me, no matter how ; 
 and, of every form of ill-doing, that of which 
 1 had been accused was the best calculated 
 to eflfect this object ; and yet it had not 
 efTected it. Though grieving over the sins 
 she heard denounced, that look in her eyes 
 told me that I had not lost my hold over 
 my darling's heart. 
 
 If the reader of these pages understands 
 my character at all by this time, he will 
 
 not be surprised to hear, that, while medi- 
 tating over my future line of conduct, I 
 never contemplated altering it as regarded 
 the two ladies with whom my name had 
 been coupled. I had done no harm — why 
 should I? As regarded Lady C istle, I 
 had only a feeling of compassion, as I should 
 have had for some .poor hunted animal 
 that sought refuge at my feet. I had nb 
 especial deliglit in her society : 1 had even 
 avoided it of late ; but I had promised to 
 befriend her, and, if she needed my help, I 
 would not go back from my word. 
 
 Madame d'Arnlieim's was a very differ- 
 ent case. When I looked back at the 
 influence she had exercised over me dur- 
 ing the past year, I recognized more than 
 ever the precious gift that such a woman's 
 friendship may be to a man in the outstart 
 of life. I felt the deepest reverence, admi- 
 ration, and gratitude towards her. I might 
 think her a little severe at times ; she raiaht 
 be a little too high-flown for me at others ; 
 but I had the most absolute trust in iier 
 goodness and her unshrinking truth, which 
 never spared me; and I valued such a 
 friendship far too highly to sacrifice it to 
 the world's gossip. She filled a place in 
 my life no one had ever filled ; and was I 
 not conscious that I supplied a want, an 
 interest, in hersY If she learnt that idle 
 tongues were wagging about her, would she 
 not simply scorn the scandal ? At all 
 events, the rupture of our intimacy must 
 be her doing. It would be an act of miser- 
 able cowardice and truckling to the world, 
 and to those family powers who for the 
 present held my fate in their hands, if I 
 abandoned Madame d'Arnheim. It was 
 thus I argued. 
 
 I had sat there nearly an hour, meditat- 
 ing beside the fire, when I caught the faint 
 wail of the violin, like the cry of a soul in 
 pain, coming up from the room beneath 
 mine. Arthur and I had the turret Lctween 
 us. He was not in bed, then, and was no 
 more minded for repose than myself. I' 
 was seized with a sudden desire to talk 
 with him about Evelyn. Pi.'rhaps it would 
 be better that I should tell him at once what 
 I had never yet revealed? — the actual 
 condition of things between us. As I have 
 already said in another place, there was 
 that in this friend of mine, which, with all 
 my strong affection for liim, had hitherto 
 prevented my confiding the story of my 
 youthful love to him. It had never seemed 
 possible that he could be touched by love 
 himself. I had never heard him express 
 so much as a strong admiration for a 
 woman ; but to-night he had shown unmis- 
 takably that he was capable of such admi- 
 ration ; he had come out in a light so new 
 to me, that I had difficulty in believing the
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 113 
 
 evidence of my own senses. AVas it really 
 Arthur, "the man of adamant " as I was 
 wont to call him, who had been devotinjj; 
 himself to my liitle Evelyn all the night V 
 I had suQered momentary pangs of jeal- 
 ousy, but tliese were past. After the few 
 words that had passed between my dar- 
 h"ng and me, I fcdt that though she had 
 been told that I was desperately " wicked," 
 and though she clearly believed that I was 
 not absolutely true to her, her heart was 
 still mine. It was in no man's power to 
 rob me of it. 
 
 But on this xery account I felt that our 
 friendship demanded of me an avowal of the 
 truth ; lest, haply, my friend should enter 
 into a rivalship with me, which, though 
 hopeless to him, might be productive of 
 much misery to us both. I would tell him 
 every thing. My natural candor rendered 
 such a step almost necessary to me now ; at 
 least I thought so, as I entered the room. 
 
 *' Come in, Pen," he said, as I opened the 
 door, and found him in the dark, except for 
 the red light from the fire on the hearth, and 
 the cold stars that shone through the uncur- 
 tained window. He stood near it, half un- 
 dressed, his violin in his hand, his clear-cut 
 profile, as he bent his head, just touched by 
 the pale starlight ; the strong soul within 
 him drawn to his fingers' ends, and passing 
 out in a broad stream of sound, as lie bent 
 his bow-arm with all the sinuous grace of 
 nervous mastery. So standing in the twi- 
 light, he recalled a drawing I had seen by 
 one of the old Florentines, on gray paper, 
 touched sparingly with white, of Orpheus 
 in the land of shades. 
 
 He did not stop for my coming in : he 
 played the passionate melody he. had begun 
 to an end before he laid down his violin, 
 and said, — 
 
 " I wanted to talk to you. Pen ; and I 
 should have come up to your room, but that 
 I thought you were in bed, and asleep. 
 Draw a chair to the fire, and light your 
 pipe, old boy. Do you know I've been 
 rather unhappy about you to-night ? " 
 
 I felt no doubt as to what he alluded. It 
 was a relief to find the opening to my con- 
 fidence made so easy to me. 
 
 " Have you ? What about ? I think I 
 know ; but don't light the candles, old fel- 
 low. We can talk much better in the dark." 
 
 " All right." He sat down opposite me. "It 
 has to do with something we sjjoke of yester- 
 day. I want to give you a word of advice, 
 which from a man ten years your senior, you 
 won't take amiss. Pen. I pooh-pooh'd the 
 world's gossip about you yesterday; but, 
 from what I have seen and heard to-night, 
 I think you ought to be careful. If not, you 
 ■will burn your fingers." 
 
 " AVhat do you mean ? You don't rea- 
 
 ly believe this nonsense about me and 
 Madame d'Arnheim ? " 
 
 " I dare say there is nothing serious at 
 present, on your side, at all events. It may 
 do her harm, perhaps, in more ways than 
 one — I don't suppose it will do you any; 
 but the lady seems to me rather given to 
 sentimentality — and you are very young. 
 Your other little amusement, however, is far 
 more dangerous. Flirting with Lady Castle 
 is playing with edge-tools, depend on it." 
 
 " God bless my soul I " I cried, starting 
 up, " it is enough to drive a fellow mad, Ar- 
 thur, to find you, too, swallowing all this 
 rubbish. First, Madame d'Arnheim, and 
 then Lady Castle ! What on earth did you 
 hear about me and her ? " 
 
 " She was seen crying to-night when you 
 were alone together so long, and she raves 
 about you so openly, I am told, that it is no 
 wonder if the old story of last season is re- 
 vived, — that you have supplanted Bene- 
 vento in her good graces. Now, take care, 
 Pen, or you will find yom-self caught, before 
 you know where you are ; and, let me tell 
 you, the escape from a iiauion of this kind 
 is often very difficult." 
 
 " I assure you there is not the smallest 
 danger for me. You talk like " — I was 
 going to say " Madame d'Arnhiem," but 
 felt the unwisdom of bringing her into the 
 discussion — " like a man who has had 
 many experiences of this sort, instead of 
 being a model of prudence, who takes very 
 good care never to be talked of with any 
 woman," I added with a laugh. 
 
 " Shall I tell you something ? " he said, 
 after a pause. " I have not had many sim- 
 ilar experiences, but I have had one. Long 
 before I knev; vou, I got into an entano'le- 
 ment which well-nigh proved my ruin. It 
 was that which drove me to gamble — it is 
 that which has always made me shun socie- 
 ty, to a great extent. It has given me a 
 dread of women, — women of the world, 
 that is to say. Keep clear of their snares, 
 if you can, Pen." 
 
 1 repeated that there was no foundation 
 for the fear that I was to fall a victim to this 
 particular woman of the world. I said to 
 liim pretty much what I had said to Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim, but I had the annoyance 
 of seeing that it did n(jt pi'oduce much 
 elTect. I was not in love yet — that, he 
 said, he quite believed ; but, if I continued 
 to play with fire, — unless I resolutely put 
 it from me — it was hardly possible that I 
 should remain unburnt. I tried to make him 
 understand, without betraying her confi- 
 dence, that Lady Castle had consulted me 
 as a friend, and it was in that light alone 
 that our intercourse now or hereafter would 
 be kej)! up. He shook his head incredu- 
 lously, and repeated two or three times, —
 
 114 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " DeponcI on it, it is a mistake jroing in 
 for married women as you do, Pen." 
 
 Alter this eonversiitiun, the diflieulty of 
 approaehinij that other subject on wliieh 
 I desired to speak was increased four-foUl. 
 In spite of every disclaimer, I saw that Ar- 
 thur believed I was carryino; on more or 
 less of a llirtalion with two married women 
 at the same moment. He even feared that 
 one of these would ingulf me. This an- 
 noved me beyond measure on every account ; 
 but, most of all, because it seemed to me to 
 render the opening of my heart impossible. 
 I had entered the room with the intention 
 of telling my friend every thing that con- 
 cerned Evelyn and myself. But now I said, 
 " Believing what he does, will he not treat 
 the story of my love simply as a romantic 
 episode of my youth, to which no enduring 
 importance is to be attached ? " I had never 
 even named my P2velyn to him during all 
 our intimacy, so completely had her image 
 faded from my memory until now, when we 
 had met again, and her beauty was the 
 theme of every tongue 1 I fancied I saw the 
 half ironical smile with which he would re- 
 ceive my communication. Were we en- 
 gaged ? No ; and our respective parents 
 ■would undoubtedly oppose any such engage- 
 ment ; so much I must admit. Had my 
 fidelity been so conspicuous as to warrant 
 the assumption that my young cousin's 
 heart, in spite of our long separation, was 
 still mine V How should I reply to this V 
 Evelyn's constrained manner with me, her 
 absolute refusal to dance, the absence of all 
 joy in her greeting, could not have escaped 
 his observation. If I spoke the truth, I 
 must allow that she had not only heard, but 
 credited, these stories concerning me. ]My 
 bare assertion that I believed that her heart, 
 in spite of every thing, remained true to me, 
 would sound like a vain boy's braggadocio. 
 I knew it ; I felt all that he would not say, 
 and all that his suggestive silence would 
 imply, and I had not the moral courage to 
 speak at such a disadvantage. The mo- 
 ment, I said to myself, was not propitious. 
 Let me dispossess his mind of these erro- 
 neous ideas about mvself. and then, without 
 fear of misconception, I would tell him the 
 truth. And so the only moment, whether 
 propitious or not, in which I might have 
 confided in my friend, passed away, never 
 to return. 
 
 We sat there some time over the dying 
 embers, and then I went to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 It was late the following morning when 
 I was awoke by Joe Carter's opening the 
 shutters with an unusual clatter. I knew 
 
 that something was amiss with him. When- 
 ever his mind was perturbed, he made an 
 unnecessary to-do. At other times he 
 could be deft and gentle in his movements 
 as a woman. On this occasion no pity for 
 my innocent slumbers caused him to falter 
 in his stern purpose. 
 
 " It's time as you was up, master." 
 
 " No hurry, Joe," I grumbled, turning on 
 the other side. " Breakfast will go on all 
 day, I should think." 
 
 '' yummut like tblks' chatter." Here he 
 paused for a minute, considering how he 
 should point his aphorism. " But the 
 tea gets bitter by standing, and, after a bit, 
 so do folks' tongues. I likes both hot my- 
 self." 
 
 " What the deuce are you talking about, 
 Joe ? " and here I opened my heavy eye- 
 lids. 
 
 " Only about a row I had in the servants' • 
 hall along o' you last night. I'd cut it if I 
 was you." 
 
 " About me?" I now jumped bolt up- 
 right. " I'm afraid you were drunk, Joe." 
 
 " No ; I might ha' had a drop too much, 
 — the ale hei'e's plaguy strong, — but I 
 wasn't that screwed I didn't know very 
 well what I were doin'." 
 
 " Well, go on." 
 
 Joe stropped my razor vigorously for a 
 minute belbre proceeding. 
 
 " All I say is, cut it, afore it's too late, 
 and let the blackguards talk as they will." 
 
 " Speak out, man, can't you ? What the 
 devil are you driving at ? Have you heard 
 any thing about me ? Is that what this 
 row was about ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Joe, stopping suddenly in 
 his razor operations, and turning round to 
 face me. " I heard more than I liked, — a 
 deal. Lord Castle's man began it, and the 
 count's valet took up the chaflT. I knew 
 they were lies ; but, if paint sticks, it don't 
 matter if it's good or bad. They called you 
 a Don John, or some such name ; and so I 
 up with my fist, and knocked him down for 
 his pains." 
 
 " How could you be such a fool ? " 
 
 " Oh ! never you mind me, master : you 
 look out for yourself. I don't care for any 
 on *em, and so I told 'em. They called me 
 a low fellow, and I ofiered to fight 'em all 
 round." 
 
 " Upon my life, this is rather too bad, — 
 to be made the subject of ribaldry in the 
 servants' hall ! ' 
 
 " As to that, don't flatter yourself that 
 every blessed thing you do isn't talked 
 over. As to what they said o' the ladies, 
 that was no concern o' mine. Women can 
 look out for theirselves. They're at the 
 bottom of every mischief, and I've no much 
 pity for 'em, whatever's said; only I wasn't
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 115 
 
 goin' to let 'em go on tellin' lies about 
 you." 
 
 " I think you have made the matter very 
 much worse by creating a brawl," I replied 
 shaiply. I was worried, far more than Joe 
 could possiby know, by his communication. 
 The jiossip up stairs was bad enough ; but 
 that the servants should have begun to re- 
 peat it b(dow, — it was most provoking. I 
 knew how swiftly evil report s])reads 
 through such channels ; for myself, I had no 
 fear of not living it down, and of setting 
 m\self right, sooner or later, with Evelyn 
 and the rest of my family ; but for Madame 
 d'Arnheim's sake, I was much more seri- 
 ously anii03'ed, and I visited my annoyance 
 rather unjustly upon Joe. 
 
 " You made the matter very much worse ; 
 and it all comes of your drinking I This 
 is the Avay you keep your promises to re- 
 form ! " 
 
 " I haven't been tight these six months," 
 rejoined Joe indignantly, " and I wasn't to 
 say screwed last night; but just because I 
 wouldn't let them blackguards speak so of 
 you, you turn round on me for drinking ! 
 I hadn't need to have told you a word 
 about it, — and why did I ? ' Because,' 
 said I, ' there's no smoke without the begin- 
 ning of a fire, — a chance of it, any way. 
 If the slicks is damp and disinclined, they 
 won't light ; but there the sticks is, and 
 there's the smoke, and I says to myself the 
 best thing master can do is to cut his 
 stick.' " 
 
 A caution as to morality and worldly 
 prudence from Joe Carter ! I could hardly 
 hel|) smiling, in spite of my irritation ; and 
 the curious thing was, he was the third 
 person in the course of twelve hours who 
 had tendered me the same advice. 
 
 I was not going to part with my resent- 
 ment, however, so easily. I considered it 
 but my duo, and that it would be extremely 
 weak if I succumbed at once to Joe's argu- 
 ments in defence of himself; therefore I 
 replied shortly that I had no intention of 
 leaving the castle for some days, if that was 
 what he meant, and that I should be obliged 
 to him to keep out of any further brawls 
 during the i-emain<ler of my stay there. 
 
 Joe was in no hurry to leave the room : 
 there was the boot inspection, and the for- 
 mation of figures on the toilet-table with 
 my bottles and brushes, the symmetrical 
 arrangement of my clothes on a chair, and 
 the deployment of a stiflly-starched shirt, 
 whose mouth and arms he opened wide 
 upon the bed to embrace me ; all this, 
 his clock-work routine, he went leisurely 
 through, while I shaved ; and he went 
 through it in dignified silence. Joe's feel- 
 ings were wounded. It was not till he had 
 left the room, and I was more than half- 
 
 dressed, that I perceived a letter on the 
 table, which Joe had laid there. I recog- 
 nized Mr. Francis's hand, and tore it open. 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 "My dear Osmund, — I have sad 
 news to communicate. jNIr. John Penrud- 
 docke has had another attack, and he is 
 d\ing. I have just parted from the doctor, 
 who says he may jjossibly last three or 
 four days, — certainly not longer. I have 
 thought it right to let you know this at 
 once, because your poor cousin has ex- 
 pressed a strong desire to see you, and has 
 asked when you were expected to return to 
 London. I could only reply that I did not 
 know, as I was unwilling to hold out hopes 
 which it might not be in your power to real- 
 ize. I know that you are staying in the 
 midst of a gay party, and may possibly feel 
 averse from coming to sad scenes ; I can 
 but say, that, if you decide on returning, it 
 will be a great comfort to more than one in 
 this house. Elizabeth behaves wonder- 
 fully. Her self-control, knowing her as I 
 do, amazes me ; but she feels the impor- 
 tance of not agitating her father, and, 
 before him, she is calm and collected, far 
 more so, indeed, than poor Mr. Humphrey 
 is. His nervous restlessness and excitabil- 
 ity are terrible. I will let you know when 
 all is over, if we do not see you before. I 
 feel sure that you will, at all events, make 
 a point of attending the funeral. 
 
 " In haste, to save this post, if possible, 
 " Your attached friend, 
 
 " H. Francis." 
 
 "P.S. — No one knows that I am writ- 
 ing." 
 
 My hand was on the bell as I finished 
 the letter. 
 
 " Joe," I said, when he appeared in an- 
 swer to the summons, " send for a fly to 
 meet the two o'clock up-traiu, and pack my 
 things at once." 
 
 No doubt Joe was satisfied that I had 
 yielded to the cogency of his arguments ; 
 but my thoughts were too full of other mat- 
 ters to waste time in unnecessary words. 
 While he set himself with alacrity to the 
 task of destroying the beautiful symmetry 
 of my wardrobe and toilet-table, and con- 
 signed them to temporary burial in my 
 portmanteau, shovelling in the clothes, and 
 then patting them down, like so many sods 
 of earth, I opened my blotting-book and 
 wrote two letters. The first, to Evelyn, 
 never reached its destination. The second, 
 to my mother, was a vehement protest 
 against her accepting every injurious ru- 
 mor that reached her concerning me. 
 
 " The bad opinion you express of me is
 
 116 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 too consistent," I wi-ote, " for mo to be sur- 
 piiseil ;it your reiuliness to receive iind dis- 
 seminate reports disadvantageous to my 
 character. At the same time, I feel that 
 it' 1 allow these charges, — whicli atFect the 
 ■'reputation of at least one lady whom the 
 breath of scandal has never before dared to 
 touch, — if I allow them to be made with- 
 out an energetic and indignant denial of 
 their truth, it will ajipear like an indiller- 
 ence which I am very far from feeling. 
 For the sake of that ladv, — one of the no- 
 blest of women, — even more than for my 
 own. I am bound to rebut these slanders, 
 althc)Ugh it may be that my future happi- 
 ness is at stake, if the mind of the only 
 ci'eature I love passionately on earth is 
 poisoned by falsehood. That consideration, 
 1 am aware, would weigh but little with 
 you. You may rest assured, however, that 
 truth will triumph in the end, and it is well 
 that I should tell you plainly that I will 
 never marry any one but Evelyn llam- 
 leigh." 
 
 It might be impolitic, but I resolved 
 thus boldly to state my hopes, while remon- 
 strating, in no measured terms, against my 
 mother's cruel interference. The composi- 
 tion of this letter took me more than half- 
 an hour, and the long drive to the station 
 did not leave me much time tor breakfast 
 and leave-taking before the hour when the 
 tniin was due. 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim, looking pale and ill, 
 was seated next to the duchess when I en- 
 tered the breakfost-room. I dropped into 
 an empty seat opposite, between Lord Cas- 
 tle and Arthur. Very few of the others 
 had appeared. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Her Grace, with slight- 
 ly elevated brows, as I announced that I 
 had received a summons. " Your sudden 
 departure takes me, at all events, rjuite by 
 surprise, Mr. Penruddocke." And 1 saw 
 her glance at Madame d'Arnheim. 
 
 The latter looked at me intently. Her 
 face expressed astonishment, and a certain 
 degree of anxiety. Arthur half turned to- 
 wards me. I saw he was waiting with 
 curiosity for my explanation. 
 
 "It is family business that calls me to 
 London, Duchess. I am very sorry to go." 
 
 Arthur gave me an approving smile. 
 Like Joe, he was deceived as to the cause 
 of my sudden flitting. 
 
 '' And what are the tableaux to do with- 
 out you V " cried Mrs. Chaffinch. " Lady 
 Castle will be in despair ; or have you al- 
 ready softened the blow to her, Mr. Pen- 
 ruddocke? Poor dear, perhaps that's why 
 she is keeping her bed." 
 
 Before I could reply to this sally, Lord 
 Castle, gravely intent upon the egg before 
 him, said, with the utmost simplicity, — 
 
 "No: Clare told me just now that she 
 hoped to persuade you to return with us to 
 the Grange, for a few days, on Saturday. 
 She will be quite sorry, I am sure, to find 
 you have run away." 
 
 I I,neiv — though I did not choose to see 
 
 — the way in which Mrs. Chaffinch glanced 
 round the table, before I heard her disgust- 
 ing laugh. 
 
 " Yes. Lord Castle, that's the right word 
 — ' run away.' It's pusillanimous, isn't it ? 
 What Scrijjture hero shall we compare him 
 to ? David wouldn't have behaved so, 
 nor Solomon, — certainly not Solomon. I 
 scarcely know any one who would have 
 fled from the attractions of our sex, except 
 that virtuous young party who was sold by 
 his brethren. lie ran away. Ha, ha ! 
 that's what it is to be spoilt 1 All these 
 boys give themselves such airs now. Here 
 I've been trying, ever since I knew him, to 
 make Mr. Penruddocke say a civil thing to 
 me, and never have succeeded yet. And 
 now he runs away ! " 
 
 " No wonder, Mrs. Chaffinch," said An- 
 castar. " He found himself yielding to 
 the seductions of your mellifluous tongue. 
 Thei-e was no safety but in flight." 
 
 " I'm afraid there is no safety from Mrs. 
 Cha-lfinch's mellifluous tongue even in 
 flight," said I. " ' Men may come, and men 
 may go, but it. goes on forever.' " 
 
 " There, if that isn't a civil thing, I don't 
 know what is!" cried Ancastar. "You 
 have it at last, Mrs. Chaffinch. You're like 
 Tennyson's ' Brook ' — nothing could be 
 prettier. You ' chatter, chatter on your 
 way,' and you ' move the sweet forget-me- 
 nots that grow for happy lovers.' That you 
 maybe said to do wirfeet? — nothing could 
 be more ajipropriate. Bravo, Penrud- 
 docke ! " 
 
 Amidst the general laughter, the duch- 
 ess's incisive voice was heard saying, — 
 
 " What rubbish, Ancastar, you young 
 men do talk in the present day ! There 
 was a time when genuine wit existed, — 
 now there is nothing but what you term 
 ' chaff ' — such a dreadful word ! Mr. Pen- 
 ruddocke, is it true thaf the young person 
 we all admired so much last night — Miss 
 
 — Miss Hamleigh, I think — is a cousin of 
 yours ? " 
 
 IMadame d'Arnheim's eyes had been fixed 
 abstractedly upon a spot on the table-cloth 
 for some minutes. She raised them swifl- 
 ly to my face, and her cheek flushed as I 
 replied that Miss Hamleigh was my cous- 
 in. 
 
 " Jove ! she's a beautiful girl ; and so you 
 seemed to think, Tufton," said Ancastar. 
 
 " Yes, I did think her beautiful ; and, 
 what is better, natural, unspoilt, — perfect- 
 ly feminine."
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 117 
 
 "Is tke mother that woman with the 
 teeth V " asked Lady Ancastar hinfj;uidly. 
 
 " ;\Irs. Haoileigh has fine teeth," replied 
 Arthur, rather resentfully. " She seems a 
 particularly nice person, — so frank and 
 genial." 
 
 Mrs. Hamleii^h frank and genial ! Ar- 
 thur must be indeed blinded. I began to 
 reixret that I bad not made a clean breast 
 to him last night. But we should meet in 
 a few days' time in town, and then I would 
 tell him all. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, I had taken 
 my leave of the duchess, and was in the 
 hall. The fly, with my portmanteau, and 
 Joe standing like a sentry over it, were at 
 the door. Madame d'Aruheim was beside 
 me. 
 
 " So it was your Evelyn, was it, last 
 night ? Ah ! I understand it all now." 
 
 " Did you not guess why I left you as I 
 did ? I was too much bewildered to ex- 
 plain any thing at the moment, — the un- 
 expected sight of her so completely upset 
 me." 
 
 " No, I did not guess. I saw a lovely 
 girl, but did not hear her name. I thought 
 perhaps you had suddenly remembered 
 something of importance you had to com- 
 municate to Lady Castle, and shortly after 
 I went up stairs, feeling very weary. 
 
 " I did not remain much later myself. I 
 passed a miserable evening, — but I have 
 not time to tell you any thing now. When 
 shall you be in town V " 
 
 " Poor boy 1 I feared as much. It is this 
 is taking you away ? We shall be in town 
 in a fortnight. You shall then come and 
 confide your troubles to me." 
 
 There was a rapid rustling of satin down 
 the great staircase behind us at this mo- 
 ment, and Lady Castle called out, — 
 
 " 1 am so glad I am just in time to wish 
 you good-by. Castle came to tell me you 
 were sjoing. It is too sad, isn't it, Madame 
 d'Arnheim ? " 
 
 But that lady responded never a word. 
 She froze into herself, and looked out of 
 the window upon the hard white road of 
 the park. 
 
 " Can't you come to us," continued Lady 
 Castle, " next week, or the week after ? 
 AVe shall have no party. It will be very 
 dull for you, I'm afraid, but if you will 
 come, it will be so nice. Do try to get 
 leave." 
 
 " Thank you very much, but I am going 
 up upon family business which will keep 
 me in town probably some time. At all 
 events, I should not be able to get leave 
 again at prcsimt." 
 
 " And I sha'n't be in town till the middle 
 of M trcli ! Two wliole months, — dread- 
 ful, isn't itV " Here she looked very sig- 
 
 nificantly. " But there is no help for it. 
 We are going to make great im])rovements 
 in the park and gardens at the Grange. 
 Mr. Thomas is coming down the beginning 
 of March, and Castle wishes me to be there 
 to discuss plans with him. I always make 
 a point, poor dear ! of doing what he wishes, 
 when he does express a desire, — it is so 
 seldom ! " 
 
 " Good-by, Lady Castle. I mustn't stay 
 any longer, or I shall miss the train. Good- 
 by, Madame d'Arnheim. I leave my char- 
 acter in the hands of both of voir, when my 
 back is turned. Save me from Mrs. Chat- 
 finch." 
 
 I hun-ied into the fly, and left the two 
 ladies standing there, waving their fare- 
 wells, — as great a contrast as any two of 
 their sex could have presented ; the one, 
 soft and scented, a very pretty object, at- 
 tired in Mr. Worth's last eccentricity, with 
 just a soup^on of rouge and powder to hide 
 the ravages of time and late hours ; a mys- 
 terv of lace and lockets, flounces and false 
 curls — the other, simple to severity, in her 
 tieht-fitting dress, and hair swept back from 
 her brow, her pale and worn face unas- 
 sisted by art of any kind, — by no means 
 pretty, as she appears this morning, yet 
 always noble and interesting. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 It was past seven o'clock when my han- 
 som drove up to Cheyne AValk. The stars 
 shone brightly ; the cold was intense. 
 
 " How is Mr. John ? " was my first ques- 
 tion of old Annie, who, in answer to the 
 bell, unfastened the already-barred door. 
 
 The old servant shook her head. 
 
 " Died o' three o'clock this afternoon." 
 
 I entered. " Tell Mr. Francis I am 
 here." 
 
 I walked into the quaint little parlor to 
 the right of the passage, and waited. In a 
 minute or two he appeared. 
 
 " I am so glad you are come, my boy, 
 thou;rh it is too late to see Jiiin, — he was 
 taken quite suddenly at last; but your 
 coming will be a comfort to Mr. Hum- 
 phrey and to Elizabeth." 
 
 " Was he conscious at the end ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, and he spoke a great deal of 
 you." Here he paused for a moment. 
 " But I will enter upon that anollier time. 
 Elizabeth will like to see you now. 
 She has not shed a tear, jjoor child ! I 
 wish she could. She has never left the 
 l)oily. You will not mind coming in there, 
 Osmund V " 
 
 We went up stairs, and softly entered 
 the room where I had last seen poor John.
 
 118 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 There stood the dimity bed, with the 
 flickering firelight on it ; and upon the 
 bed the vast gaunt outline I knew so 
 well, dimly delined beneath the sheets. 
 The massive features just tipped with 
 light, the eyelid weighed down by that 
 solemn sleep whieli knows no waking, the 
 firm wide-sweeping mouth and square-cut 
 jaw looking far grander now than in life. 
 It reminded me in its impassive majesty of 
 a i)ietnre of the Sphinx in the desert. 
 How strange it is that when tliat mind is 
 forever at rest, whose activity we are 
 accustomed to think can alone give inter- 
 est to the human countenance, in the un- 
 broken stillness that rests there, it becomes 
 at once ennobled ! In the absence of that 
 which we chiefly prize in life, lies the 
 awful and unapproachable beauty of 
 death. 
 
 Kneeling beside the bed, with her back 
 to the fire, was Elizabeth. Her head was 
 buried in her hands : she was quite mo- 
 tionless when we entered. I spoke to her 
 softly by name, and she looked up quick- 
 ly. A shudder ran through the slight 
 young frame, and she rose to her feet. 
 1 took both her hands in mine, and held 
 them ; then, for the first time in my life, I 
 kissed her, and said, — 
 
 " Dear Elizabeth, I am so grieved not to 
 have been here in time. I came off the 
 instant I heard. I am so very sorry for 
 you, my dear." 
 
 She buried her face in her hands 
 again. 
 
 " I thought I was prepared, but I was 
 not. Oh ! my dad, my dad ! we were so 
 happy together ! " 
 
 " Yet he is happier now, Elizabeth. 
 Remember how much he suifered latterly. 
 Now he is at rest." 
 
 "Ah! Who knows that?" she said, 
 looking up in her old abrupt way. (Mr. 
 Francis had left the room). " When I 
 saw him sutfering, I used to think that 
 sometimes ; but who can tell ? His body 
 is at rest, but his soul may be suffwring," 
 she added, almost in a whisper. 
 
 " You know how good he was, Elizabeth, 
 — why should you be tormented by such 
 a fancy ? " 
 
 " I don't know : it seems to me I ought 
 to pray for him, but I don't know how. 
 At Ghent they used too oiler up masses 
 for the repose of the dead. Mr. Francis 
 has offered them up for him, I am sure. 
 Perhaps it may do good, lor who knows 
 any thing beyond the grave ? All's dark." 
 
 " One thing isn't dark. Such love as 
 his cannot end with life. You're sure of 
 that, at least ? " 
 
 '• I think so; but, all the same, he may 
 be suflering now. Oh, dear dad ! If I 
 
 only knew you were happy, and that I 
 should join you soon ! " 
 
 I was perplexed what to say to her ; her 
 frame of mind was so strange. " The long- 
 est life is but very short, Elizabeth. As 
 to his happiness, is it not possible that, 
 putting masses aside, that may be still in- 
 iluenced by your conduct? Think of this 
 if your lieart is inclined to rebel. The 
 life we lead, and not the death we die, is 
 the important thing ; and few men, I be- 
 lieve, ever had a better account to render 
 up. I never heard him say a harsh thing, 
 even of those who had wronged him and 
 you ; and wrong to you must have been 
 hard to forgive, for you were his only 
 thought in life." 
 
 " I was — I was — and oh ! he was so 
 patient, so indulgent. He was father, 
 mother, every thing to me 1 All the 
 times I was disobedient to him come back 
 to me now. Who ever will be to me as 
 he was ? " 
 
 " No one, dear Elizabeth, can be to you 
 as he was. But the last time I saw him I 
 promised him that you would always find 
 a brother in me, — that I would protect 
 your interests in every way before ray own; 
 and, depend upon it, I will keep that 
 promise." 
 
 " You're very good," said Elizabeth, in 
 a dead tone of voice, and she turned her 
 fact; towards the fire. The dark hol|ows 
 under her eyes made them look twice their 
 natural size. She added, after a moment's 
 pause, still looking at the fiery castles 
 which burned with a still, fierce heat in 
 the grate, — 
 
 " He was fond of you, Osmund." 
 
 " Yes, I thinXAie was. He showed it by 
 the trust he placed In me. I am so glad 
 to have known him, — to have known his 
 real worth, and that he had a regard for 
 me, Elizabeth, — that he did not die think- 
 ing all our race were enemies to him 
 and you." 
 
 " He did not believe he had an enemy. 
 When Cousin Humphrey said hard things, 
 dear dad always softened them away. He 
 thought every one as guileless as himself. 
 His last words were, "I'm at peace with 
 all the world, Liz." Oh ! my dad, my dad ! 
 To think that I shall never hear your voice 
 again ! " Here she sunk on her knees be- 
 side the bed once more. " I can't help it, 
 
 — I can't 1 My heart does rebel. A few 
 hours ago he could still speak to me, — 
 still call me Liz ; and now he is silent 
 forever ! Oh ! why can't I go with him ? 
 
 — why should I be left here ? No one 
 wants me, — I'm of no good to any one. I 
 don't want to stay." 
 
 I was with her more than half an hour ; 
 and Mr. Francis afterwards said that this
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 119 
 
 outburst of passionate utterance, which 
 even increased in vehemence, and lasted 
 the greater jJart of the time I was there, 
 was the first vent which the poor child's 
 grief had found. They had not heard tlie 
 sound of her voice before. Her hands were 
 hot, her eyes were dry ; her long, anxious 
 watch and etfort at self-control had 
 brought her into this unnatural, feverish 
 condition. I urged upon Cousin Hum- 
 phrey, whom I saw on leaving Elizabeth, 
 that the doctor should be sent for to look 
 at the child ; and this was done before I 
 left the house. 
 
 The old gentleman was taciturn and 
 fidgety, getting up from his chair every 
 two or three minutes to take a piece of 
 coal off the fire, and then to put it on 
 again ; to move the lamp, first on one side 
 of the table, and then on the other ; lastly, to 
 ring the bell for the patient Anne so often, 
 and fire off such numberless questions at 
 her, that ray belief is she adopted the ex- 
 pedient of remaining outside the door. He 
 said nothing of any importance to me then, 
 but his manner was kind ; and, from the 
 word or two he let drop about John, I saw 
 that he felt the loss of a man who was his 
 complete contrast in every respect more 
 than I had thought possible. But Eliza- 
 beth was the subject of all his present 
 anxiety. Anne was sent to try to coax her 
 to eat some dinner; then, when that em- 
 bassy failed, another was sent with a cup 
 of tea ; this meeting with no better suc- 
 cess, Mr. Francis went, at the old man's 
 bidding, to conjure her to take nourish- 
 ment in some Ibrm or other. After this, 
 message alter message was sent, begging 
 her to allow her bed to be moved back into 
 her room, — but all to no effect. Then it 
 was I suggested the doctor's seeing her ; 
 and Anne was at once despatched round 
 the corner to the house of the apothecary 
 who had attended John through all his ill- 
 ness. After this, it being then near nine 
 o'clock, I drove to the club, and had some 
 dinner. 
 
 I was in Cheyne Walk early the follow- 
 ing day. Elizabeth would not allow that 
 any thing was the matter with her ; but she 
 had scarcely tasted iboil, and could not be 
 got to swallow the cooling draughts which 
 the doctor had sent her. 
 
 " She is generally very tractable with 
 me," said Francis ; " but I have used all 
 my elo<juence with her in vain. You must 
 try, Osmund : she may, I think, listen to 
 you." 
 
 And, to my surprise, she did. Almost 
 without a word, she took the glass from my 
 Land, when 1 said, — 
 
 " You will take this, to please me, if for 
 no other reason, Elizabeth, won't you ? 
 
 Y''our poor father would be grieved if he 
 thought that you refused the very first 
 thing I asked of you when he was gone." 
 
 Francis drew me aside after this, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Thanks to you, we have gained one 
 point. And now, as I have told Mr. Hum- 
 phrey, we must hurry on the funeral, for, as 
 long as the body is here, Elizabeth will not 
 consent to leave it ; and every hour she re- 
 mains in this morbid condition increases the 
 evil." 
 
 As he had foreseen, the two days that 
 followed were very anxious ones. Not 
 even my supplications prevailed to induce 
 Elizabeth to leave the chamber of death, 
 and she looked wretchedly ill. The in- 
 ward fever that consumed her continued 
 unabated. What nourishment she took 
 was at my hands ; but though she said little, 
 one saw how diflicult it was to her to 
 swallow even a few mouthfuls. Her condi- 
 tion was one which made me apprehensive, 
 if it lasted, for her mind. I kept my fears 
 to myself; but I felt, as I looked at the girl's 
 hollow glittering eyes, which scarcely left 
 the bed, the hard-clinched mouth, and thin 
 hands, upon which every vein seemed start- 
 ing, that the sooner the last act in the sad 
 drama could be played now, the better for 
 my poor little cousin. When he was re- 
 moved from her sight, there would be a 
 natural revulsion of feeling, and the flood- 
 gates of the child's sorrow, I hoped, would 
 be tmloosed. 
 
 But it was hardly so. We followed my 
 cousin John to the grave on Saturday 
 morning ; Elizabeth, as chief mourner, 
 walking like one in a dream, with rigid 
 immovable face and glassy eyes riveted 
 upon the black slow-moving mass before 
 her. Once, and only once during the 
 whole service, I saw a shudder run through 
 her slight frame, when the first handful of 
 earth tell, with a dull thud, upon the coffin. 
 When all was over, she remained, with 
 clasped hands, looking down into the open 
 grave tor some minutes. Then, as it were, 
 with a wrench, she turned swiftly away to- 
 wards the cemetery-gate. 
 
 That night she was in a ravin"; fever. 
 
 " I have a word to say to you," said 
 Cousin Humj)hrey, as he and I stood with 
 a bottle of sherry and a plate of biscuits 
 before us, on the black-polished mahogany 
 table in the little parlor. Oiu- backs were 
 to the fire, which burned brightly ; Hum- 
 phrey took a copious pinch of snuff from 
 ids silver-box before he continued, " It 
 can't be long before I follow John now, — 
 v\\ V Elizabeth will then be left alone in 
 the world. Every farthing I have will 
 be hers — d'ye understand V "
 
 120 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 I inurniurcd to the efibct tliat I was glad 
 to lu'nr it. 
 
 " Why do I toll you this ? I sec no use 
 in heating about tlie hush. I'm a practical 
 man, youknow. Folks can't marry without 
 mouev ; and John's great wish was tliat yon 
 and siie shotdd make a match of it I didn't 
 like the idea at first ; I'd a prejudice against 
 all your brarch of the family ; that you 
 know. But I've watched you. You're an 
 honest lad, and you're not a fool. I hate 
 t&ols ! Elizabeth might do better ; but she 
 min'ht do worse. John would have liked to 
 see von engaged befijre he died ; but that 
 wasii't to be. I've taken the fii-st oppor- 
 tunity since his death of speaking to you, 
 young man, because I like plain dealing." 
 
 I confess I was a little afraid of the old 
 gentleman, and felt rather awkward at say- 
 mg what I felt must get itself said some- 
 ho"v. Therefore, I jerked out bluntly^ — 
 
 " I don't think my poor cousin John took 
 personal inclinations into consideration 
 when he conceived this idea. Elizabeth 
 is still a child, and has no notion of love : 
 she is more like a boy, as you know — not 
 the least sentimental." 
 
 "Hump! Sentimental? — no. But she 
 likes you ; there's no doubt about that, I 
 take it. ]Mr. Francis says you can do more 
 with her than any one." 
 
 '• I have some little influence with her, 
 because she knows her father was fond of 
 me, and made me promise always to look 
 after her. And so I will; but " — here 1 
 pauxed — " that is a different thing from 
 marr}ing." 
 
 His shrewd eyes looked up under their 
 thick eyebrows into my face. 
 
 " Do' you mean you don't like her well 
 enough, ehV \Yhat's amiss with her? 
 They told me you took an uncommon in- 
 terest always in the girl, from the very first." 
 " So I did; first," because I believed, in 
 opposition to the i-est of my family, that 
 Elizabeth is the rightful heiress to the Pen- 
 ruddocke estate. That was her first claim 
 to mv interest; then, the more I came to 
 see of her, the more her very original 
 character interested me. But I have never 
 thought of her in any other light than as 
 a sister ; and it is in that light that I wish 
 to continue to regard her." 
 
 '• Humph ! " grunted the old man. " Then 
 there's no more to be said." 
 
 That he communicated the substance of 
 this conversation to Mr. Francis, I had not 
 a doubt, but the latter said nothing to me on 
 the subject. Nor did he allude again to 
 those last words of Cousin John's, touching 
 me, of whicli he had spoken vaguely upon 
 my first arrival. 
 
 Elizabeth remained very ill for some 
 weeks. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 On my return home that Saturday even- 
 ing, I found the following letter from my 
 mother : — 
 
 " Beaumanoir, Jan. 8. 
 My dear Osmund, — Your letter has 
 pained me deeply, on account of the con- 
 tinued spirit of animosity it shows towards 
 myself. How could you tor a moment im- 
 agine that I should disseminate these shock- 
 ing rumors of your immorality? To dear 
 Mrs. Hamleigh, who is like my own sister, I 
 have, once or twice, shown the wounds of 
 my bleeding heart ; but my care has ever 
 been to shield you as much as possible 
 from the worlil. When the contrast be- 
 tween your dear brother (wh(jse conduct 
 has ever been all my fondest hopes could 
 desire) and you has been drawn by others, 
 how often have I sought to excuse you on 
 the score of a temperament, which, alas ! 
 you inherit from your poor father I You 
 have caused me great anxiety and great 
 sorrow, but I have borne my cross without 
 mui'muriu'j: ; and I should not write now 
 as I am doing, but for the terms in wdiich 
 you have thought fit to address me. It is 
 very sad to see that time does nothing to 
 soften your heart. Tlie pertinacious way 
 in which, ever since that disgraceful esca- 
 pade of yours, you have refused to return 
 to this roof, is in itself an insult to both 
 Raymond and myself, and the absence of 
 any filial tone in your letters makes me 
 feel but too keenly that you have complete- 
 ly separated your lot from us. I should be 
 failing in my duty as your mother, how- 
 ever, if I did not point out how destructive 
 to all your future prospects in tJiis world — 
 I will say nothing of the next — is the 
 course upon which you have entered. I 
 trust fervently that what you tell me is the 
 truth, and that your career of folly stops 
 short of actual criminallt// ; but the system- 
 atic avoidance of all girls (especially of 
 those possessing an independence), and 
 the conspicuous intiuiacy with married 
 women which characterizes the young men 
 of the day, I am told, cannot but be detri- 
 mental to your chances of settling satis- 
 factorily in life. Look at your Uncle 
 Levison. how he has thrown away his 
 chances 1 He might have married advan- 
 tageously, but he preferred the repiitation 
 of beiug a smart man about London ; and 
 how much good is that of now, in his old 
 age ? He is always in diflicultii-s, and the 
 strug'j;le to retain something of youth makes 
 him ridiculous to the younger generation, 
 who regard him as a bore. That is wdiat 
 the aduured Col. Levison Rich has conae 
 to; you know it even better than I do;
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 121 
 
 and that is wliat such a career as yours will 
 lead you to become. If you were wise, 
 you would now look out for a nicu; <.drl with 
 money ; lor, though I attach but little value 
 to money myself, in your case it is abso- 
 hitely essential that your wife should have 
 some fortune of her own. It is true- that 
 no <iirl who is penniless would think of 
 marryinf^ you. Your means, thanks to 
 your own wilfulness, are smaller tlian they 
 need have been, and you have no pros- 
 pects ; you can never liave more than you 
 now possess ; therefore, it is necessary, 
 that, if you ever do think of marriage, it 
 should be with some one who has at least 
 a competency. I have little hope that any 
 words of mine will liave mucli weight, but 
 I have eased my conscience by placing 
 your position plainly before you. And 
 now I have done. Tliat you may be led 
 into a better path prays your grieved, but 
 always atfectionate mother, 
 
 " Rachel Penruddocke." 
 
 I look upon this to have been a very 
 clever letter. To any one ignorant of the 
 actual circumstances, how completely it 
 made me appear in the wrong ! The sys- 
 tem of carrying war boldly into the ene- 
 my's country was never more successfully 
 adopted. My grievance was passed over 
 with scarce a word, — nothing that I had 
 advanced was actually denied ; though ex- 
 ception had been adroitly taken to the 
 word " disseminate ; " but then, " the 
 wounds of her bleeding heart," which she 
 had shown to Mrs. Hamleigh, might mean 
 just as much, or as little, as the writer 
 pleased. How skilfully she had taken ad- 
 vantage of the opening I had given her, to 
 preach the most worldly doctrine in the 
 most highly moral tone I IIow cynically 
 she had pointed her advice by a reference 
 to my Uucle Levison 1 And how ingen- 
 iously she had contrived to warn me, in 
 terms apparently of general application, 
 that it would be worse than folly for me to 
 cherish any hopes of ever winning Evelyn ! 
 I had chosen to be a poor man ; and it was 
 not for such as I to think of marrying for 
 love, if, haply, I should entertain such an 
 idea. Surely the letter was a model in its 
 way. 
 
 1 walked into White's on Sunday, and 
 asked for my Uncle Levison, whom I had 
 not seen now since the summer ; but he 
 was out of town. 
 
 " It is of little consequence," I sahl, as I 
 walked away. " It suits my mother's pur- 
 pose, and Mrs. Hamleigh's, to believe, or 
 affect to believe, these re{)orts of me. 
 NotJjing that my uncle could say, even if I 
 got him to declare they were a pack of 
 lies (which perhajjs I could not do), would 
 
 alter their tone about me, — I see that now. 
 Nothing but my marrying Miss Guildmore, 
 or some girl of that sort, would suddenly 
 transform me into a paragon of virtue. 
 Well, no matter. Evelyn still loves me, — 
 I feel quite sure of that ; and they cannot 
 prevent our meeting during the season. 
 She thinks me an awful reprobate now, 
 poor child ; but she won't be so hard to 
 undeceive as her mother." 
 
 On Monday I heard from Arthur Tuf- 
 ton. To my amazement, his letter was 
 dated from Mrs. Hawksley's. 
 
 " I came on here from Kendal Castle 
 yesterday (Saturday)," he wrote ; " the 
 good-natured hostess of the charming place 
 having invited me to spend a few days 
 here, so that I shall not be in town before 
 the end of the week at earliest, — indeed, 
 I shall probably have to go home from 
 here on business. My return to London, 
 therefore, is uncertain." After asking me 
 to do something for him, he went on to 
 say, " The Hamleighs, as you know, are 
 sta,ying here. She — I mean the girl — is 
 the most delightful specimen of sweet, 
 fresh youth, with just a tinge of sadness 
 (arising, her mother says, from the soli- 
 tude in which she has always lived). She 
 is like a girl in an old romance, and be- 
 longs altogether to a different world from 
 that of the fast and fashionable young 
 ladies of the day. I cannot understand 
 why you never named them to me — Miss 
 Hamleigh, that is to sav. I imagine there 
 is some coolness between the families ; but 
 this would not affect your natural admira- ■ 
 tion for so lovely a girl as your cousin. 
 Yet from her manner to you at the ball, 
 and her mother's tone whenever I have 
 spoken of you, I can see there is no cor- 
 diality." In a postscript he added, "I 
 am glad you beat a retreat when you did. 
 I applauded your wisdom immensely. 
 
 Lady C tried to get up a mild flirtation 
 
 with young Ashridge, after you left, but 
 it came to nothing. There was more 
 scandal talked, liowever, the last day than 
 ever. D'Arnheim and Mrs. Hartman 
 Wild were the subjects of it. It seems 
 
 Madame d'A had received a bracelet 
 
 by post some days before. The parcel was 
 addressed distinctly to her, and she hap- 
 pened to open it when the letters were 
 distributed at the breakfast-table. Lady 
 L. 1'} nsent, who was next her, saw the 
 bracelet when Madame d'Arnheim opened 
 the case, and instantly slmt it again, 
 whereupon the venomous old spinster of 
 course asked her what " that pretty thing" 
 was, and where it came from. Madame 
 
 d'A replied calmly that it was some 
 
 mistake — it came apparently from Han- 
 cock's ; but it was not for her. You will
 
 122 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 not be surprised to hear that all the old 
 •women were persuaded it cauie from you, 
 ami remained in that belief until the fol- 
 lowing eveninfj, when the bracelet ap- 
 peared on the arm of Mrs. Ilartman Wild!" 
 
 This letter did not find me in very gooil 
 spirits; and, it will readily be believed, it 
 did not contribute to raise them. I cursed 
 my folly in not having spoken openly to 
 Arthur that night that we were alone after 
 the ball. However painful to myself, I 
 ought to have run the risk of being treated 
 as a susceptible boy, whose flirtations were 
 so numerous that no serious weight could 
 be attached to the confession of an addi- 
 tional one. That would only have affect- 
 ed myself; whereas the mischief now I 
 feared already done was mischief which 
 afl'ected my friend. I reproached myself 
 sorely. I knew how Mrs. Hamleigh would 
 be sure to regard the advances of a man 
 in Arthur's position, for her daughter, 
 even were he less charming than Lord 
 Tufton ; but the hope of detaching her 
 from me would render Mrs. Hamleigh 
 doubly eager to encourage so fascinating 
 a suitor for Evelyn's hand at this moment. 
 His affections would become more and 
 more engaged, that I foresaw ; and I felt 
 very sure that he was doomed to disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " But," I said to myself, " it is too late ; 
 I have no longer any right to speak. 
 When Arthur first saw Evelyn it would 
 have been natural that I should have con- 
 fided the story of our early love to him. 
 He has continued the acquaintance in ig- 
 norance of the state of my heart, and what 
 business have I to step in now, and cry 
 ' Hands off ? ' The field is open to us 
 both. On his side is every physical, every 
 mental, every worldly advantage ; on 
 mine, Evelyn's attachment. We are not 
 engaged ; we have only met once since 
 she was a child ; she does not even believe 
 in my fidelity ; on the contrary, she be- 
 lieves me to be a reprobate, and she prays 
 for my reform. I feel very sure that she 
 will not give me up ; but, for all that, 
 should I be justified now in preventing 
 mv friend from trying his chances against 
 me V " 
 
 I decided not ; the evil was done ; it 
 must be left to work itself out. Neverthe- 
 less, I was Very miserable. 
 
 The week passed slowly away. I 
 walked daily to Cheyne Walk to learn 
 tidings of Elizabeth, and generally took 
 with me a few flowers from Covent Gar- 
 den. I did not see her : the sccur de 
 charite who had answered John now at- 
 tended her, and the doctors enjoined per- 
 fect quiet. She was not absolutely in 
 danger ; but the constitution, at her early 
 
 age, had been subjected to a severe strain, 
 and it was in a measure doubtful how far 
 it would recover from this. Humphrey 
 was very anxious, and Mr. Francis scarce- 
 ly less so. The latter was the only person 
 besides the doctor and the nurse who en- 
 tered the sick-room. On the Thursday he 
 said to me, — 
 
 " The poor child did nothing but rave 
 about you all last night. The fever has 
 now assumed an intermittent character. 
 She is quite prostrate to-day, and can 
 scarcely raise her hand to her head." 
 
 I expressed my sorrow, and said I had 
 brought her some of the last hot-house 
 grapes of the year. 
 
 "I will give them to her, but not in 
 your name, ray dear Osmund," said Fran- 
 cis, looking at me with a grave, meaning 
 look. " I fear it might only excite her. 
 Not to talk, nor to listen — if possible, not 
 to think — this is what the overwrought 
 system now demands. You look ill your- 
 self, ray boy, as if you had not slept last 
 night. AVas it anxiety about Elizabeth? " 
 
 If he lioped I should say " yes," he was 
 disappointed, good man. I replied that 
 Elizabeth had such a fine constitution, 1 
 felt but little real anxiety about her. I 
 had a conviction that her recovery, though 
 slow, would be complete. 
 
 " So the doctors think. They say, that, 
 as soon as ever she can be moved, change 
 of air and scene will do more than any 
 thing for her." 
 
 Then he added, after a pause, — 
 
 " The great difficulty, I foresee, will be 
 to give her an object and interest in liie 
 now." 
 
 " In the course of time she will marry," 
 I saiil. 
 
 " Ah ! will she ? Not unless she is in 
 love with the man who asks her. She 
 will never marry from expediency, or any 
 other motive, Osmund." 
 
 " Oh ! but she will fall in love by and 
 by, I hope, like every other girl. At pres- 
 ent she has seen no one ; and her thoughts, 
 fortunately, don't run on the subject. She 
 has too healthy and vigorous a nature for 
 such rubbish." 
 
 " She has a healthy and vigorous nature, 
 and will not succumb to weakness. In 
 that lies my great hope for her." 
 
 He said no more ; and I can recall 
 nothing else during the remainder of the 
 week that had any bearing on the events 
 recorded here. Sunday came and went ; 
 and then Monday, the most eventful Mon- 
 day in my life, dawned. It was not till 
 evening had closed in, however, that I re- 
 ceived a telegram at my club, which made 
 me start fpom the dinner-table, fling my- 
 .self into a hansom, and tell the driver he
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 123 
 
 should have five shillin;2;s if I caught the 
 " ei'^ht down-train," from Waterloo. 
 
 The telegram I received — tlie telecrrani 
 which obliged me to revoke my vow never 
 to return to Beaumanoir — was from the 
 old butler there, and ran as Ibllows : — 
 
 " Six o'clock. 
 
 " Sir, — Please come at once. There has 
 been an awful accident to rmj kubj and Mr. 
 Raymond. The latter, we fear, />• dying. 
 
 " Richard Sparshott." 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 It was quite true. I reached Beauma- 
 noir soon after midnight. Sparshott had 
 sent the dog-cart to the station on the 
 chance of my catching the last train, and 
 from the groom who drove it I heard the 
 main facts. My mother and Ray had 
 
 driven into W with a new pair of 
 
 horses, which, on the road home, took 
 fright at something, going down the steep 
 hill which leads out of the town, ran away 
 for two miles, and finally dashed against 
 the railway bridge and uj)set the carriage. 
 My mother was taken up insensible, but 
 she was not seriously hurt. Raymond had 
 fallen on his head, and had moreover sus- 
 tained internal injuries, irom which there 
 was no hope of his recovering. 
 
 Thus much I learnt from the groom 
 during that bitter drive over the Dorset- 
 shire downs. I had started without my 
 dinner, and without an overcoat, and I was 
 frozen. It seemed horrible to be thinking 
 of my personal discomfort at such a mo- 
 ment ; but as we drove through one of the 
 small villages on our road, and I saw a 
 light still burning in the tap-room of the 
 " public," I could not resist drawing up, 
 and orderincj the "room to go and brinir 
 me a glass of brandy, gin — any thing — to 
 infuse a little caloric into me. My teeth 
 chattered, and I had lost all feeling in my 
 legs and arms. Was it from purely physi- 
 cal causes that my heart was also be- 
 numbed? — that I could awake no more 
 than a sort of dull stupefied horror witliin 
 me ? 
 
 Ths lodge-gates were open. Wo drove 
 through the dear old park, every hawthorn 
 of which I knew so well ; the outlines of 
 those near the road just visible now in the 
 darkness, as we shot by them. The shadow 
 of night had rested upon me, and on my 
 home, when I had bidden it farewell two 
 years and a half before ; and it was night 
 again now that I returned here, but under 
 what dilFerent circumstances ! It is strange, 
 that, though thought and feeling were al- 
 
 most inactive at this moment, my observa- 
 tion of outward things was keenly alive. 
 I remember saying to the groom, " The 
 road used to go down that dip — it has 
 been turned." Five minutes afterwards 
 we drove under the gray stone portico. 
 
 The sound of the wheels on the gravel 
 brought two or three servants to the door; 
 and behind them, in the hall, stood the 
 Rev. Mr. Putney. I was anxiously expect- 
 ed, and yet I was received in ])erfect silence. 
 I looked in their laces. Old Sparshott 
 shook his head, and clasped his hands ; 
 and then I guessed the truth. All was 
 over : my brother had breathed his last 
 half an hour before. 
 
 I stood motionless for a minute. The 
 servants shut the hall-door very quietly, 
 then one of them took my hat ; not a word 
 was spoken ; there was no sound but the 
 ticking of the great hall-clock. I followed 
 Mr. Putney mechanically into the dining- 
 room. A wood fire burned merrily on the 
 hearth ; its warmth seemed gradually to 
 melt my congealed heart, and unloose my 
 tongue. 
 
 " How is my poor mother ? " 
 
 " Wonderfully supported, Osmund ! won- 
 derfully ; though mu( h cut and bruiced her- 
 self, she never left dear Mr. Ravmond's 
 bedside. Ah ! what a blow ! Mysterious, 
 indeed, are the ways of Providence. 
 Trulv, in the midst of life we are in 
 death ! " 
 
 " My poor mother ! " was all I could say. 
 I could not quote texts appropriate to the 
 occasion, but I felt proibundly awed ; and 
 the rector took my silence for insensibil- 
 ity. 
 
 " Ah ! such an admirable young man, 
 who never gave Lady Rachel a moments 
 uneasiness, to be snatched away thus ! 
 Ah ! dear, dear ! One can only say, ' The 
 Lord loveth whom he chasteneth ! ' Ter- 
 rible, terrible ! " 
 
 " Does she know I was sent for ? " I asked 
 presently. 
 
 " Yes, but she desired she might not be 
 disturbed until she rang the bell. Her 
 religious fortitude is a pattern to everyone. 
 A wonderful woman, truly — yes, a won- 
 derful woman ! Ah ! dear, dear ! " 
 
 After another silence of some minutes, I 
 said, — 
 
 " Was poor Ray conscious at the last ? " 
 
 He was conscious for an hour or two pre- 
 vious to his death, and he was in a very 
 blessed state of mind." 
 
 " AVas he left alone with my mother ? " 
 
 " No, I was thei'C all the time. It was 
 truly edifying ! " 
 
 " And did he say nothiitg ? — nothing 
 particular, I mean ? It ilid not appear to 
 I you that there was any thing on his mind ? "
 
 124 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " On liis mind ? Oh, de.ir, no ! IIow 
 slumld there be, leadin^j; such a spotless life, 
 dear young man, as he had done V " 
 
 I felt that I could not continue this con- 
 versation much lou'ier. ]\Ir. Putney's stere- 
 otyped phrases choked me at this solemn 
 moment, and I was really faint with hunger. 
 I hailed Sparshoti's entry with a tray of 
 Cold meat, though I saw by the rector's look 
 of ])ious amazement, Avhen I fell to eating, 
 that he held it unseemly to the last degree 
 that I should satisfy the demands of the 
 Hesh instead of listening to his platitudes. 
 It showed a callous and unregenerated na- 
 ture. I could not help it : I did not wish 
 to shock or wound any one ; but the pangs 
 of hunger were too strong for me. 
 
 " As I can be no longer of any use here 
 now, I see," said the rector, in a mildly re- 
 proachful voice, " I will bid you ' good- 
 night.' I only staid here to give you the 
 last sad particulars of your blessed broth- 
 er's end, Mr. Penruddocke. My mission is 
 over. I shall call early to inquire after 
 her ladyship, and perhaps she may desire to 
 see me. She has been always pleased to 
 say she has found comfort in my ministry." 
 
 " Gooil-night, Mr. Putney," said I, look- 
 ing up from my plate, •' I'm very much 
 obliged to you for staying. You must for- 
 give my eating, instead of my talking more 
 just now. I started without any dinner, 
 and I'm dead beat." 
 
 How glad I was to get rid of him ! After 
 I had satisfied the first cravings of hunger, 
 I called in Sparshott, and made the faithful 
 old man give me, ia his simple, straight- 
 forward way, evei"y detail of that sad after- 
 noon's history. And mui-h more did the 
 unvarnished tale move me than the rector's 
 funeral oration upon the virtues of the de- 
 parted. 
 
 My poor mother — I could think of noth- 
 ing else but her. Raymond I had loved 
 too little for his death to affect me person- 
 ally. All my sorrow was for my mother. 
 For the first time for many years my heart 
 felt softened towards her. I thought of 
 how, as a little child, I had envied Ray his 
 place upon her knee, while I was sent to the 
 nursery, or was at most suffered to play in 
 a distant corner of the drawing-room; ami 
 of how, as he grew up, all that he did had 
 seemed good in her e\ es, while through me, 
 the scapegrace, came only mortification and 
 bitterness. Xone knew so well as I what 
 my bi-other's loss would be to her. He had 
 been her sole aim in lii'e, in whom all 
 ambition, hope, and pride were centred. 
 Like her namesake of old, for him, for her 
 favorite son, had she sinned grievously ; for 
 his sake had she done that which must sit 
 heavily on her conscience in the still watch- 
 es of the night. And how could it profit 
 
 her now ? Her first-born was taken, and I 
 was left ; I for whom she had never cared 
 — I who was as a thorn in the flesh to her 1 
 Like the Rachel of Scripture again, T knew 
 that she could " not be comforted," for her 
 child, the onlv child of her heart, " was 
 not." 
 
 Truly, I also could read a lesson, though 
 not the same as the rector's, in this terrible 
 catastrophe. 
 
 I was roused from a painful reverie by 
 Sparshott. 
 
 " Pve got ready your old little room, 
 Master Osmund. I thought you'd like it 
 better than any other " — and he stood at 
 the door, with the bed-candlestick in his 
 hand, evidently thinking I had ruminated 
 over the fire loivi enou2;h. I rose and fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 "You did quite right, Sparshott: I 
 wouldn't have had any other room for the 
 world. I suppose I must go to bed ; but, if 
 my mother asks for me, mind you tell her 
 maid to call me at once." 
 
 " Her ladyship will not ring her bell now 
 till the mornin'j, I think. Master Osmund ; 
 and I'll come in to you early, sir. Good- 
 night," and, at the door of my room, the old 
 butler left me. 
 
 I entered those four narrow walls, where 
 I had once been so happy, and from which I 
 had now been self-exiled so long, with a 
 strange confhct at heart. Have you ever met 
 after many years, a friend who is indissolu- 
 bly bound up with bitter memories ? You 
 loved him, and the first sight of his f;xce 
 brings a thrill of pleasure ; but a rush of 
 painful thought follows — you are sorry you 
 have met. 
 
 There stood the little white dimitv bed : 
 the row of my favorite books, as a boy, 
 against the wall ; the fishing-rod, and the 
 gun, a wretched water-color of my father 
 over the mantle-piece and a couple of herons 
 which I hail shot and had stuifed ; all my 
 favorite household gods untouched, exactly 
 as I had left them, nearly three years ago. 
 
 I drew back the window-curtain and 
 looked out. The branches of the old witch- 
 elm had cq-own now verv nearly to touch the 
 window-sill ; beyond it lay the dark mass 
 of laurels : and then, in the starlight, I 
 could just distinguish (because my eyes 
 knew its outline so well) the church-tower, 
 under the shadow of which I had seen 
 and suffei'ed that which had been the 
 tuining-jjoiiit in my existence. That one 
 hour had influenced, and would continue to 
 influence, all my subsequent life. It could 
 never be forgotten or done away with : 
 it had severed me from my home, it liad 
 embittered all my domestic relations. 
 Griefs will heal in time, and quarrels may 
 be adjusted; but the annihilation of re-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 125 
 
 spect, the shame attendant upon dishonor, 
 where this ruin is, nothino; endurinij: can 
 ever more be built up. 
 
 IIow would it be henceforward between 
 my mother and me ? The intense compassion 
 I felt made me hope that she would in time 
 find some comlbrt in me ; but I dreaded 
 the meeting;;. Where no strong sympathy 
 exists, intercoiu'se at moments of over- 
 whelming misery is doubly difficult. She 
 knew but too well that her sorrow was not 
 mine, in any lieartfelt sense : there was not 
 even that bond of union between us — a com- 
 mon grief I could not wondei', poor thing ! 
 that she showed no alacrity to receive me. 
 
 I lay awake for a long time, but at last 
 slept soumlly, and was only roused by the 
 old butler's opening the shutters. I start- 
 ed up. 
 
 " Has my lady rung her bell ? Has she 
 asked for me, Sparshott ? " 
 
 " ]\Iy lady is up. Master Osmund, and she 
 knows as you are come," said the old 
 servant, with some hesitation of manner ; 
 " but — she hasn't asked for you yet." 
 Then, seeing me lie down again,, and turn 
 my face towards the wall, he continued, 
 with a misapprehension as to my feelings 
 which was natural under the circumstances, 
 " You see, Master Osmund, you must give 
 her time. It's no use going again' nature. 
 My lady was that fond of Master Ray, she 
 can't come round all of a sudden ; and you 
 know what my lady is — she ain't one as 
 can bear to show her feelings. You must 
 give her a bit time." 
 
 In truth, I was not the least wounded : 
 it could hardly be otherwise. And yet 
 how strangely paradoxical it sounded to 
 talk of its " going against nature " lor a 
 mother to welcome her only surviving son ! 
 I do not think it seemed so to Sparshott. 
 Like most of the servants, he lived under 
 the impression that his mistress was a su- 
 perior order of being, whose thoughts and 
 ways were not those of common humanity, 
 or to be judged by any ordinary standard. 
 I will not go so far as to say that she was 
 loved ; but her opinion was law, and her 
 actions were ever unquestioned. That 
 sweet voice, that had never been raised 
 above its ordinary pitch in my recollection, 
 that calm, goddess-like beauty and benefi- 
 cent dignity of demeanor, were influences 
 which 1 had once felt myself, and which, I 
 knew, subjected nearly all who approached 
 her, more especially her inferiors. 
 
 Sparshott had lived at Beaumanoir ever 
 since my motiier's marriage ; he was no 
 fool, and was cognizant of much in those 
 twenty-four years which must have seemed 
 to him blameworthy; but, if he ever .sul- 
 fered himself to criticise his mistress's con- 
 duct, it was in the inward recesses of his 
 
 heart alone. To others, even to me, my 
 lady was spoken of as an oracle, whose 
 utterances were to be accepted as all-wise 
 and irrevocable. 
 
 I got up by and by, dressed, and went 
 down to breakfast. The house seemed 
 unnaturally still ; maids and men alike 
 glided to and fro with a muffled tread ; 
 the very dogs looked as if they knew they 
 ought not to bark and frisk about. They 
 growled a protest as a shabby fellow passed 
 the dining-room windows. I guessed 
 rightly it was the undertaker. Then there 
 came another step upon the gravel, and 
 they pricked up their ears, but did not 
 growl : they belonged to too orthodox a 
 household to treat the rector so discourte- 
 ously. 
 
 While Mr. Putney was parleying with 
 Sparshott in the hall, my mother's maid 
 entered the dining-room. 
 
 " Her ladyship is ready to receive you, 
 sir, if you will come up to her room." 
 
 I followed her. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 The room was darkened. My mother 
 was standing erect near the fireplace, as 
 if, by her very attitude, she wished to show 
 that she would not succumb to weakness, 
 and needed no support. Her forehead and 
 cheek had been cut, and were bound up 
 with black plaster, which increased the 
 extreme pallor of her face. It was abso- 
 lutely motionless. The eyes were like 
 blue stones ; her beautiful Vandyck hands 
 were folded calmly together ; the smooth 
 bands of hair were partially shrouded by a 
 black veil. 
 
 " JNIy dear mother ! " I began, and ran 
 up to her with open arms. 
 
 She pressed her cold lips to my fore- 
 head. Neither of us spoke again for a 
 minute or two. 
 
 " This is very terrible, mother ! " I said 
 at last. 
 
 " It is God's will," she murmured ; and 
 the hollow tone of her voice was almost the 
 only indication of feeling she gave. " It 
 seems like a dreadful (keam at present; 
 but I shall come to realize it, by and by, 
 only too well. To think that this time 
 yesterday " — She stoi)ped short, and I 
 saw her breast heave. " I never contem- 
 plated the possibility of his dying before 
 me. My beautiful, gifted Ray 1 God help 
 me to bear my cross ! " 
 
 I was affected, as I knew I should be; 
 but her sell-control during the whole of 
 our interview was wonderful. She seemed 
 surjjrised that I should be moved, making
 
 126 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 use, as I well remember, of an expression 
 ■which pained me exc'eodiiijily at the time, 
 for it probed so near, without touching the 
 actual truth. 
 
 " Of course this irreparable loss to me is 
 only gain to you. You never knew your 
 brother, and cannot feel his death : I do 
 not expect it. It leaves you in sole pos- 
 session of this property ; and as you 
 never loved Hay, you cannot pretend to be 
 sorry — you cannot really feel for me — I 
 know this." Then she went on calmly to 
 discuss the arrangements for the funeral, 
 and -wrote down the names of one or two 
 persons she wished to be invited. " You 
 will give what further orders you think 
 ■well, Osmund. Of course every thing is in 
 your hands now : I can only suggest. I 
 hope that proper resjiect may be paid to 
 your dear brother's memory, that is all. I 
 will write myself to your Uncle Levison, 
 and to Mrs. Hamleigh, and ask them to 
 come for the funeral. I should wish all 
 the nearest members of the family to be 
 present. Of course the neighbors will all 
 offer to send their carriages ; let them 
 come ; let every possible honor be paid to 
 the memory of my poor boy. I repeat, 
 that is all I ask of you." 
 
 Naturally, there was but one reply, — 
 that her wishes should be complied with. 
 However distasteful to myself the parade 
 of pompous obsequies, if they afibrded any 
 consolation (strange that they could do 
 so !) to my bereaved mother, I had no 
 choice but to accede. 
 
 I Avas fully employed the rest of that day 
 in giving orders and writing letters ; 
 among the latter to Little, the family law- 
 yer, and to Mr. Francis, praying for their 
 presence at Beaumanoir by the early train 
 on Saturday. With Little this was a mat- 
 ter of course; not so with Francis, and I 
 was by no means sure that my mother 
 would wish him to be invited ; but I had 
 my own reasons for earnestly begging him 
 to come, were it only for a few hours. If 
 he did not like leaving P^lizabeth longer, 
 he could return to town by the eveninir 
 mail-train. 
 
 I may pass over the three following 
 days. 1 had much matter for grave delib- 
 eration, as will be seen presently. How 
 best to do that which I had resolved u^ion, 
 was the subject of anxious thought with 
 me all the week. Letters of condolence to 
 my mother poured in. Among those ad- 
 dressed to myself was one from Mrs. Ham- 
 leigh. The fact alone was pregant with 
 meaning. She wrote effusively, as though 
 nothing had ever occurred to interrupt 
 our affectionate relation towards each oth- 
 er. She and Evelyn would arrive by the 
 first train on Saturday ; it was impossible 
 
 to come before, on account of their mourn- 
 ing, but they would stay with dear Lady 
 Rachel after the funeral as long as I 
 wished. I could not help smiling a little 
 bitterly as I read my cousin's epistle, and 
 compared it mentally with the last I had 
 received from her, and with her words and 
 manner to me on my visit to the cot- 
 tage. I was a cast-away then, only to be 
 tolerated under protest. How had it come 
 to pass that I was whitewashed now ? 
 What had I done in the interval to redeem 
 my character ? What, indeed ! The one 
 ray athwart all this gloom was that I was 
 to see Evelyn, — to see her for a while 
 here, as in days of old, without let or hin- 
 derance. 
 
 Mr. Francis wrote that he would be with 
 me in time for the funeral on Saturday ; 
 and, if I wished him to remain till Monday, 
 he could do so, as Elizabeth was out of all 
 danger now, and was to be moved to Tor- 
 quay for change of air next week. 
 
 Joe Carter brought down my mourning, 
 and was much impressed with the grandeur 
 of my inheritance. The colonel granted 
 my application for leave until the end of 
 the month, and longer if I wished it. A 
 few manly lines from Arthur Tufton, like 
 the warm grasp of a friendly hand, was 
 the only other noticeable letter I received. 
 Those from our mighty neighbors, and 
 from my mother's family, I need not par- 
 ticularize. Such conventionalities are use- 
 ful, I believe ; the reading of them is 
 almost a mechanical employment, involving 
 little or no thought, and the prescribed 
 flattery of sorrow has a soothing effect on 
 some natures. My mother was so consti- 
 tuted. She could not believe in her heart, 
 I think, that many of these people cared 
 about poor Ray, but it afforded her a sat- 
 isiiaction that they should pretend they did. 
 
 I saw her very little ; once or twice a day 
 I went to her boudoir, and I begged that 
 whenever she wished she would send for 
 me. Occasionally she did so, about some 
 letter or matter of ceremonial — never be- 
 cause she craved for the sympathy of her 
 only remaining child. How could it be 
 otherwise ? Mr. Putney's sym]iathy she 
 really cared more for. He had known Ray 
 ever since he was born, and had never 
 wearied of proclaiming her elder son's tal- 
 ents and virtues on the house-tops ; he had 
 beslavered her with flattery, direct and in- 
 direct, for the last four-and-twenty years, 
 and it was meat and drink to her. It was 
 strange how a clever woman could listen to 
 his drivelling ; but use is second nature, 
 and his fulsome laudations of poor Ray at 
 this moment were really a comfort to her. 
 
 Our intercourse, on the other hand, do 
 what I would, could not but be constrained.
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 127 
 
 I was most anxious to avoid toucliing on 
 the future ; that topic would come soon 
 enou2;h, and very fruitful would it be of 
 bitterness, I well knew. Let my brother 
 be buried, at all events, before any discus- 
 sion between my mother and me arose. 
 But on Friday night — the night before the 
 funeral — after I had explained to her all 
 the arrangements for the morrow, she said, 
 looking at me iu her calm way, — 
 
 " How long do you mean the Hamleiglis 
 to stav, Osmund? Of course it rests en- 
 tirely with you : this is your house now, 
 and I have no intention of retaining the au- 
 thority here which dear Ray liked to leave 
 in my hands." 
 
 I have little doubt of the answer my 
 motlier looked for, which she thought I 
 coulil hardly tail to return, under the cir- 
 cumstances. It was cleverly conceived, too, 
 to make the Hamleighs' visit the point up- 
 on which my first decision should be pro- 
 nounced ; but, though perplexed for a 
 minute how to reply, I disappointed her as 
 gently as I could. 
 
 " 1 hope they will remain as long as you 
 wish to have them, — for thrc« or four 
 months if you like it. I shall be obliged 
 to return to my duty on Monday week." 
 
 There was a pause ; then she said, in a 
 very low voice, — 
 
 " I suppose you do not mean to remain 
 in the army — now ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do, mother." 
 
 " I am sorry lor it." Then another pause. 
 " With your taste for country pursuits, you 
 would find enousjli to do in looking after 
 this property." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I had rather not enter 
 upon that question just now. To return to 
 to-morrow, I wish I could dissuade you from 
 going to the church. It will be a most 
 painful trial to you, I am sure, in evcrij 
 way.'" Here my eye for a moment met hers. 
 " You bear up wonderfully, but I am afraid 
 of your physical strength giving way under 
 the strain put upon it." 
 
 " You need not be afraid — I shall not 
 disgrace you. I have had streno-th iriven 
 me to meet all my trials, and it will not 
 fail me to-morrow. If more are in store for 
 me, Osmund, I trust they may not come 
 through you." 
 
 She spoke these words in a low, distinct 
 voice, and without another syllable she rose 
 and left me. I saw iier no more that night. 
 
 The pompous and painful ceremony took 
 place at one o'clock the next day. 1 have 
 but little to say of it. The park was crowd- 
 ed with carriages for two hours before the 
 procession moved fiom the house. By tlie 
 carriage-road it was a (quarter of a mile to 
 the church. So close as we were, by the 
 path through the shrubbery, the natural 
 
 thing would have been to have walked ; but 
 I knew my mother would be grievously an- 
 noyed if I even suggested this, so every thin=f 
 was ordered to meet her wislies. The Ham- 
 leighs, Col. Levison llicli, Mr. Francis, and 
 Mr. Little arrived by the twelve o'clock 
 train. I handed Evelyn and her motlier 
 from the carriage, and saw no more of them 
 till all was over. They went to Lady 
 Rachel's room, and I had to receive those 
 who were come to pay my brother the last 
 token of respect. To the servants and 
 tenantry every thing — I have Sparsliott's 
 word for it — was considered to be most 
 satisfactory. The hearse and its plumes, 
 the long line of mourning coaches, the mutes, 
 the largesse of scarfs and gloves, the 
 baked funeral meats, the immense concourse 
 of the county " quality," — all were proper, 
 affecting, and creditable to the house of 
 Penruddocke. Joe Carter declared that 
 " it would gratify the gen'leman as is gone, 
 if he could but see it." My mother did not 
 belie herself. Her white, marble face, 
 slightly bowed, but distinctly seen through 
 her crape veil, never moved dui'ing the cer- 
 emony. Once, and once only, the arm 
 which leant on mine shook, — at least, I 
 fancied so. It was when we approached the 
 family vault. I felt my own breath come 
 quick. In spite of the solemnity of the 
 present moment, I could not but recall the 
 hour when she and I last saw tha{ door open. 
 I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground ; I 
 could not look up ; it seemed to me as if 
 all present must read the shameful secret 
 in my face. My mother, however, except 
 for that slight spasmodic movement, remain- 
 ed the whole time motionless and erect. I 
 heard many sobs around me ; tender wo- 
 men's hearts were wrung as they thought of 
 the poor mother's bereavement ; she alone 
 retained her self-control. Like a beautiful 
 lily, with head bent beneath the storm, yet 
 not broken, she stood there, the wonder and 
 admiration of all around. 
 
 Then, when every thing was over, and 
 we came out of the dark, mouldy little 
 church into the sharp air of the January 
 afternoon, the crowd fell back to let us pass, 
 and we were driven swiftly home ; but 
 there was as great confusion among the car- 
 riages in the narrow road as though the 
 event were a race, or an archery-meeting. 
 The villagers stood gaping round the 
 churchyard gate, and with coachmen sijuab- 
 bling and footmen calling for their masters' 
 carriages, it was a scene truly befitting the 
 solemnity of the occasion. Most of those 
 who had followed us to the church now dis- 
 persed ; but a few who came from a distance 
 returned to the house, where luncheon was 
 prepared. My Uncle Levison was now of 
 great service; my mind was too full of
 
 128 
 
 PENPUDDOCKE. 
 
 other matter to be able to talk to these half- 
 dozen i;HMitK'iuen ; but he coiiversod, in that 
 undertone which les hienxeances demanded, 
 of the foxes, coverts, &c., as they hunj:; 
 about the fireplace, in the awkward condi- 
 tion of men who scarcely know what it be- 
 fits tliem to say. They have come here 
 with a profession of grief, but that is over 
 and done with : they are now hungry, and 
 would fain talk oj)enly and unconcernedly 
 if they dared. A Levison Rich is invalua- 
 ble at such a time. 
 
 " It was past three o'clock when tlie last 
 dog-cart drove off. The ladies were up 
 stairs, where they had remained since their 
 return from church. I was alone with my 
 uncle, Mr. Francis, and Little. My uncle 
 looked out of the window, and began a low 
 whistle, then suddenly checked iiimself. 
 
 " Shall we take a stroll, Pen, or go 
 through the stables ? Can't remain in the 
 house all day, eh ? " 
 
 "I am sorry. Uncle Levison, but I must 
 ask you for your presence, and that of Mr. 
 Francis, in the library. I have to speak to 
 Mr. Little, and I wish you both to be pres- 
 ent." 
 
 " Ray left no will, eh ? " asked my uncle 
 quickly ; perhaps the hope of some small 
 legacy shooting through his mind. 
 
 " iSTo, he did not ; but all his personality 
 1 look upon as belonginij to my mother." 
 
 " Deuced handsome ! " said mv uncle. 
 " What, horses and all ? " 
 
 1 opened the door, without further reply, 
 and the three followed me. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 " This estate," I began, when we had 
 reached the library, " is entailed on me, 
 and I am last in the entail — is it not so, 
 Mr. Little V " 
 
 " Certaiidy, certainly, Mr. Penrud- 
 docke." 
 
 " And when I attain my majority, on 
 the 24th of June next, I have absolute 
 control over it — may do what I like with 
 it. V There is no doubt or question about 
 that ? " 
 
 " None whatever. You will be account- 
 able to no one." 
 
 " My reason for asking is this : I wished 
 to be quite sure of my position and power 
 b'jfore announcing to you the resolution I 
 have taken. On the '24lh of June, I shall 
 hand over the title-deeds of this property, 
 as a free gilt, to my cousin, Miss Elizabeth 
 Penruddocke." 
 
 '■ Good God ! are you mad ? What 
 foolery is this ? " said my uncle. 
 
 " My reasons, Mr. Little," I continued 
 
 calmly, " for taking this course will be ob- 
 vious to you. I believe Miss Penruddocke 
 to be the rightful owner of this property. 
 It woukl be impossible now to prove- this 
 legally, I am aware. Also I believe the 
 time has elapsed after which a property 
 can be claimed by law; but the obligation 
 to restore it is no less binding on me. Of 
 course I am powerless to act at present, 
 but I have called you together here to bear 
 witness to my recorded intention." 
 
 " Give up your property to that d — d fel- 
 low from America 1 " burst out my uncle. 
 
 " lie is dead — it is his daughter." 
 
 " Well, it's all the same. You must be 
 gone stark mad, Osmund 1 I never heard 
 of such a thin'^ 1 " 
 
 Then Mr. Little, who never spoke with- 
 out deliberation, cleared his throat, and 
 said, — 
 
 " I must be allowed the liberty, as the 
 legal adviser of your family for many years, 
 Ml-. Penruddocke, to counsel you that such 
 an act as this is without precedent in all 
 my experience. You are aware that when 
 the late Mr. John Penruddocke came over 
 to this country four years ago, in the hopes 
 of establishing his claim, it utterly broke 
 down ? " 
 
 " I am aware that one link in the chain 
 of his evidence was wanting." 
 
 " And one is as good as a dozen, my 
 dear sir. He hunted up all the proofs he 
 could in support of his claim. Mr. Hum- 
 phrey, I am sure, left no stone unturned ; 
 but it ended in their abandoning the idea 
 of brino-inf the case to a trial. Wliv, in 
 the tace of these facts, you should persist 
 in regarding Miss Penruddocke as the 
 rightful owner, I am at a loss to conceive." 
 
 " I dare say you are, jNIr. Little. I fully 
 understand your making this remonstrance. 
 As an old legal friend, it is not only j usti- 
 fiable, but right. But I may as well tell 
 you at once that no arguments can move 
 my determination. I believe my cousin 
 to be wrongfully dispossessed of this prop- 
 erty ; and, believing this, I could never 
 enjoy a moment's piece of mind if I re- 
 tained it. I make it a free gitt to her. I 
 am so situated that I can do so, without in- 
 terfering with any one's legal rights. Mv 
 mother's jointure, settled on her at her 
 marriage, will, of course, still be chargeable 
 on the estate — the change of hands will 
 not affect that ; and there is no one else to 
 be considered in the matter." 
 
 " By Jove ! " cried the colonel, " I should 
 like to hear what your mother would say. 
 Well, I'm glad there are only we three 
 present, Osmund. I wouldn't have it 
 talked of for the world. I'll undertake to 
 say you'll think better of it betbre next 
 June ; and in the mean time, gentlemen,
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 129 
 
 we had better agree to consider this com- 
 munication as if it had not been made, — 
 to promise that not a word on the subject 
 shall pass our lips." 
 
 " On the contrary, Uncle Levison, I 
 asked you and Mr. Francis in here that 
 you might tell my mother of the resolution 
 i have taken (I had rather not speak to 
 her myself, if it can be avoided) ; ]\Ir. 
 Francis, in order that he may inform Mr. 
 Humphrey Penruddocke and Elizabeth. 
 If I die to-morrow, I shall have discharged 
 my conscience of a burden, by at least 
 making my intentions clearly known." 
 
 " Conscience ! " muttered my uncle. " I 
 never heard of such a thing ! — never ! " 
 Then, aloud, " Mr. Francis, have you 
 nothing to say ? Surely you don't encour- 
 age this high-flown rubbish ? To give up 
 a fine property like this for some far- 
 straiued notion or other — it's perfectly 
 monstrous ! " 
 
 '* I cannot interfere between any man 
 and his conscience. Col. Rich," said 
 Francis slowly. " If Osmund believes it 
 to be right, he must do this thing. I say 
 nothing." 
 
 If my uncle had not been much irritated, 
 he was too well-bred to have retorted, as 
 he did, with a sneer, — 
 
 " I forgot you were living with those 
 other people." 
 
 A little flush came into dear old Fran- 
 cis's cheek. 
 
 " My living with Mr. Humphrey has 
 nothing whatever to do with this, believe 
 me, Col. Rich. Ask your nephew 
 whether the question of this property has 
 been talked of between us for years. No 
 influence of mine has been at work, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Nor any one else's," I struck in 
 quickly. " The subject has never passed 
 my li[)s since I came into jx)ssession ; and, 
 I may add, it is one I have never discussed 
 with any human being. I formed my own 
 unbiassed opinion long ago, when there 
 was little prospect of my ever being called 
 upon to assert it openly ; thereibre I was 
 silent. And now, Mr. Little, tell me 
 about the Lincolnshire estate. Is it part 
 of the Penruddocke property ? " 
 
 " Certainly not; if you mean of the ori- 
 ginal property. It came into the family 
 through your father's mother. It produces 
 about eight hundred a year." 
 
 "That estate I shall retain, then, as 
 Elizalu^th's right cannot touch it. And 
 now I think I liave said all I need say." 
 
 " Stay one moment I " exclaimed my 
 uncle, who had gone to the fire, and was 
 leaning back against the mantle-piece, 
 standing on one leg, and warming his soles 
 alternately. " Before we separate, let me 
 
 put one question to you. Have you reflected 
 that you may want to marry, Osmund, who 
 knows, even before you come of age ? It 
 might make all the difference in your chan- 
 ces — altered prospects, eh ? Why be in 
 such a devil of a hurry to announce this ? 
 Time enough next June. Lots may hap- 
 pen between this and then." 
 
 " AVhenever I choose a wife. Uncle Levi- 
 son, it will be a woman who will not be 
 influenced by my haying hundreds or thou- 
 sands a year," I replied very grandly. " As 
 to the announcement of my intention to 
 the world at large, you and the rest of my 
 family can do as you please. All I 
 desire is that my mother, Humphrey, and 
 Elizabeth should be apprised of it." 
 
 I left the room, seized a hat in the hall, 
 and slipped out by a back-door into the 
 park. The deed was done, and in such a 
 manner, I hoped, as to prevent all discus- 
 sions between my mother and myself. 
 That was the only thing I dreaded. 
 
 The winter afternoon was drawing in. 
 Already the blue mists in the hollows were 
 creeping up towards the house, the out- 
 lines of the woods were blurred; in the 
 thick laurel shrubbery it was almost night. 
 I wandered on, careless of which way ray 
 footsteps led me, a prey to many complex 
 feelings, dominant over which was a sense 
 of joy at having had it in my power to 
 atone for a great wrong by a simple act of 
 justice. That it was possible to do this, 
 and yet shield my mother, was another 
 cause for thankfulness. It would have been 
 a cruel alternative had I been forced to 
 choose between the exposure of her crime, 
 and submitting to be a party to the fruits 
 of it. Bereaved of her favorite son as she 
 was, I felt doubly anxious to spare her as 
 much further tribulation as might be. 
 Her pride would suffer keenly, her wrath 
 would be greatly kindled against me — 
 that there was no help for; but, at all 
 events, she would feel that her own person- 
 al reputation was secure. The admiration 
 and esteem of the world, which she prized 
 so highly, I did not mean to rob iier of 
 that — if, indeed, I had the power of doing 
 so. How much or how little I knew had 
 been a constant source of anxious specula- 
 tion to her during the last four years, I 
 have little doubt ! that I had suspicions, 
 at all events strong enough to drive me 
 from my home, she must have felt very 
 certain. It was the conviclrion that such 
 was my mother's state of vague mistrust 
 regarding me, which gave me a reasonable 
 hope that she would shun discussion on the 
 point; it touched upon too dangerous 
 ground to be approached with safety by 
 her. 
 
 It would be afTectation to pretend that
 
 130 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 the thought of giving up Beanmanoir, just 
 as it had so unexpectedly fallen into niy 
 hand;^, did not cost me some severe pangs. 
 I had never loved my old home so much, 
 1 think, as dirring this last week, when I 
 had been nominally its lord ; and now, as 
 I wandered on in the twilight, I felt like a 
 departed shade revisiting the scenes of his 
 past happiness. How joyous my childhood 
 seemed on looking back to it ! — more so, 
 no doubt, than it really was. There was 
 the spot where my father and I had planted 
 an acorn, now shot up into a goodly young 
 oak ; down there, near the turze-bush, 1 
 killed my first rabbit, and this was the old 
 hawthorn under which I learnt so many of 
 my lessons. Every foot of earth was en- 
 deared to me by some recollection, from 
 which time, with a softening hand, had 
 rubbed all the hard edges ; but sweet- 
 est of all were the memories of early love 
 bound up with the home of my childhood, 
 which was now mine no more. And even 
 as I thought of them, I saw a girlish figure 
 flitting in the twilight before me. I could 
 not be mistaken in it : I hurried after her 
 — it was Evelyn. 
 
 She looked startled at seeing me ; her 
 manner was very grave, but sweet and gen- 
 tle as it always was. She wrapped her 
 black shawl closely round her. 
 
 " I thought you were busy with Mr. 
 Little," she said. 
 
 " That is over ; and I came out here to 
 get rid of a splitting headache. This has 
 been an awfully melancholy business, 
 Evelyn; and yet, — strange, isn't it? — but 
 for poor Ray's death, I shouldn't be here 
 now." 
 
 She misunderstood me, and looked dis- 
 tressed. 
 
 " O Osmund 1 surely " — she began, and 
 then stopped hesitatingly. 
 
 " You didn't fancy I was thinking of the 
 inheritance? I was thinking of the delight 
 it was to be here in the old place, once 
 more with you, — not to meet, as we did 
 three weeks ago, in a ball-room." 
 
 " Why, then, have you never come home 
 all this time V Each visit we paid here, I 
 used to say to myself, ' This time he will 
 come ' — init you never came. If you cared 
 for dear Beaumanoir so very much " — 
 
 " I cared for it very much, and for you 
 still more, dearest ; and yet I couldn't come. 
 You must believe me, tor I can't explain 
 why." 
 
 She was silent, and I continued, — 
 " Have vou still some laith left in me, 
 Evelyn?"' 
 
 " It would be untrue if I said it had not 
 been shaken," she replied in a low voice. 
 " You were such a hero la my eyes, as a 
 child ! " 
 
 " And T want to be so still, my darling, 
 for I am in no one else's." 
 
 " So you shall be," she said with a smile, 
 '•' now that you are come home, and are 
 going to be a good boy again." 
 
 " And yet I have never changed — as 
 regards you, at all events." 
 
 " Don't say that — it hurts me," she 
 returned quickly. " It makes it seem as 
 if you did not care much about me in the 
 dear old times. I had rather think that 
 you are coming back again to what you 
 used to be, before you knew the world." 
 
 " The world 1 Shall I tell you some- 
 thing ? You would have heard nothing 
 but good of me, if I had done the worldly 
 thing my mother wanted, — married a girl 
 for her money." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! I am sure she never 
 wished that. She is so noble — poor Lady 
 Rachel ! You do her injustice, Osmund 1 " 
 " Do I ? My poor mother ! I am sure 
 I feel sincerely for her sorrow now. Ray, 
 you see, was every thing to her, and I am 
 — nothing ! " 
 
 " Ah ! if so," she sighed, " whose fault is 
 that ? " 
 
 " Not mine originally." Then I added, 
 rather bitterly, "I fancy, from the tone of 
 your own mother's letter, that she is in- 
 clined to think rather better of me now 
 than she did three weeks ago." 
 
 " I see what you mean, Osmund ; but it 
 is very wrong to imagine that the change 
 in mamma has any thing to do with — with 
 your altered jiosition. You are come home 
 at last, and are reconciled to dear Lady 
 Rachel ; and mamma says that this awful 
 event must produce a great effect on you, 
 she is sure." 
 
 " Well, I am thankful for the result, at 
 all events; but I should be a humbug, Evy, 
 if I let you fancy that poor Ray's death has 
 made any great change in me. I am much 
 as I was this day week, neither better nor 
 worse. I never wronged my brother. I 
 have nothing to reproach myself witii." 
 
 " But it is so terrible, so terrible," she 
 repeated again, in her soft, pitiful voice. 
 " Poor Lady Rachel ! I do so feel for her." 
 " So do I — from the bottom of my heart. 
 But that doesn't change my character, you 
 see, dear." 
 
 " You will be kind to her, and remain 
 with her now, won't you ? " 
 
 " Mv mother's home shall be with me, if 
 she likes to make it so ; but that I doubt. 
 She never cai'ed for me, and has, unfortu- 
 nately, been too ready to believe all manner 
 of evil of me. Whatever I can do to com- 
 fort her, however, you may dej^end on it, I 
 shall." 
 
 She walked on in silence. Presently she 
 said, with a little hesitation, —
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 131 
 
 " Is it rlcjlit to speak so of Lady llacliel, 
 after behaving as you have done, dear Os- 
 mund? Remember how much cruel anxi- 
 t ety you have cost her." 
 
 '" I am tired of self-defence," I said an- 
 grily. " As I told you the other day, my 
 tongue is tied. People must believe what 
 they like. It all depends on whether they 
 do like it." 
 
 She looked with a saddened expression 
 into my face. 
 
 '• Are you one of those who like to believe 
 evil of me ? " I said more gently. 
 
 " You know I am not. Why do you 
 ask ? " 
 
 " Because you seem to have swallowed 
 all you have been told." 
 
 " No." .she rejjlied, and her voice shook, 
 " not all." 
 
 " You believed all that foolish gossip 
 about me at Kendal Castle?" 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 " Sjjcak, Evy. My future happiness 
 depends on our being frank with each 
 other." 
 
 " There are some things," she murmured, 
 "which one must be blind, as well as deaf, 
 not to understand. But now, dear, that 
 you are come home, all will be right again. 
 Mamma herself thinks so." 
 
 " We shall see. I am afraid she will 
 change her mind. Now, tell me, how did 
 you like Lord Tufton ? " 
 
 " Very much : he was very kind, and he 
 spoke so affectionately of you." 
 
 " And did not that alter your mother's 
 opinion of me ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " He confessed to mamma that he was 
 uneasy about you." 
 
 " By Heavens ! There is a fatality in 
 tliis. Arthur, who would never wittingly 
 injure me ! And what did he say to you'? 
 — you say he spoke affectionately of me." 
 
 '' Well," she replied, with a ^ad little 
 smile, " when he said that you lived like 
 brothers, and yet confessed that he had 
 never heard my name pass your lips, I felt 
 hurt. I said you had left me as a child, 
 anil I suppose you sliU thought of me as 
 such." 
 
 " You told him tliaf f Well ! There ts 
 a fatality in these things. I wonder you 
 did not guess the true reason, Evy — that 
 I could not talk of my love even to my 
 best friend, if he did not thoroughly sym- 
 pathize with me. lie thinks that 1 regard 
 you still as a child, then ! " 
 
 " What does it signifiy ? " she asked. 
 
 "Nothing — you are a child, I am glad 
 to see still, in simplicity, though you have 
 lost the blind confidence you once liad in me.' 
 
 " Love — true love is not blind, I think, 
 but quick- sighted." 
 
 " Ah ! you fancy so." I seized her hands 
 and drew her towards me. " Oh 1 my own 
 dai'ling, what thing is there I can do to 
 make you believe in me truly, implicitly, 
 again ? " 
 
 The sweet, half-shrinking face was lifted 
 to mine, and I kissed it passionately. Then 
 it was buried on my shoulder, and I heard 
 a low whisper, — 
 
 " Why do you ask me ? You know too 
 well. Give up that bad friend, — that for- 
 eign lady." 
 
 Then, as thoucrh frijihtened at what she 
 had said, she sprang from my arms, and 
 shot through the shrubbery into the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 It was agreed between my uncle and 
 Mr. Little to say nothing to my mother 
 upon the subject of my communication 
 until the following day. Let a night, at 
 least, intervene between the sorrow of bury- 
 ing; one son, and that of learnin<j that the 
 other was bent upon abandoning that fair 
 patrimony which had been the pride of all 
 her married life. 
 
 Now that the funeral was over, indeed, 
 she did, at last, in some measure, give way. 
 She had borne up as long as there was any 
 thing of representation to be gone through ; 
 she had even announced her intention of 
 joining the dinner-table that night ; but 
 when the hour drew near, she was unequal 
 to this fresh exertion, and kej^jt her room. 
 I asked if she wished to see me, but she 
 declined ; Mrs. Haraleigh only was ad- 
 mitted. Our evening was a dreary one, as 
 may be imagined. Very little was said ; 
 even my uncle's easy, empty loquacity was 
 quelled by the announcement I had made 
 to him. Mrs. Hamleigh was the only one 
 who had not a secret weight or anxiety at 
 heart ; and she thought it but decorous to 
 maintain a mournful silence. 
 
 The next morning, Sunday, we all went 
 to church, and Mr. Putney improved the 
 occasion, as I knew he would, by a funeral 
 oration upon my brother. It was fulsome ; 
 it sinned against good taste in every way ; 
 but he gained his end by it. My mother 
 sent him twenty-five pounds, " as a slight 
 recognition of his valuable services during 
 her heavy affliction." 
 
 In the afternoon, my uncle and IMr. Lit- 
 tle asked to have some conversation pri- 
 vately with my mother. The rest of us 
 went out walking. Mrs. Ilamluigh fastened 
 herself upon me : she was more than cor- 
 dial, she was effusive. For some time she 
 confined herself to such fragmentary ejacu- 
 lations as, —
 
 132 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " It is so nice having you here again ! 
 So like old times ! Is it not, mj' darliii'T 
 child ? How often wo have longed for 
 hiiu ! — have we not ? " 
 
 '' Ah ! you longed for me to be awai/. 
 ■when I came down to the cottage," said I 
 nitlilessly. 
 
 " To the cottage 1 Oh ! but you were a 
 naughty, naughty boy, then ! We will not 
 refer to that time. By the by," Evelyn 
 and Francis were a few paces in front just 
 then. ■' Lord Tufton spoke so 7ilcel)/ of 
 yon. It was such a pleasure ! You are 
 very intimate, are you not ? " 
 
 " We are, — very intimate." 
 
 " I hope it is not true that he is a gam- 
 bler ? It would be too sad. They say he 
 is half-ruined." 
 
 " Do they ? Poor Arthur ! That is so 
 like the world's good-nature." 
 
 '• Like the world's good-nature," — and 
 she wagged her head, while she looked in- 
 quiringly in my face. " Then it is not 
 true? — so glad." 
 
 •' Well, he has only come into the title 
 about three months, and he has certainly 
 not touched a card or made a bet during 
 that time, — in fact, he had given up play 
 long before, so his present Ibrtune is cer- 
 tainly not affected by that." 
 
 '• And is it — is it large ? " 
 
 " No, it is not large. For a peer, he is 
 decidedly poor ; but then he has everj' 
 thing else in the world, — talent, amiabil- 
 ity, good looks, — what does a little money, 
 more or less, signify ? " 
 
 I found a vicious pleasure in watching 
 my cousin's face as I said this. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, — ah 1 yes, what does it 
 signify V as your sweet mother always says. 
 Principle is every thing. And he has prin- 
 ciple, — orthodox, I hope ? " 
 
 " I don't know much about orthodoxy. 
 He is a right good fellow, — only you 
 mustn't believe all he tells you about me. 
 He has an idea that I am a soft-hearted 
 spoon. Now, I am nothing of the sort." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no," said my cousin, with her 
 nervous grin ; " I am sure if he saw you 
 here, — with us, so domestic, so very nice 
 as you can be. Lord Tufton would see that, 
 — that you only want to be in good hand.'i, 
 that is it, in good hands. You have turneil 
 over a new leafl, — yes, a new leaf. I was 
 savin? so to your dear mother this very 
 day."' 
 
 " Well, the old leaf was a good deal 
 dog's-eared by my friends, — any page can 
 be dirtied in that way." 
 
 " Ah ! I fear you have been a sad boy, 
 all the same," she said playfully ; and as 
 Evelyn turned just then, the interesting 
 conversation dropped. 
 
 It was du^k when we reached home, and 
 
 the dog-cart was at the door, to take Mr. 
 Little to meet our only Sundny up-train. 
 lie was in the hall, and drew me aside. 
 
 " Well, sir, the colonel and I have told 
 her ladyship ; but I hope, I do really hope, 
 that you will see fit to alter"your determi- 
 nation before the time comes for acting 
 upon it." 
 
 '■ "What did my mother say, Mr. Little? " 
 
 " Vei-y little. She turned as pale as 
 death, and did not speak for some time. I 
 never saw lier ladyship so visibly upset. 
 She saiil at last that she could not believe 
 it, — it was impossible but that you would 
 be brought to see reason." 
 
 " Was that all that passed ? Did she 
 say nothin:; more ? " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Penruddocke, — yes, she did 
 say something more. She asked me if 
 there was no legal impediment to your 
 committing this act of folly ; for, excuse 
 me, such I must call it. Your friends 
 would be justified in doing all they could 
 to prevent it, for the sake of any children 
 you may have hereafter, if it were possible. 
 Unfortunately it is not. As I told her 
 ladyship, you are your own master, to act 
 as you please, on coming of age. All we 
 must hope is that your good sense will pre- 
 vent your perpetrating an act which you 
 will assuredly repent all the rest of your 
 days." 
 
 Having spoken out this boldly, the old 
 lawyer, whom I respected the more for his 
 freedom of speech, took his departure. 
 
 The colonel was closeted with my mother 
 for nearly half an hour lonq;er. Then came 
 a raessa'j;e, desiring Mr. Francis's presence 
 in her ladyship's boudoir. When he re- 
 joined me in the Ubrary some time later, I 
 was standing with my back to the fire. He 
 came up, and laid both hands on my shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " My dear Osmund, I have had a very 
 painful interview with Lady Rachel." 
 
 " I was afraid it mi'^ht be so, Mr. Francis. 
 I hope " — and here I (topped. I knew that 
 my mother had never really liked the man, 
 whom a respect for his great attainments 
 alone had induced her to retain with her 
 sons so long. 
 
 " Lady Rachel accuses me of influencing 
 your decision in this matter. She seems to 
 think, that, in becoming Elizabeth's tutor, I 
 have ' gone over to the enemy,' as she ex- 
 pi-esse(l it ; and that, but for me, this idea 
 would never have entered your mind. Now, 
 my dear boy, you know how carefully I have 
 abstained from ever speaking on this subject. 
 Ever since your announcement yesterday, I 
 have felt it better to be silent. I met your 
 mother's suspicions, therefore, with a per- 
 fectly clear conscience ; and I should not 
 tell you of the unjust accusation now, but 
 
 s.
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 133 
 
 that I want to say something to you, upon 
 this subjt'C't, lor the first and hist time.*' 
 He paust;d lor a moment, not as awaiting 
 a rejoinder li'om me, but as if in considera- 
 tion liow he should proceed. "I hardl)' 
 know if I am jnstitied in saying what 1 am 
 about to say. Nothing but my strong affec- 
 tion for )'ou, and lor Elizabeth' too, would 
 induce me to do so. You are resolved to 
 dispossess yourself in lier favor. Why 
 should you not marry lier?" 
 
 Again he paused ; but I was too much 
 startled to rep\y at once, and he went 
 on, — 
 
 " You know enough to be aware that this 
 was her father's most earnest wish, while as 
 yet there was no prospect of your inheriting 
 Beauiiianoir. Wliat vou do not know, I 
 think, is tlie influcsnce you possess over 
 Elizabeth's heart." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear Mr. Francis. It's 
 nothing but a child's fancy, I assure you. 
 • . . Say no more about it — it distresses 
 me. It could never be." 
 
 " And wliy not V You have always taken 
 the warmest interest in Elizabeth ; sucli an 
 interest as would ripen into love if you en- 
 couraged it. She is no common character. 
 If she marries a man to whom she is devoted, 
 she will make a very rare wife ; if she does 
 not — however, that is useless speculation. 
 Though scarcely more than a child in years, 
 she has the strong heart of a woman. 1 
 know — even, perhaps, better than she 
 knows herself — around what it has been 
 growing closer and closer, attaching itself 
 more and more every month that I have 
 lived with, and watched her. Tlie peculiar 
 circumstances of the case must be my plea 
 for saying this, Osmund. I see two young 
 lives that might make each other's mutual 
 happiuess likeJy to drift asunder — there- 
 fore I speak." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Francis, for once your 
 wisdom is at fault. Elizabeth is not a bit 
 suited to me. Her originality charms me 
 in a cousin. It would fidget me in a wife." 
 '■ She is still a little wild, I grant, but 
 there is no such tamer as love. Think of 
 what she was a year ago : she is marvel- 
 lously softened ; and it is, in reality, more 
 your work than mine, Osmund. You 
 mi'^ht nudie wlnit you pleased of her. 
 She is as superior to any other girl of 
 her age I ever met " — 
 
 '' Ah ! there I can't agree with you. But 
 of course it is a matter of oi)inion." 
 
 " I do not sj)eak of beauty, of course. If 
 you saw her mind, as I see it, in hourly in- 
 tercourse, jou would feel as I do. She is 
 above all the little pettinesses of her sex ; 
 she has a large, nobU; soul, and I believe, 
 Vf'lien she once obtained an iulhicnce over 
 you, that she would keep it. It would be 
 
 an elevating one, whereas that of many 
 women is often the reverse; and with your 
 temperament, I hold it of paramount im- 
 portance into whose hands you fall. Then, 
 my boy, remember the diiiicullies such a 
 marriage would smooth away. IIow natur- 
 ally' it would reconcile all interests 1 " 
 
 " Except my own. No, my dear Mr. 
 Francis, Elizabeth will have her property, 
 and 1 shall have my liberty. I won't de- 
 prive her of one, and she shall not deprive 
 me of the other." 
 
 " One word more, and I have done. 
 Promise me, that, between this and June, 
 you will see more ef her. When this 
 property is actually given up to her, many 
 considerations will interfere to prevent your 
 coming forward as her suitor. However 
 much }ou grow to be attached to her then, 
 the appearance of a desire to regain your 
 estate would be very distasteful to you. 
 Now the case is different ; nothing could 
 be more natural than such a marriage." 
 
 " My dear friend," I said at last, after 
 musing for a moment or two, " I hope to 
 Heaven you are mistaken in what you sup- 
 pose to be Elizabeth's feeling towards me ; 
 but, if it be so, I am doubly bound to refuse 
 what you ask. She and 1 had better meet 
 as little as possible, for I shall never marry 
 her. Why shouldu't I tell you the truth ? 
 I shall never marry any one but Evelyn 
 Hanileigh." 
 
 lie looked me steadily in the face, and 
 sighed. 
 
 " From all I heard, I thought you had 
 long since forgotten that boyish fancy." 
 
 " Never. 1 suppose, like the rest of the 
 world, vou have heard lies about me. Thev 
 are lies. You will believe me V I have 
 never loved anv one but Evelvn ; and, in 
 spite of her mother, I mean to marry her." 
 
 " Then 1 have no more to say." 
 
 I saw he was grievously disappointed. 
 There was a silence of some minutes. 
 Presently he said, — 
 
 " Flas it occurred to you that Elizabeth 
 may refuse to accejit, as a gift, what her 
 father would have proved, if he could, was 
 her right Y " 
 
 " I wanted to speak to you on that point. 
 Of coiu'se her right can never now be 
 prooed." (Here our <" • - met.) "There 
 is a secret which wi! .iways be safe with 
 you : it must never be unearthed. But I 
 wish you to tell Elizabeth and Humphrey 
 this — that, though her claim cannot legal- 
 ly be established, I am acting upon the ce/"- 
 tain conciction that this property is justly 
 hers. It is no act of generosity. 1 could 
 not retain it an hour, knowing as 1 do that 
 1 have no right to it." 
 
 " Be it so. And henceforward, my boy, 
 I suppose that I shall see very Iitt',e of you 't
 
 134 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 That is sad news for me. Though you have 
 given me more anxiety and trouble," he 
 added, with a sad smile, " than any other 
 human being ever did. I always luved you 
 as my own son. Ah! how I wish — But 
 what is the use of wishing ? God knows 
 what is best for us. We are the blind in- 
 struments of his will. When we try to 
 work our own, we are generally punished 
 in one way or another." 
 
 The servants entered with lamps : the 
 first dinner-bell rang, and I had no more 
 conversation with Francis, He left 13eau- 
 manoir by the first train the Ibllowing 
 morning. 
 
 My uncle had renounced his intention 
 of returning to London on INIonihiy, owing, 
 I have no doubt, to my mother's instance ; 
 ibr 1 had not the courage to ask him, 
 knowing how bored he must be ; but, with 
 all his worldliness and fbllv, he had a kind 
 nature, and, when put to it, would sacri- 
 fice his own comfort tor others more readi- 
 ly than most people would have given him 
 credit for. What my mother thought that 
 she gained by his presence I scarcely 
 know : she had by so tar the better head 
 of the two, that she was not likely to take 
 counsel of her bi-other ; but the cleverest 
 women at times will lean, or ailect to lean, 
 on the weakest men. For myself, I was 
 sincerely glad be should stay : he broke, 
 in some measure, the iciness of our narrow 
 circle. Mrs. Ilamleigh had frozen again 
 below zero. Evelyn looked sorrowful; 
 but I had no opportunity of another tele-a- 
 tete, as I ardently desired. 
 
 It is strange, in these days of independ- 
 ence, to find a child so completely under 
 subjection to a parent as she was to her 
 mother; but to Evelyn, I need hardly say, 
 Mrs. Hamleigh appeared in a very difi'er- 
 ent light from what I have represented 
 her in these pages. Her mother's devo- 
 tion to her had always been true and 
 entire. Mrs. Hamleigh would have walked 
 barefoot all her days, if, by so doing, she 
 could have secured for her daughter those 
 things she esteemed of the highest worth 
 this side the grave. And Evelyn, believ- 
 ing her mother's character to be of the 
 rarest excellence, bowed down with al- 
 most implicit deference to her mandates, 
 if not to her opinions. Though she might 
 not think in all things as her mother 
 thouc^ht, the habit of her young life made 
 it impossible for her to act in opposition 
 to her mother's wishes. This is what I 
 could not understand at the time. Eve- 
 lyn's blind obedience chafed me. Why 
 should she submit to be treated still as a 
 child ? 
 
 My mother appeared down stairs on 
 Wednesday, and met me without visible 
 
 discomposure. Our intercourse was of 
 the '■ yea and nay " character, limited to 
 connnonplaces. She clearly avoided an 
 interview alone with me. My days were 
 fully occupied, for I regarded myself as 
 holding the property in trust for Elizabeth, 
 and I resolved that it should not suffer 
 during my stewardship. My uncle and I 
 walked througli the plantations, which 
 had been neglected since my father's 
 death, and needed thinning; we discussed 
 the re-fencing and draining of certain 
 portions of the estate : we looked over the 
 live stock of the farm with the baililF, and 
 valued it. 
 
 On Saturday, however, my happy, mer- 
 curial uncle left us, and I wandered about 
 alone. The ladies sat together in my 
 mother's boudoir : it was so arranged, no 
 doubt, to obviate Evelyn's being left alone 
 with me, even for five minutes. On Sun- 
 day, however, on their return from after- 
 noon church, she entered the library to 
 fetch a book. As I was always out till 
 long after dark, she little thought to find 
 me there : indeed, until she hail reached 
 the centre of the room, she did not per- 
 ceive me ; for I was in the embrasure of 
 a window, reading " Bell's Life " by the 
 fading rays of daylight. 
 
 " At last ! " I exclaiuied. " I have been 
 all the week waiting for this opportunity. 
 Don't run away, my pet." 
 
 " Mamma will be very angry if I re- 
 main. I must not, Osmund." 
 
 " Rather hard in my own house. Look 
 here, you niu!<t listen to me ; you really 
 must," and I drew her into the window. 
 " Do you know why I am suddenly tabooed 
 again ? " 
 
 " Ah 1 " she sighed, " why have you 
 spoilt every thing ? Will you not give up 
 this wild idea, even for my sake V " 
 
 " My own pet, you don't know what you 
 ask ; you could not, if you did. It would 
 be renouncing truth and honor on my part. 
 I can't tell you, or any one else, w/nj it is 
 a two-fuld duty with me to give up Beau- 
 manoir ; but it is so. There is no help 
 for it." 
 
 " You will never get Lady Rachel to see 
 it in that light," replied Evelyn, shaking 
 her head sadly. 
 
 '• No ; but when you are my wife, tjou 
 will see it in that light : there shall be no 
 secrets from you then." My arm w:is 
 round her waist. I bent down, so that I 
 could look into those sweet brown eyes, 
 •and continued rapidly, " The time is 
 come, darling, when you must decide be- 
 tween your mother and me. Will you 
 pledge yourself to marry me, sooner or 
 later, in spite of all opposition ? " 
 
 "I love you," she said, in a very low
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 135 
 
 voice; ")'ou knc(w that, Osmund — but I 
 will never marry in opposition to mamma." 
 
 " Wliat does this opposition mean ? 
 Listen to me for a moment. Slie treats 
 me lilve a dog as long as I am poor ; I be- 
 come rich, and for a few days she is all 
 smiles. She would have liked you to 
 marry Ray, but, as long as you become 
 mistress of Beauraanoir, it doesn't matter 
 whether it is he or I. And now she hears 
 that I am going to give up the property, I 
 am scouted once more. Is this any thing 
 but the most miserable worldliness ? " 
 
 She gently disengaged herself, and 
 looked up resolutely into my fdce. 
 
 " If you speak in that way of mamma, 
 I cannot listen to you. She has devoted 
 her whole lite to me : she is cpiite incapa- 
 ble of such base feelings. She hoped you 
 were reformed, and now she and Lady 
 Rachel say this step you mean to take 
 shows your tastes are unchanged. First, 
 you could hardly be got to leave the ranks ; 
 and now you only associate with the worst 
 people in London. You shrink from the 
 responsibilities of a large property, and 
 prefer a life of dissipation : that is what 
 they say, and that is why mamma is so 
 changed about you." 
 
 " And you believe this stuff? " 
 
 She hesitated for a moment. 
 
 " No, I will not believe it. I think they 
 are both mistaken ; but that does not 
 make mamma's motives base, as you say. 
 You will explain nothing, and it seems 
 impossible to understand your conduct, 
 after the law has so clearly given the case 
 in your favor." 
 
 " What says Tennyson ? ' Trust me all 
 in all, or trust me not at^all.' Some day 
 you shall know every thing. Do you re- 
 member your last words to me the other 
 evening? " 
 
 " I do," she murmured, looking down 
 and coloring. 
 
 " ^Vell, you must trust me in that too. 
 You must trust me when I tell you that a 
 better woman than Madame d'Arnheim 
 doesn't exist, and that nothing can be more 
 false than the aspersions against her." 
 
 She. was silent. 
 
 " If you knew what her counsel and 
 sympathy have been to me, ever since I 
 came to London, you wouldn't wish to part 
 me ii-oni so valuable a iiiend. And yet. 
 Evelyn, if you exact this sacrifice, 1 will 
 make it, — on one condition." 
 
 She still said nothing ; and her fingers, 
 almost unconsciously, played with the 
 locket that hung upon my wuteh-cliain. I 
 oj)ened it, and showed her her own lock of 
 hair. 
 
 " That has never left me since the hour 
 you cut it oil'. Promise, Evelyn, that you 
 
 will be my wife, and nobody else's, and, 
 hard as I shall feel it, I will then promise 
 you to break ofl" all intercourse with Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim. But I will do this for 
 no one but my affianced wife." 
 
 When she looked up, I saw why she had 
 remained so long silent : the tears, which 
 had been gathering in her eyes, were now 
 raining down her cheeks. 
 
 " What am I to say ? — what can I do ? 
 God knows I would not separate you from 
 any true friend ! And, besides, what can I 
 promise ? It would kill poor mamma, if I 
 were to marry against her wishes ! " 
 
 " Will you promise never to marry be- 
 cause of her wishes ? — that, as long as I 
 am true to vou, you will remain true to 
 me ? " 
 
 "I will," she whispered; and I sealed 
 her promise with a kiss. 
 
 " Pressure will soon be brought to bear 
 on you, my darling. You will have need of 
 all your powers of resistance. I foresee 
 that now your mother will want you to be 
 Lady Tufton." 
 
 She started. The words were scarcely 
 out of my mouth when the door opened 
 quickly, and Mrs. Hamleigh appeared. 
 
 "■ Evelyn," she cried, in a sharper tone 
 than I had ever heard her use towards her 
 daughter, " what are you doing here, my 
 dear ? Sunday afternoon is no fit time for 
 idle gossip." 
 
 " We were not indulging in idle gossip, 
 I assure you, Mks. Hamleigh." said 1, with 
 a smile ; " but it seems destined that you 
 shall always misunderstand me." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 TniXGS continued very much in the 
 same way for two days. 
 
 On Wednesday morning I saw a letter di- 
 rected to Mrs. Haraleigh on the breaklast- 
 table, and recognized Arthur's hand. A 
 couple of hours later my mother sent lor 
 me. AVith what object ? I asked myself, 
 as I very reluctantly obeyed the summons. 
 
 She was alone, and seated in her custom- 
 ary chair on one side of the fire, with her 
 back to the window. She pointed to a 
 ber(jere opposite. 
 
 '• Sit down, Osmund. I have not trusted 
 myself to see you alone yet, since I heard 
 of your intentions. But it is necessary 
 that I should do so now. Do not be afraid : 
 I am not going to appeal to you. I know 
 how useless any supplications of mine 
 would be. It is for the sake of others that 
 I have consented to speak to you." 
 
 She paused, as if expecting me to reply ; 
 but I was too much puzzled by this begin-
 
 136 
 
 PENRUDUOCKE. 
 
 ning:, to fiiul any thino; to say ; so there I 
 sat, looking at her, and at last she contin- 
 ued, — 
 
 '• In your letter to me some weeks ago, 
 there was a passa;jje referring to Evelyn." 
 
 " There was, — I remember." 
 
 " IVrliaps it meant nothing ; bnt Mrs. 
 Ilamleigh is under the impression, from 
 language she believes you have held, and 
 letters of yours to Evelyn," — 
 
 " Which she intercepted." 
 
 " That you really are in love with your 
 cousin. Is this so ? " 
 
 '■ As I told you in my letter, I shall 
 never marry any one but Evelyn." 
 
 " I am glad you have still a capacity for 
 a pure and honest attachment left. But 
 to the point. A few days since, the idea 
 of t^uch a marriage would have been mad- 
 ness, — madness on both sides ; now, alas ! " 
 (and that long-drawn sigh came from her 
 very heart. I know), — "now, alas! the 
 case is dillerent. If, as you assert, you 
 have really changed your mode of life " — 
 
 " f '^'^o y<Jur pardon. I have asserted 
 nothing of the kind." 
 
 " If you are as attached to Evelyn as you 
 would have her believe " — she pursued, 
 regardless of the interruption — " her 
 mother authorizes me to say, that an 
 entia-jcement between vou is not altogether 
 impossible." 
 
 I began to see a glimmer of light. 
 
 '• Let me understand you, mother. Mrs. 
 Hamleigh consents to Evelyn's marrying 
 me as a poor man." 
 
 " No : " !-he looked me steadily in the 
 face. " She consents to her marrying you 
 if you retain Beaumanoir, — not other- 
 wise." 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 " And tins, Osmund, is notwithstanding 
 a more advantageous oSer, in many re- 
 spects, — one which would have given 
 Evelyn a higher jiosition in the world — 
 which she received this morning " — 
 
 " I understand. She is to give up Tuf- 
 ton's coronet, and four thousand a year, 
 for Beaumanoir with fifteen. Isn't that 
 about it V " 
 
 ■' If you choose to put it in that coarse 
 way, you can. Evelyn has known you all 
 her lili->, and likes you, and her mother has 
 no olijection to the marriage ; but she can- 
 not let her child marry a pauper. It en- 
 tirely rests with you." 
 
 " That is vour ultimatum, mother ? " 
 
 " It is Mrs. Hamleigh's." 
 
 " It comes to the same thins:. You hold 
 out the only bribe which you think has a 
 chance with me. And both of you talk as 
 if Evelyn were to be disposed of just as 
 her mother likes. After doing every thing 
 to make her believe that I was a monster 
 
 of vice (I was to be avoided as if I had 
 the plague), — suddenly you tell her she 
 may marry me. How does Mrs. Hamleigh 
 know she would consent ? " 
 
 My mother fell into the trap, and made 
 a false move. ' 
 
 " I believe there is little doubt that she 
 would consent to an en2;agement with vou, 
 
 — a provisional engagement, I mean." 
 "Oh! you think ^ so ••' And Tufton ? 
 
 Would she be equally amenable as regards 
 him ? 
 
 " Her mother would find some diffi- 
 culty at first, possibly ; but if Evelyn saw 
 that a marriage with you was hopeless, 
 
 — if you made it impossible, — I believe 
 she would ultimately yield." 
 
 " You are mistaken. She will never 
 maiTy Lord Tufton, or any one but me. 
 She is very pliant, — too much so I think ; 
 but not quite to the point you imagine. 
 Every means, fair and foul, has been tried 
 to divide us, — and with what efieet ? She 
 loves me still, as you yourself have just 
 acknowledged, and she will never give nie 
 up for any man on earth." 
 
 " She has been brought up to respect 
 parental authority,' was the reply, given 
 with a reproachful emphasis on the last 
 words. " She will never fly in her moth- 
 er's tace, — that you may be sure of. But 
 why discuss this ? If you are really in 
 love, if this is any thing more than one of 
 your idle flirtations, you cannot hesitate, 
 of course, to sacrifice your own selfish in- 
 cliiiations, and submit to Mrs. Hamleigh's 
 terms." 
 
 " My reply is very short. I am really 
 in love, and I refuse Mrs. Hamleigh's 
 terms." 
 
 j\Iy mother leant back in her chair, and 
 her face became a shade paler. 
 
 " Then there is no hope for you. I half 
 expected as much. You are bent on your 
 own destruction, and that of your family. 
 Your obstinacy is so great that you will not 
 listen to reason, even for Evelyn's sake ! " 
 
 " ' Listening to reason,' in this case, 
 means acting dishonestly." 
 
 I saw my mother wince : her eyes avoided 
 mine. I rose. 
 
 " Do not force me to speak more plainly, 
 mother. Believe me, this is a subject best 
 avoided between you and me. Nothing 
 can change my determination." 
 
 " I have done," she began, in a voice 
 which, though she struggled to maintain 
 her composure, betrayed how deeply Aie 
 was agitated, as she went on : " I did not 
 send for you to plead, but to place your 
 position as regards Evelyn clearly before 
 }ou. I shall say no more. Your course 
 will be a downward one , but I shall have 
 the consolation of knowing that I did my
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 137 
 
 duty in waraing you. Henceforward you 
 must go your own way. The day may 
 conic when you will repent of your conduct 
 towards nie — and at a time, too, when I 
 am 1)0 wed down by sorrow." 
 
 " I am grieved to add to it in any way, 
 mother ; but, remember, you obliged me 
 to speak. I feel most heartily for you, and 
 if there is any thing I can do, except this 
 one thing — to add to your comfort " — 
 
 " Comfort ! " she interrupted, with a bit- 
 ter inflection of voice. " No ! you will 
 never be any thing but a disgrace and a 
 constant humiliation to rac." 
 
 " I hope not," I returned quietly. "In 
 spite of i\Irs. Hamleigh, mother, I mean to 
 win Evelyn by and by." 
 
 " That you will never do. You will 
 never meet, if Mrs. Hamleigh can help it. 
 They will leave Beaumanoir this very 
 afternoon, and Lord Tufton is to be asked 
 to the cottage next week." 
 
 " Very good. Let Arthur try his luck. 
 I'm not afraid. But it's a pity they should 
 leave to-day on my account. Mrs. Ham- 
 leigh's presence is a comfort to you, which 
 mine, unhappily, can never be, you say. I 
 have done all that is necessary here, and 
 may as well go up to town to-night." 
 
 " As you please ; " and, as if she could 
 not trust herself to say another word, she 
 passed into her bedroom, and closed the 
 door behind her. If she abandoned her- 
 self there to the anguish of her soul, it was 
 unwitnessed by mortal eye. 
 
 When I met Mrs. Hamleigh and Evelyn 
 at luncheon, they were evidently cognizant 
 of my approaching departure. Evelyn's 
 eyes were very red: she kept them tixed 
 upon her plate the whole time. Mrs. 
 Hamleigh grinned nervously, as she said, — 
 
 " I hope you will return soon, Osmund, 
 to keep your poor angel-mother company. 
 So lonely ! so sad 1 and we must leave her 
 next week, — I'm so sorry ! " 
 
 " I hope you will come as often, and for 
 as loner, as you like, until next June." 
 
 "Next June! — ah, yes, June! Dear, 
 dear 1 How sad ! you are very kind — but 
 oh ! how sad it is I J\ly child, you had 
 better get on your bonnet. There is the 
 carriage comimx round to the door. We 
 are going into W to do some commis- 
 sions for dear Lady Rachel." 
 
 Before their return I should be gone. 
 As the poor child gave me her cold, trem- 
 bling hand, I slipped a morsel of paper into 
 it. This is what I had written : — 
 
 " Dearest, you will be told that I have 
 given yau up. You will know whether to 
 believe that or not. You were oilered me 
 at the price of my honor. I have declared 
 that \ would win you without that sacri- 
 
 fice. Courage ! Faith ! Patience ! With 
 these one can overcome every obstacle in 
 this world, 
 
 " Yours devotedly till death, 
 
 " O. P." 
 
 I left Beaumanoir at four o'clock. My 
 mother declined to see me again, pleading 
 fati'zue as her excuse. 
 
 When I entered the club that night, I 
 was greeted by many with warm congrat- 
 ulations upon my " luck " I 
 
 CHAPTER XLVH. 
 
 The history of the next two months 
 may be compressed into a lew pages. 
 
 The house la Chej'ne Walk was empty. 
 I heard weekly, howevei, ."••'^m Francis at 
 Torquay. The amendment in Elizabeth's 
 health was steady, but the absence of ■ 
 terest in all outward things continued. It 
 appeared impossible to rouse her. When 
 she heard of my intentions with regard to 
 her, she received the intelligence in si- 
 lence, until Cousin Humphrey's exultation 
 caused her to say, — 
 
 " If it had come before dad's death — 
 yes. But what's the good of it to me now ? 
 Osmund had better keep the estate." 
 
 Then had Francis replied that I would 
 never do that, being convinced beyond the 
 possibility of doubt that it was rightly hers. 
 "No act of renunciation on your part 
 would be accepted by him." 
 
 " Very well," she had replied listlessly ; 
 and so, for the present, the matter dropped. 
 My old tutor reported faithfully to me all 
 that ])assed, then and later, on the subject. 
 Humphrey's unqualified satisfaction found 
 expression in what he would himself have 
 styled a very " handsome " letter to me. It 
 really seemed as though the realization of 
 his cherished idea had gone far to console 
 him for John's death. I was thankful that 
 the old gentleman's acknowledgments were 
 made upon paper, and not in person. 
 From first to last, the subject was odious 
 to me : all reference to it hurt me like a 
 sharp ])liysical pain. 
 
 About ten days after my return to town, 
 Arthur appeared — more depressed than I 
 had seen him for months. lie had ])assed 
 a couple of nights at INIrs. Ilamleigh's cot- 
 tage, on his " way to London," he said ; 
 and I needed to be told no more. A week 
 later he announced to me that he had ar- 
 ransed to go to Italy with a friend, and 
 >liould not be back till the end of May or 
 June. There is no denying it, his absence 
 at this moment was a relief to me. Had 
 he been minded to unbosom himself with
 
 138 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 rocjard to his love and rojoction, it would 
 have been inexpressibly painful. I must 
 have spoken; and my speakinjj just now 
 would liave been doubly diflieult. By the 
 time we met a<2;ain, I trusted that the edLje 
 of his disappointment might be blunted. 
 And yet (so little can we foresee what 
 ■worke'th for our woe or weal) my faithful 
 friend's departure proved an unfortunate 
 cireuiustanee lor me. We should all of us 
 have been spared much misery, I believe, 
 had he remained near me just then. 
 
 But shall I call it " Fate," or shall I say 
 it was a curious coincidence, which caused 
 all those I knew best to be absent from 
 London at this moment ? 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim I have purposely 
 deferred naming until now, though I had 
 received two letters from her at Beauma- 
 noir, followed by several since I came to 
 London. Her position, poor woman, was 
 becoming almost iiitoleraijle, and she no 
 longer sought to hide it. D'Arnheim had 
 insisted on her moving to Brighton, where 
 Mrs. Hartman AVild was settled until Eas- 
 ter. He could hardly venture to reside 
 there, leaving his wile alone in London ; 
 and his duties at the embassy were so 
 slight, that, by running up two or three 
 times a week, he transacted all the busi- 
 ness that was required. Madame d'Arn- 
 heim, thrown into daily contact (as she 
 never need have been in London) with a 
 woman against whom she nourished such a 
 just resentment, could no longer contain 
 herself. 
 
 " My cup of bitterness is full," she wrote. 
 " It will not hold another drop. I feel so 
 utterly friendless here, and so worse than 
 useless to my husband, that I seriously 
 contemplate returning to Germany for 
 some months. The grand-duchess urges 
 me to ailopt this course. She even fimcies 
 that Carl will miss me when I am gone, 
 and wish me to come back to him. Alas ! 
 I know better. The question then arises, 
 how long those whom God has joined 
 should remain with each other, when not 
 only is love dead, but repulsion and treach- 
 ery are inseparable from the continuance 
 of the hollow compact ? " 
 
 It was a point in ethics I was not pre- 
 pared to decide ; but that she should go to 
 her own country and people for a while, 
 as a tenative measure, did seem to me the 
 best course, perhaps, the outraged wife 
 could pursue. Keenly sensitive as' she 
 was, it was manifestly impossible that 
 things should go on as they had been doing 
 of late. His neglect she had been long 
 accustomed to ; his infidelities she must 
 long have suspected ; but since the disclo- 
 sure made that fatal morning, at Kendal 
 Castle, ia the billiard-room, D'Arnheim 
 
 had shown a shameless disregard of his 
 wile's i'eelings — nay, of common decency; 
 and I knew her too well to believe that she 
 would submit to such treatment very long. 
 
 I abstained, however, from signifying 
 my a])])roval of my poor friend's scheme, 
 for this reason : I was disgusted at what 
 seemed my own baseness in feeling relieved 
 by the prospect of h(!r departure at this 
 moment. It would cut the knot of a di- 
 lemma, the unloosing of which by my own 
 hand would cause me great pain. It is 
 true, Evelyn had not accepted my offered 
 promise of breaking with IMadame d'Arn- 
 heim : yet no one but a fool could doubt 
 that the- continuance of my intimate rela- 
 tions with her would give rise to a tissue 
 of calumnies which would be poured into 
 Evelyn's ear. How to act in this matter 
 had been a source of much trouble to me ; 
 and here was the solution of the difhculty. 
 Yet not the less did I feel angry with my- 
 self for the sense of relief — as though it 
 were disloyal to my friendship, which Avas 
 warm as ever. In writing to her, there- 
 fore, I passed as lightly as possible over 
 the subject of her leaving England for a 
 while. 
 
 Matters stood thus with me, when, to- 
 wards the end of March, I received a note 
 from Lady Castle. She had just arrived 
 in London. 
 
 " It is of the utmost importance," she 
 wrote, *' that I should see you without 
 delay. If you cannot call to-morrow at 
 dusk, name your own hour, but do manage 
 to come, somehow — there's a dear kind 
 creature." 
 
 I had been expecting this summons ; 
 and ray resolve, recorded some chapters 
 back, was unchanged. I Avould not fre- 
 quent her house ; I would give the world 
 no handle for coupling my name again 
 with her's ; but if I could help her, by coun- 
 sel or otherwise, I would do so. 1 would 
 not go back from my word. 
 
 At six o'clock the next evening I was in 
 Belgrave Square. I was shown at once 
 into Lady Castle's boudoir, — that third 
 apartment which opened from the two 
 drawing-rooms, and wdiich, in aspect and 
 temperature, was something between a 
 trinket-box and a forcing-bed. The air 
 was heavy with the scent of tea-roses and 
 lilies of the valley, with which the Sevres 
 jdrdbiieres were filled. Quilted satin walls 
 and curtains, white lace round the chairs 
 and table-covers, jewelled i-osaries, silver 
 filigree ornaments, miniatures of aristo- 
 cratic old dames in powder, and modern 
 photographs swinging from little gilt gib- 
 bets on the writing-table — how character- 
 istic every thing was of the graceful, 
 luxurious owner I The presence of all
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 139 
 
 tliat could captivate the senses ; the ab- 
 sence of all that could occupy and elevate 
 the miud ; for, except a novel of Faideau's 
 ■which I took up while waiting for her, 
 there Avas not a book in the room. 
 
 She entered, dressed in a sort of loose 
 Cashmere robe ; and, even in the twili<iht, 
 I could see how ill she looked. The ser- 
 vants followed with tea ; and, as long as 
 they were in the room, she talked in an 
 iudifFerent strain. 
 
 " I am just come in from driving, and 
 was changing my gown. How cold it is 
 for the time of year ! You've heard of 
 Sarah Tenby's marriage, I suppose, to that 
 goose George Ashridge ? It began at 
 Kendal, you know. They start with only 
 nine hundred a year. Well, I hope they'll 
 be very fond of each other, — that's all I 
 can say " with a sii^h ; and here the door 
 being closed, she changed her tone. " It 
 is too good df you to come to me at once ; 
 but I knew you would. Oh, you can't 
 tell what I have gone through since I saw 
 you ! Things have been goino; on from 
 bad to worse, till I am at my wit's end. 
 God knows what is to become of me ! " 
 And she burst into tears. 
 
 " What has the brute been doing fresh ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " Had the effrontery to appear at Cas- 
 tleton, and actually showed me my own let- 
 ters in an iron casket, swearing that he 
 would take them to my husband there and 
 then — that he had lost every shilling, and 
 was desperate — and that he would sacri- 
 fice reputation, every thing, sooner than 
 starve. I dare say it was an idle threat : 
 he would not kill his goose with the golden 
 eggs so quickly." And she laughed hy- 
 sterically. '-But I was paralyzed — liter- 
 ally paralyzed — with terror. I gave him 
 a diamond bracelet wortli three hundred 
 pounds ; and now, though that was not two 
 months ago, I am beset with applications 
 from him again. Life is really not worth 
 having, at this price. I can neither eat 
 nor sleep — this dreadful nightmare is per- 
 petually hanging over me." 
 
 " There is nothing for it, as I told you 
 before, but to send some man to deal with 
 him." 
 
 " Ah ! that is all very well ; but rolio ? 
 I have not a single man-relation ; and men 
 of the world are far too cautious to mix 
 themselves up in a disagreeable busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Then I renew my ofler. I won't see 
 any woman — I ilon't care who ^he is — 
 bullied by a scoundrel, without del'ending 
 her." 
 
 " Oh, no, no I It would be unpardon- 
 able to drag a boy like you into this scrape 
 on my account. No, I will not do that." 
 
 " As you won't tell your husband," I 
 said bluntly, " what else can you do V " 
 
 She buried her face in the sofa-cushion, 
 and groaned. 
 
 " Look here," I said at last, " I am only 
 offering to do for you wdiat I shoulrl do for 
 any woman I saw being ill-treated in the 
 street. Every man would do the same. 
 This brute, like all bullies, is a coward ; and 
 I have very little doubt that he'll give in at 
 once, when he finds he has a man instead 
 of a woman to deal with. You Avant your 
 letters back ? Is that all ? " 
 
 " Yes," she murmured, without raising 
 her head from the cushion, "that is all." 
 
 " How many are there ? " 
 
 " Only four. In every thing else I ever 
 wrote to him I was most cautious : they 
 might be shown to the whole world." 
 
 " Are yau sure that these are contained 
 in the casket you saw V " 
 
 " I know he has always kept them there 
 hitherto." 
 
 " And have you any idea where he keeps 
 the casket itself? " 
 
 " In an old-fashioned escritoire in the 
 corner of the room, the key of which he 
 generally carries in his pocket." 
 
 " How does the casket (jpen ? It is as 
 well to know, in case of accidents. And 
 do you give me leave to look at the letters, 
 so far as to verify your writing V A rascal 
 like this may substitute blank paper." 
 
 " The casket opens by a spring on the 
 right-hand corner underneath. Yes, look 
 at the letters — but oh ! how can you ever 
 (ret hold of them ? He will never irive 
 them uji, I feel certain, without being paid 
 some immense sum." 
 
 " Leave that to me. I have got my idea. 
 Where does he live ? " 
 
 " Close to you, in Davis Street, No. — : 
 he has the drawing-room floor, but he is 
 out of town until Saturday. He writes to 
 me that he shall call here on Sunday — 
 and what on earth am I to do ? " 
 
 "Refuse to see him. I'll undertake that 
 you sha'n't be bothered by him again." 
 
 " Oh ! how can I ever thank you enough, 
 if you only get those letters back? And 
 yet — oh 1 I feel it is wrong to let you run 
 into danger on my account ! " 
 
 " Danger 1 — what danger do you ai)pr(>- 
 hend? I promise not to fight a duel wiili 
 such a blackguard, if that is what you 
 mean." 
 
 " You don't know what Cesare's passion 
 is when it is roused. Ah ! no, no : you 
 had better have nothing to do with him. 
 Leave me to my fate." 
 
 And once more Lady Castle buried her 
 face in her hands, and sobbed convulsively. 
 I rose. 
 
 "Impossible now! I knew the era-
 
 140 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 biissy was delicate and difTicult, but you say 
 it is dangerou;^. You put uie ou my met- 
 tle. I eouldu't go back now, you see. 
 (Jood-by. I hope to bring you the casket, 
 with your letters, on Monday evening." 
 
 ] have said enough of this scene. Over 
 its conclusion I will not linger. Her tears, 
 Ler terrors, her gratitude, her supplications 
 that I would avoid needlessly irritating the 
 Italian, — all this would be neilher jjleas- 
 ant nor profitable to detail in lull. It 
 was nearly eight o'clock before I left the 
 Louse. 
 
 Header, gentle or ungentle, one word at 
 the end of this chapter. You are probably 
 thinking what a vain young fool I was, — 
 that, while striving to emulate the virtues 
 of a paladin of old, I was, in truth, a quix- 
 otic youth, who had conceived altogether 
 a wrong-headed view of his duty to his 
 neighbor and his neighbor's wife. " Que, 
 diable, allait-il faire dans cette galere V " 
 I hear some one exclaim. Y'^ou are quite 
 right. I beg to assure you I do not regard 
 my own conduct as admirable ; anil, if I 
 rarely interrupt this narrative to deplore 
 past folly, it is because retribution is more 
 sharjjly pointed than any moral retro- 
 spect. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VIII. 
 
 I PONDERED a good deal, the day follow- 
 ing, over what my plan of action should be. 
 I believed, as I had told Lady Castle, that, 
 if taken unawares, the Italian could be 
 frightened into concession ; if not, all means 
 of obtakiing my end were fair. Scruples 
 in dealing with an unscrupulous scoundrel 
 would be certainly out of place. 
 
 I took Joe Carter in some measure into 
 my confidence. I made him understand 
 that I was engaged in a delicate matter, 
 which required that I should obtain certain 
 in!brmation touchin'j; a foreijrn count, resi- 
 dent hard by, in Davis Street. 
 
 " I want you to find out, first, when he is 
 expected back, — at what hour to-morrow ; 
 next, whether he receives many visitors, 
 and whether he has a man-servant, or any 
 friend lo Iging in the same house. Y'^ou must 
 learn all this, Joe, without appearing to 
 pump." 
 
 " Humph ! I don't see how that's to be 
 done." 
 
 " Well, you take a note, and wait for an 
 answer. Of course you don't know he is 
 out of town. You can't leave the note, and 
 begin by inquiring when he is sure to be 
 back. That is a good opening. You may 
 drop a hint that there is a lady iu the case, 
 which is true." 
 
 I said this, because, if the inquiries were 
 repeated to Benevento, it would throw him 
 off the scent. The jealousy and suspicions 
 of some iiiir one were roused ; his wretched 
 victim was the last who would send to learn 
 particulars of his mode of life. 
 
 " 1 knowed as a woman was at the bot- 
 tom of it," muttered Joe, as he left the 
 room. 
 
 My confidence in his ability for this sort 
 of embassy, however, was justified by the 
 information he brought me that evening. 
 The landlady, who had opened the door to 
 him, had rusponded to the pressure put on 
 her most satisfactorily. The count woidd 
 not be back till late that night ; he had his 
 latch-key, and would let liimself in. There 
 was one other lodger in the house, — an old 
 gentleman in the " parlor ; " she herself, a 
 widow with five children, occupied the bed- 
 room lloor, and garret. She kept two 
 maids, who did all her lodgers required. 
 The count had no man-servant, nor was 
 there any other man in the house. 
 
 I walked down Davis Street, and recon- 
 noitred the small shabby tenement. A 
 dirty green door, with a dirtier card in the 
 fan-light over it, whereon w^is written 
 " Lod2;in2:s for Sinirle Gentlemen ; " two 
 grimy "parlor" windows, chastely veiled 
 from within by horse-hair blinds ; three long 
 narrow drawing-room windows above, each 
 opening on to a separate little bow of bal- 
 cony, just large enough to hold a pot of 
 blackened cypresses. 
 
 That night I said to Joe, — 
 
 " This count whom I am going to call on 
 to-morrow is a rascal, Joe. Hanging is too 
 good for him. He has something in his 
 possession which I mean to make him give 
 up before I leave his room ; if not by fair 
 means, why, then, by force. I don't expect 
 much difliculty ; but there's no saying, and 
 I mustn't trust to chance. If he shows 
 fight, why, he is as strong, or stronger than 
 I am. There's no such thing as fair play 
 in dealing with a ruffian. I may want your 
 help, Joe. Do you understand ? " 
 
 '' Hm ! I'd better go in, instead o' you : 
 that's the shortest way." 
 
 " No, no — that would never do. Why, 
 it would look as if 1 was afraid ! I must 
 give the fellow a chance of yielding into 
 my own hands what I want to get from him. 
 If he resists, — well, I shall have to pro- 
 ceed to extremities. You will be posted 
 in the street, opposite the windows. If I 
 see that he is getting ' nasty,' I shall walk 
 to the window. You'll then come over, 
 ring the bell, and, without asking any ques- 
 tions, walk straight up into the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 " Shall I have at him at once ? " asks 
 Joe.
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 141 
 
 " No," I replied, smilinGj. " I dare say the 
 sight of you'll be enough." 
 
 " With a number of contingencies in 
 view (which I will not stop to enunierate), 
 I resolved to call on the Italian at a very 
 early hour. It was the 1st of April. How 
 well I remember, as I walked down IMoimt 
 Street, soon after ten o'clock, wondering 
 whether I should be made a " fool " of in 
 the interview I was about to seek ! It was 
 a lovely morning, — a foretaste of IMay — 
 and even the London streets were redolent 
 of spring. As I neared the house, I ob- 
 served that the centre window of the vhree 
 on the drawing-room floor stood wide open. 
 It was what is termed a French Avindow, 
 and, from the opposite pavement, I could 
 see the white cloth of a breakfast-table. I 
 crossed over, and rang the bell. Joe, fol- 
 lowing at a discreet distance, remained on 
 the other side of the way. 
 
 To the maid-of-all-work who opened the 
 door I said, — 
 
 " Count Benevento is at home, I know. 
 You need not announce me, — I can find 
 my own way." 
 
 She looked surprised, but offered no re- 
 sistance. I passed up stairs. For form's 
 sake, I knocked at the door. I did not 
 want to hear if there was a reply ; I enter- 
 ed, and found — no one. But a rich melo- 
 dious voice, singing with that peculiar 
 accent which is rarely counterfeited, 
 " Quando la sera e placida," from the ad- 
 joining room, the door into which was ajar, 
 told me that my bird was not far off. He 
 had done breakfast as the table showed, 
 and was, perhaps, finishing his toilet. I 
 gave a quick glance round. By Jove 1 — 
 what luck ! There in the corner, between 
 fireplace and window, stood the bureau, 
 open, and in one of its pigeon-holes, among 
 a mass of papers, I caught sight of a small 
 iron casket, which must be what I sought. 
 The desk of the bureau was covered : let- 
 ters, studs, loose gold, a couple of dice, an 
 open betting-book. A chair in front, and 
 the half-burnt, still smoking cigar on the 
 edge of the desk, showed how lately the 
 owner had been there. My eyes seized 
 these details in a few seconds. The noise 
 of the door shutting brought the Italian 
 i'rom his bedroom. He stood on the thresh- 
 old, glaring at me for a few moments in 
 dumb astonishment. 
 
 He wore loose silk dressing-trousers, and 
 a jacket. His shirt, not over-clean, was 
 open, which showed a hirsute chest. He 
 was as yet unshorn, and looked his charac- 
 ter, — a splendidly handsome little rudlun, 
 wlio would have been more in place upon 
 the Abbruzzi, with a carbine over his 
 shoulder, than in a London lodging. I be- 
 gan at once : — 
 
 " You wonder what brings me here, 
 Count Benevento ? The explanation of 
 my object will not detain you long." 
 
 He moved forward a few steps ; so did I, 
 but on the opposite side of the breakfast- 
 table, and conset|uently nearer to the bu- 
 reau. He pointed to a chair, — I remained 
 standing. 
 
 "Proceed, sir: I am all attention." 
 
 " You have been received in this country 
 as a gentleman. Count Benevento ; and, 
 whatever oj^inion some of us may have 
 formed of you, you have managed hitherto 
 to retain your position. In our encounter 
 last 3'ear you came off victorious, — you will 
 not do so next time. I know that of you 
 now which would kick you out of every 
 club, every drawing-room in London, if I 
 choose to publish it." 
 
 He raised his eye-brows, and just showed 
 his white teeth for an instant ; but his eye 
 betrayed nothing, — it never left my face. 
 I continued, — 
 
 " You have been guilty of the most das- 
 tardly act any man — I do not say gentle- 
 man, — can commit. You have for months 
 been intimidating an unhappy lady, whom 
 you have pretended to love, by threats of 
 betraying her to her own husband. There 
 isn't a sweep in the streets, I believe, who 
 would be guilty of such vileness ! " 
 
 " Oh 1 " he exclaimed, with a bitter sneer, 
 " you are sent by Lady Castle, of course. 
 You have taken my leavings, and I wish 
 you joy of them ; but if you think 1 am go- 
 ing, on that account, to let you interfere in 
 private arrangements between her and me, 
 you are mistaken. I will crush you, or any 
 man that meddles with me, as I would crusU 
 a fly ! " _ 
 
 He raised his clinched hand for a mo- 
 ment, and brought it noiselessly down upon 
 the table. The last words were uttered in a 
 hissing whisper. I replied in a loud voice, — 
 
 " Bombast will avail you nothing. I 
 care for neither your threats nor your in- 
 sinuations. I am here to demand Lady 
 Castle's letters ; and, if I don't get them, yon 
 Avill be posted as a blackguard, with whom 
 no gentleman can associate, in every club 
 to which you have been admitted." 
 
 " At the expense of your mistress's rep- 
 utation," he said ; and a diabolical smile 
 crossed his face. " For her sake you will 
 hardly do that; and if you did, — well, 
 there would be an end of all compromise 
 between her and me. I should proceed to 
 extremities, that is all. She has made me 
 suH'cr horribly, — liumiliation, jealousy, — • . 
 what is there I have not endin-ed ? I sac- 
 rificed my career to her, and now she re- 
 fuses me the miserable means of existence. 
 I am not guided by your English ideas of 
 honor " —
 
 142 
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 " You need not tell me that." 
 
 " And as I mean to leave En'^-land at 
 once, your threat of c'xcommuuicat'u)!! is 
 worth so miK'h 1 " And he snapped liis 
 fingers. " Whereas the letters, — the let- 
 ters, you see, are worth something, — to 
 Lord Castle, at least." 
 
 " You are a devil ! " I cried, beside my- 
 self with passion ; '• but, by Heavens, you 
 shall not succeed ! " and I took one step 
 to the window. 
 
 lie divined the truth, or something like 
 it, for he walked swiftly to the door, locked 
 it, and put the key in his pocket. What I 
 had engaged to do, then, must be done 
 alone. Not an instant to lose. I saw my 
 momentary advantage, made a dash at the 
 open bureau, and seized the casket. To 
 fling it out of the window to Joe, — if I 
 could only accomplish this ! But already 
 Benevento had sprung upon me like a tiger, 
 — his right. arm round my neck, his left 
 round my body. He tried to twist his leg 
 in mine, and so bring me to the ground ; 
 but, though his strength was prodigious, I 
 was the better wi'estler. After a struggle 
 roimd the room, crash we both came among 
 the breakfast things ; and as we lay on Vhe 
 ground, by the upset table, the Italian was 
 under- me. The advantage was transient. 
 I saw him stretch out his right hand, and 
 seize a bread-knife. I grasjjed his wrist 
 with my left, and so held it back ; but, in 
 doing so, it came close to his mouth. He 
 fastened his teeth into my hand. The 
 other, which held the iron casket firmly 
 by the handle, I now drove full into his 
 face. The iron smashed his front teeth, 
 compelling him to leave go. A horrible 
 imprecation burst from him as the blood 
 poured from his mouth ; but still he held 
 tlie knife, and as we staggered to our feet, 
 I knew that unless I could reach the win- 
 dow before he succeeded in wounding me, 
 my object would, after all, probably be 
 frustrated. 
 
 I still grasped his wrist with my left 
 hand ; but, from pain and loss of blood, it 
 felt every moment weaker. I could scarcely 
 breathe : his left arm crushed my ribs like 
 a vice. J^.Iy height and my activity were 
 two great advantajres at this moment, to 
 counterbalance his superior strength. I 
 contrived to edge nearer and nearer to the 
 open window. 
 
 There was a battering at the door. 
 
 " Help, help ! " I cried. The ne.xt in- 
 stant my wrist gave way, and down came 
 the knife into my shoulder. 
 
 We had reached the very edge of the 
 window. With my left hand, now free, I 
 grasped his body, while I disengaged the 
 right, to fling out the casket. I heard the 
 door being burst in. 
 
 " Fool 1 " he cried, " if you will have it, 
 then, — go ! " and in his blind fury, he tried 
 to drive me against the frail iron balcony ; 
 but I caught his foot, just in time. He 
 stumbled, — fell against its first (happily 
 for me), and, — I remember no more. The 
 next instant we both pitched over into the 
 street below. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 It will save trouble if I here briefly tell 
 what followeTl, as I afterwards learnt from 
 my faithful Joe. 
 
 He succeeded in breaking into the room 
 at the very moment of our fall. He looked 
 down ; a horrible sight met his eyes ; and 
 when he reached the street, he had not a 
 hope that I was alive. The Italian's skull 
 was fractured : he was quite dead, but he 
 lay under me, — my preservation was due 
 to this. I was insensible, however, and 
 bathed in blood ; to all appearance as life- 
 less as the corpse beside me. The crowd, 
 which by this time was dense, pronounced 
 unanimously both men to be dead. I was 
 placed on a stretcher, under the superin- 
 tendence of a doctor, who happened to be 
 passing, and stopped his brougham ; and, 
 conducted by Joe, some men carried me 
 home. The police made no objection to 
 this : they took down name and address, 
 that, in case life was not extinct, my depo- 
 sition might be made hereafter ; and they 
 found enough to do in keejiing back the 
 curious crowd, while the corpse was carried 
 into the house, and laid upon the bed from 
 which the Italian had so lately risen. The 
 dead man's hand still tightly grasped the 
 knife he had driven into my shoulder ; a 
 circumstance which proved of great service 
 to me at the coroner's inquest. 
 
 Joe's first thought was to despatch a mes- 
 senger for the regimental surgeon. Long 
 before his appearance, however, it was as- 
 certained that there was a compound frac- 
 ture of my left hip, and a severe concussion 
 of the brain. There might be other inter- 
 nal injuries ; but at all events the lamp of 
 life still flickered. They cut the clothes 
 oir me, they succeeded in restoring anima- 
 tion, thou'j;h not consciousness ; I muttered 
 incoherently : they staunched my wounds, 
 and put ice upon my head. There were 
 three surgeons now round me : they were 
 unanimous in deciding that the chances of 
 my i-ecovery were slight. But the difficult 
 operation of setting the fractured hip was 
 at last accomplished. Two of my brother- 
 officers were present. One of them under- 
 took to telegraph to my mother ; but owing 
 to a mistake in the address, as I afcer\t'ards
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 143 
 
 learnt, the telegram did not reach her for 
 several hours. 
 
 In the mean time a note (which I found 
 unopened, after many weeks, in a plate of 
 visiting-cards) had been brought by a for- 
 eiixn servant, who carried back to the 
 writer the information that I was dying. 
 
 The note ran thus : — 
 
 " I am in London for a few hours, on my 
 way to Germany. I should like to see vou. 
 
 " M. D'A." 
 
 An hour later, Madame d'Arnheim was 
 with me. She remained watching by my 
 bedside all that night, with the nurse and 
 the regimental surgeon. Upon her arrival, 
 my brother-officers retired. My life hung 
 u]ion a thread : I was delirious, and the 
 dilHculty of keeping my hands from tearing 
 oir bandages and splinters was great. " The 
 lady," as 'Joe called her, he confessed, had 
 exercised a soothing influence over me ; 
 and, indeed, but for her skill and intuitive 
 perception of the right thing to be done, he 
 thou'Tht I should not have survived the 
 niizht. This was strong testimony from Joe, 
 who was unwilling to admit that a woman 
 could excel in any thing. The surgeon 
 confiTmed the statement. From the mo- 
 ment she had appeared upon the scene, and 
 had appealed to be allowed to remain, rep- 
 resenting that she stood more in the light 
 of a relation to me than anyone in London, 
 (my Uncle Levison was absent), her help 
 had been invaluable. 
 
 Towards morning I fell asleep — the deep 
 sleep of exhaustion, which was hailed as a 
 hopeful sign. The surgeon proposed that 
 Madame d'Arnheim should go and lie down, 
 but she declined ; the nurse was nothing 
 loth to snatch a couple of hours' sleep ; 
 and the surgeon depai'ted to his hospital, 
 leaving me to the care of Madame d'Arn- 
 heim and of Joe until his return. I do not 
 know what o'clock it was when I woke, and 
 became gradually but distinctly conscious 
 of all that was going on around me. Was 
 this my room ? ^es ; no doubt of it. There, 
 on the wall opposite, hung my " Stag at 
 Bay," there my forage-cap and sword : the 
 door into my sitting-room was open ; I could 
 bear the kettle singing on the 6re, and Joe's 
 sternly anxious face was peering at me 
 from time to time through the doorway. 
 But who was this, sitting beside my bed, 
 her fVice shaded by her hand ? Was I 
 dreaming ? Could it be ? but no ; impossi- 
 ble ! IIow could she be here? My mind 
 must be wandering. I tried to raise my 
 hand to my aching head ; it fell powerless ; 
 I could not move in the bed. My leg felt 
 as if held in a vice. What did it all mean ? 
 AVhat hail happened ? I gave a feeble sigh, 
 and Madame d'Arnheim raised her head. 
 
 Then slowly, very slowly, the tide of rec- 
 ollection flowed. One by one, confused 
 memories of the past day returned. It was 
 like trying to make the pieces of a broken 
 mirror fit together ; here and there, an im- 
 age was entire ; oftener, the fragments 
 would not unite. I made an effort to speak ; 
 Madame d'Arnheim put her finger to her 
 lips. I took something she gave me ; and, 
 in spite of the effort to think, in a iavf min- 
 utes I had fallen asleep once more — but, 
 this time, not for long. I was awoke by — 
 I know not what ; certainly not by any 
 noise, for straw was laid in the street, and 
 singular care was taken to keep the house 
 quiet. But I woke, with the uneasy sense 
 of some irritation upon my nerves. Two 
 persons were speaking in the next room; 
 the door was a-jar; I recognized my moth- 
 er's voice. The first words I caught dis- 
 tinctly were, — 
 
 " It is unfortunate that the telegram 
 reached me too late last night to catch the 
 mail-train, but I am now here to take my 
 place by my son's bed." 
 
 There was something unusually chilling, 
 even for her, in her utterance of this speech ; 
 and I fancied that Madame d'Arnheim's 
 voice faltered a little as she said, — 
 
 " I am very glad you are come. Your 
 son had not a relation in London, I found ; 
 that is why I came to look after him. A 
 woman thinks of things in a sick-room no 
 man ever does." 
 
 " I understood from Carter just now that 
 there is a hired nurse ? " observed my 
 mother dryly. 
 
 " jSIo hired nurse. Lady Rachel, can re- 
 place the strong personal interest which 
 watches every change from half-hour to half- 
 hour. I would trust to no nurse, if I were 
 you." 
 
 " I shall not do so." 
 
 " He must be watched most carefully for 
 many nights. In his prostrate condition, 
 all depends on nourishment being admin- 
 istered, in small quantities, whenever he 
 can take it." 
 
 " Thank you — I shall follow the doc- 
 tor's directions implicitly. I am sorry you 
 have been troubled so much " — 
 
 " Ah 1 Lady Rachel, do not use that word. 
 How gladly would 1 remain here, and watch 
 with you, if you would allow me ! " 
 
 " That is wholly out of the question. I 
 regret, Madame d'Arnheim, that you have 
 thought fit to disregard conventionalities in 
 coming to my son's lodging. Allow me to 
 say that the sooner you leave it, the better 
 for your own reputation." 
 
 " Good Heavens 1 Is one to let a friend 
 die, because of what the wretched con- 
 temptible world may say 'i I know it too 
 well, and am very iadifierent, I assure you."
 
 144 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " So I foaretl," — my mother poised and 
 listeiu'd to her own words, as they dr()[)ped 
 from her, — " so I feared ; and no woman is 
 so with impunity." 
 
 " Lady Kaehel, yon know nothing of me 
 — susjjend your jnd;;;nient. I should be 
 sorry if the niotlier of the boy who lies there 
 thought harslily of me. I have the deep- 
 est and truest interest in him " — 
 
 " So I supposed." 
 
 " And perhaps, I miiht say. he is the 
 only person I leave behind me with regret, 
 in rpiitting England." 
 
 " Do you mean that you are leaving it — 
 for cjoGil ? " askeil my mother, with rather 
 more animation in her tone. 
 
 "lam." 
 
 " Your husband is appointed to another 
 legation ? " 
 
 *' He remains here." 
 
 " Oh 1 " How much meaning may be 
 conveyed in that interjection. 
 
 " My marri'id life is at an end. Lady 
 Rachel : I am going back to my friends ; 
 but my domestic concerns can have no in- 
 terest for you. Would you, however, do me 
 one great kindness ? " 
 
 '^ What is it ? " 
 
 " To let me hear how your son goes on. 
 I shall be very anxious." 
 
 JNIy mother was silent, for what seemed 
 to me the best part of a minute. 
 
 " He will, no doubt, write to you himself 
 when he gets' better, — 
 
 "I understand." She sighed deeply. 
 " Well, God grant that your confidence in 
 his recovery may be verified I I pray for it 
 from my heart. I will not resent your sus- 
 picions of me : a mother's jealousy is nat- 
 ural, I suppose. Good-by. You will not 
 refuse to shake hands with me, I hope V " 
 
 A minute or two later I heard the door 
 open ; and I knew that she was gone. 
 I was far too weak to feel much ; but I 
 recollect closing my eyes, as my mother 
 glided into the room, and approached my 
 bed. And in this passive condition, scarce- 
 ly uttering a sound, but conscious of all 
 that was going on around me, I lay for 
 many days. 
 
 I was to live ; the foculty pronounced 
 this oracularly ; and I knew nothing more. 
 There were frequent examinations and con- 
 sultations : fresh surgeons were called in, 
 and " sat upon " my case ; but of the re- 
 sults I was kept ignorant. 
 
 My mother was an admirable nurse, per- 
 haps the better for the possession of that ad- 
 amantine nature which I'endered her proof 
 against all tender anxiety and nervous- 
 ness, — all " giving way," as it is termed. 
 That which had to be done, she did, gliding 
 about calmly aud noiselessly. " No blind 
 hurry, no delay," attended her movements. 
 
 She followed with exactitude the doctor's 
 directions, and never seemed to suffer either 
 fatigue, impatience, or undue solicitude as 
 to the result. 
 
 I think it was on the fifth morning that 
 the doctor asked me if I felt equal to mak- 
 ing my deposition, for which the incjuest 
 had been adjourned. My brain was quite 
 clear, mv voice tolerably strong. I said I 
 was ready, and a magistrate was sent for. 
 
 Joe entered the room shortly after, and I 
 beckoned to him. He stooped, and I whis- 
 pered, — 
 
 " Did you see a small iron box in my 
 hand when " — 
 
 He pointed to a cupboard. 
 
 " There he is. When I picked you up, 
 guessing as it was that you'd come after, 
 and it might get ye into trouble, I whipped 
 him into my pocket." 
 
 " Y'^ou don't know what a service you did 
 me then, — did me, and some one else too." 
 
 The corners of his grim mouth twitched. 
 
 " I'm darned if I see what there is to 
 make such a fuss over. If the beaks asks 
 me a lot o' questions, what am I to tell 
 him ? " 
 
 '• The plain truth, only don't name the 
 box. Has Lady Castle sent any notes 
 since I've been lying here ? " 
 
 " No — sent to inquire every day — 
 sometimes twice." 
 
 " Y'ou'll have to go there this evening. 
 Fetch that box, and seal it up in paper be- 
 fore my eyes. If I were to die, after all, it 
 mustn't be found. You will swear never to 
 bi'eathe a woi-d about it, Joe ? " 
 
 He grumbled the required promise, ac- 
 companying it with a malediction upon that 
 troublesome sex which was at the bottom 
 of all mischief in this world. The casket 
 was sealed up with my signet, and delivered 
 by Joe into Lady Castle's own hand that 
 night. 
 
 In my deposition, I pursued the same 
 course I had enjoined upon Joe. I omitted 
 all mention of the letters, — every thing 
 which could direct suspicion to Lady Cas- 
 tle. I simply declined to name the cause of 
 the altercation which arose between the Ital- 
 ian and myself; and, in all other respects, 
 I told the plain unvarnished tale. 1 was 
 asked if there had been some quarrel be- 
 tween us at cards, the previous year, which 
 terminated in a fight ? I replied that I had 
 detected the deceased in cheating, and 
 that a scufiie had ensued ; but I had failed 
 to convict him. We had, of course, been 
 " cuts " ever since. How came it that I 
 called upon him then ? Because I had 
 other and distinct grounds of complaint. 
 Knowing, however, the enmity he bore me, 
 I had been prepared, in some measure, for 
 violence. It was on this account that I had
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 145 
 
 stationed mv servant in the street below. 
 But I was unharmed, and tar less powerful 
 than the deceased. He had tlyown him- 
 self upon me, had seized a knife, and driv- 
 en it into my shoulder ; and it was in the 
 filial elfort to throw me out of window that 
 he had lost his balance, and that we had 
 botli been brought to tlio ground together. 
 
 The knife found in liis hand, Joe's testi- 
 mony, the maid's, all corroborated my story. 
 Furthermore, there was evidence beyond a 
 doubt as to the man's character ; for some 
 loaded dice and a pack of marked cards 
 were discovered among his effects. The 
 verdict returned was one Avhich entirely 
 cleared me — as far as the law was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Not so as regarded the opinion of a cer- 
 tain portion of the public. My door was 
 still daily besieged with inquiries ; nothing 
 could be kinder than my brother-officers 
 and other young fellows in offering to come 
 and sit with me ; my mother was over- 
 whelmed with notes. I was the small hero 
 of the hour, in whom curiosity and inter- 
 est centred; but, for all that, I was re- 
 garded as a very black sheep by some. 
 
 My uncle, who good-naturedly returned to 
 town as soon as the news reached him, think- 
 ing he might be of service to my mother, was 
 the first person who opened my eyes as to 
 the light in which what he was pleased to 
 term my " escapade " was commonly re- 
 garded. 
 
 " Well, old man," he said, the first time 
 he was admitted to my bedside, " this is a 
 bad business ; but I'm deuced glad to see 
 you alive, after the account I had. You'll 
 be all right soon, I hope, now. You don't 
 suffer much ? " 
 
 " Not as long as I am still. My back 
 hurts me if I try to turn." 
 
 " Ah I well, that'll come all right. Won- 
 derful escape ! Every one was saying last 
 night at White's — never heard of such an 
 escape ! Sad dog 1 " he continued, laugh- 
 ing. " That's what every one says ; for, 
 of course, the cause of this /rat-as is pretty 
 generally known I " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " I asked, feeling 
 the blood rush to my face. 
 
 "'Castle DangeroHs ! ' Ah! my dear 
 boy, if you had only listened to me I I 
 warned you long ago against a liaison of 
 this kind getting the upper hand of you. 
 Beyond a certain jiolnt it is the very 
 devil ! •' 
 
 I grew hot and cold by turns. Lady 
 Castle's name, then, as I might have fore- 
 seen, had not been kept out of the story. 
 But how wide of the truth was it, if my 
 uncle's version was to be accepted I 
 
 ". I assure you, Uncle Levison, this is an 
 entire mistake. Lady Castle has no more 
 10 
 
 to do — I mean that I — that is to say, 
 if you fancy that jealousy of Benevento 
 brought about this quarrel, you are wrona^. 
 I wish you would give the story your un- 
 qualified contradiction." 
 
 lie raised his eyebrows, and smiled in- 
 credulously. 
 
 " I'll say any thing you like. It's all the 
 same to me ; but I tell you fairly, the world 
 won't believe me. AVhy, my dear boy, your 
 own mother wouldn't 1 She knows all about 
 it, bless you 1 and the other afTair too ; 
 and shakes her head over your delinciuen- 
 cies. She tells me she positively found the 
 other lady here ! — actually in your lodging I 
 I really couldn't help laughing ; she was so 
 awfully scandalized 1 " 
 
 I shut my eyes, and groaned inwardly. I 
 forgot uncle, mother, all the world save one, 
 at that moment. For the first time the 
 thought had been driven home to me, what 
 cruel agony my mother's version of the 
 catastrophe and its consequences would 
 cause my poor darling ! A sudden intui- 
 tion showed me how the truth could be 
 made to look in Evelyn's eyes. Doubly 
 perjured — fighting for one woman, living 
 with another, who had abandoned husband 
 and home for my sake — this, no doubt, waa 
 how I was represented I 
 
 I was too exhausted, too sick at heart, to 
 say another word to my uncle. Not till 
 some days later was the conversation re-* 
 newed between us. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 It was Passion Week. I had been car- 
 ried to my sofa in the sitting-room for the 
 first time. A batch of novels and weekly 
 papers lay on the table at my side. My 
 mother was at church. Joe was drilling 
 my boots, and deploying them into line 
 along the wall of my bedroom : I could 
 see him through the open door. I felt, as 
 one often does when approaching convales- 
 cence, unusually depressed. Though daily 
 stronger in other respects, the pain in my 
 back, whenever I moved, was as great as 
 ever. I took up " The Court Jester," and ran 
 my eye languidly down its vapid columns; 
 dinners, marriages, j)rivate theatricals, long ' 
 lists of company, flat jests, and on-dils. 
 Among the latter, I came upon the follow- 
 ing, — 
 
 " We are happy to learn that hopes are 
 now entertained of Mr. Penrudilocke's par- 
 tial recovery. It is still feared however, that 
 he may never completely recover the use of 
 his limbs. It is apprehended that there is 
 injury of the spine. The death of INIr. Pen- 
 ruddocke's elder brother by a carriage acci-
 
 146 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 dont, only three or four months ago will be 
 fresh in tliu memory ol" our readers. This 
 seeond terrible eatastrophe, whieh has 
 threatened to deprive Lady Raehel Pen- 
 ruddoeke of her sole surviving son, has 
 elicited universal sympatliy in fashionable 
 cireles." 
 
 The paper dropped from my powerless 
 hand. Was it, could it be, true that such 
 a fate Avas in store lor me ? Oh, my God ! 
 let me die, — a thousand times rather, let 
 me die, — than drag on my weary days as a 
 cripple, a l)urden to myself and to every 
 one around me 1 Such an existence to me, 
 whose whole life had been one of bodily 
 activity, who had no sedentary pursuits, 
 was neither scholar nor artist, and excel- 
 led in nothing but j)hysical aceom])lish- 
 ments, — such an existence, I I'cpeat, seem- 
 ed absolutely intolerable. I was still too 
 weak to have much self-control ; and I am 
 not ashamed to own, that, as I thought of it, 
 the hot tears coursed down my cheeks. I 
 kept on saying to myself that it could not 
 be ; but the tide of conviction that rolled in 
 upon me was swelled by each circumstance 
 I called to mind. The result of every con- 
 sultation had been sedulously kept from me. 
 No one spoke of the I'uture. When I had 
 expressed a hope that I might soon be al- 
 lowed to go out, my mother had turned the 
 subject. Lastly, there was my inward con- 
 sciousness of inability to move without great 
 pain, — pain which I strove hard to hide, 
 and never openly admitted. 
 
 I lay there, with closed eyes, trying to 
 meet my sentence with fortitude, and feel- 
 ing, alas ! what a very coward I was when 
 the only true test was applied I After a 
 time I called out in what strove to be a 
 cheerful voice, — 
 
 " Joe, you've been a long time over those 
 boots ; and as to the ' tops,' I'm thinking you 
 might as well put-them away. 1 shall never 
 ■wear them again, I suppose." 
 
 He eyed me for a moment severely. 
 
 " Who ever's been a-puttin' that idea-r 
 into your head ? " 
 
 " 1 don't know the fellow's name," I re- 
 plied, with a moony sort of snule, " but 
 it's in print ; theretbre, you know, it must 
 be true." 
 
 " The saw-bones may say what they 
 likes," he returned stoutly (by which re- 
 ference to the •' faculty," what they had 
 said, no less than Joe's cognizance of the 
 same, was made clear to me), "I don't be- 
 lieve a word of it. AVhy, it's not yet a 
 month, and look at the wound in your 
 shoulder ! " (these two words he pro- 
 nounced like "pound"), it's a'most 
 healed ; and, as to your leg, — why, it'll 
 be as 20od as new, come midsummer." 
 
 •'Will it? I doubt that. But it's not 
 
 my leg. You know well enough what it 
 is, Joe." 
 
 He made^as though he heard me not. 
 
 " I mind me of a chap as fell olf of a roof 
 Avhen we lay in Quebec. You could nt 
 hardly tell which was his head and which 
 was his feet wlien we lifted him. But, 
 bless you, he was about again in three 
 months, and none the wuss." 
 
 A charital>le iiction of Joe's, no doubt; 
 but it was useless, I saw, to press him lur- 
 ther : he would not admit the truth, or 
 what was generally believed to be the 
 truth, as to my condition. I resolved to 
 speak to my mother : she would not flinch 
 from telling me the real state of th« case. 
 We had had but little conversation hither- 
 to, for I had shrunk from it. While sensi- 
 ble of her untii'ing care, I still felt sore at 
 the treatment to which Madame d'Arnheira 
 had been subjected, and the interpretation 
 put upon her presence here. There are acts 
 which our hearts resent so keenly that no 
 amount of personal obligation can outbal- 
 ance them. This behavior of my mother's 
 was of such a nature. Did she, or did she 
 i)ot, in her secret soul, believa the scandal 
 of which Madame d'Arnheiiu's nursing me 
 served as a })lausible confirmation ? I was 
 unable to decide then, and am so still, 
 though her subse(|uent conduct will furnish 
 the reader with additional material forform- 
 inof an unbiassed iudtj-ment. 
 
 She came in, looking beautiful and calm 
 through all her troubles. The walk had 
 bioufrht a faint glow to her cheek, from 
 which the color had been absent during 
 these weeks of close confinement, indeed 
 ever since Ray's death. She undid her bon- 
 net-strings, pulled the black gloves from 
 her long white hands, and said, in her 
 measured way, — 
 
 " How do you feel now ? " 
 
 " If I tell you the truth, mother, will you 
 be e(jually candid ? " She inclined her 
 head, without moving a muscle of her face. 
 " Well, every time I move it is agony to 
 my back. Now, what do the doctors say ? 
 Is it hopeless V " 
 
 " No, not hopeless ; but very serious." 
 
 "There w a hope, then, — that's some- 
 thing ! Don't be afraid to tell me all. 
 Nothiiig can seem bad as long as there is a 
 hope." 
 
 " Yes ; but you will be on your back for 
 a lont!:, long time, I fear." 
 
 " AVhat do you mean ? — months or 
 years r 
 
 " No one can tell : it depends on how 
 nature responds to the medical treatment ; 
 but absolute rest is the first essential. As 
 soon as you can be moved, we must go to 
 purer air, Hampstead or Norwood ; and,. by 
 and by, you are to be sent to seme German
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 147 
 
 bath. Wonderful cures, they say, are ef- 
 ft'ctt'd hy tliose hot sprin;j;s." 
 
 I was silent for some minutes. 
 
 " They'll rf'we me a certain number of 
 months' sick-leave, — and after tliat. if I'm 
 not all riolit, adieu to all my dreams of am- 
 bition, I suppose. I must sell out." 
 
 " You know my views about your re- 
 miiinint;; in the army, — so I say nothiufr. 
 All this disastrous and disreputable busi- 
 ness would not have happened, bad you 
 sooner given up a career in which you 
 are exposed to temptations you have no 
 strength to resist." 
 
 •' You know but little of my temptations, 
 
 — perhaps even less than I do of yours," 
 
 — I fixed my eyes on hers, — '• but, if it is 
 any comfort to you to hear me acknowledjj;e 
 that I have behaved like a voungr fool in 
 this affair, and richly deserve all I got, 
 well, you have that satisfaction. I claose 
 to mix myself up in what did not concern 
 me, and tor the sake of some one who cer- 
 tainly did not deserve it, and I've been 
 punished for my folly. I see that 
 now." 
 
 "lam thankful the terrible lesson has 
 not been lost upon you. And so will all 
 those be who have vour interest most 
 nearly at heart." 
 
 '• Mother, what have you told Evelyn 
 about my fall ? " 
 
 Nothing had been further from my 
 thoughts than to put this question to her; 
 but it rose to my lips suddenly, and I 
 yielded to the desire of hearing what my 
 mother would say. 
 
 She paused. Whenever the thing to be 
 said was disagreeable, she spoke with unu- 
 sual deliberation. 
 
 " I have hidden nothing from her. She 
 is deeply grieved ; but her eyes are opened. 
 She sees, with sorrow, af"ter all your pro- 
 testations, that you are ' unstable as water.' 
 And — I sjjcak openly, Osmund — she 
 will now, I think, be more amenable to her 
 mother's wishes." 
 
 "I ask again, what have you told her? 
 If you've given my uncle's version of this 
 aft'.iir, and said that jealousy of Lady Cas- 
 tle was the cause of it, — it is utterly false. 
 And if you've maligned my poor Iriend, 
 Madame d'Arnheiai, 1 tell you it is cruel, 
 mother, — cruel and unnatural. Your aim 
 seems to be to divide me from every one 
 who cares for me. If I am to be a wretched 
 crij)ple for life, God knows I wouldn't be so 
 seliish as to try to bind p]velyn's lot to 
 mine ; but she has said she will never be 
 another's, and no one can free her from 
 that protnise but myself. Misrepresenta- 
 tion can't do it. 1 feel certain that she 
 doi-sn't believe, and that she never will be- 
 lieve, me to be heartless and double-faced, 
 
 which you and the world in general wish 
 to make me out ! " 
 
 " Your violence is quite uncalled for," 
 returned my mother, with aggravatiiifif gen- 
 tleness. '• I have no ' wish to make you 
 out' any thimr, Osmund. It is sad your 
 persisting in this sort of language. I wish 
 I could see you in a frame of mind more 
 becoming the season, and the gi'ave peril 
 from which Providence has preserved you. 
 Am I not devoting myself to you ? I make 
 no merit of this, for it is my simple duty ; 
 but as you will now be dependent on my 
 care for some time to come, I wish you 
 would try to believe that in all I do I am 
 guided solely by a desire for your welfare. 
 It would make my task much easier." 
 
 She had such a way of putting things, 
 that I should have felt ashamed of myself, 
 if I had not kept my ground of complaint 
 steadily in view. 
 
 '• I don't want to make it harder ; but if 
 you wi/l misinterpret every action of mine, 
 what am I to do V When I announced my 
 resolve to give up Beaumanoir, you know 
 the coloring you gave to it. \Vhen you 
 began to susjject that my attachment to 
 Evelyn was serious, you repeated eveiy 
 wretched piece of gossip about me, with 
 the view of separating us. According to 
 your view of things, you have my gooil at 
 heart, I dare say ; but I'll be hang-ed if I' 
 can feel grateful for all the misery you 
 have caused me." 
 
 " This is terrible ! " said my mother, with 
 a sigh of resignation. " I can only hope 
 that some day you will be more just. You 
 have only yourself to thank for your misery, 
 I am afraid. The ball was at your feet, if 
 you had chosen to pick it up ; but you cast 
 it from you. Did 1 oppose your marrying 
 Evelyn, when you came into the property ? 
 No ; though, of course, you might make a 
 far more advantageous marriage; but you 
 cannot deny that I furthered it. Your own 
 obstinacy it was that severed you. All I 
 have opposed, as much as Evelyn's mother, 
 is two paupers marrying." 
 
 " We won't talk about ray ' obstinacy,' 
 though it seems odd, doesn't it, that, if I 
 am obstinate, I should be ' unstable as wa- 
 ter ' ? But one thing I should like ex- 
 plained. If I am all that you ;nid Mrs. 
 Hamleigh say that I am, what dill'crence 
 does my fortune make ? I am as unworthy 
 to be Evelyn's husband with a thousand a 
 year as with fifteen." 
 
 " Cause and effect are closely blent," 
 said my mother, more rapidly than usual, 
 and her eyes avoided mine, — she looked 
 straight before her out of the window. 
 " Had you possessed any sense of the dig- 
 nity of your position, as the head of an old 
 family, you would not have behaved as you
 
 148 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 have (lone; but the hnhits yon have ac- 
 quired (lisiueline you lor tlie respousil)ili- 
 ties of your station. You were lawless and 
 wilful as a boy, and so you are still," she 
 continued, in a voire that shook with un- 
 wonted excitement. " You have done your 
 utmost to break my heart ; and, if Evelyn is 
 as mucli attached to you as you believe, 
 you will break hers. There is not another 
 man in England who would do what, you 
 mean to do 1 Ruin himself and his family, 
 lose his love, cast a stain upon his father's 
 and lirother's name, and all for an idea ! — 
 a sentimental whim ! " 
 
 '• One word, and let it be the last." I 
 raised myself with great pain from my pil- 
 low. "/ have not cast a stain upon mij 
 viother's name. Reniemljer that — and let 
 us both be silent." 
 
 She ijuried her face in her hands. She 
 murmured something — I know not what. 
 The only words I caught presently were, 
 " j\Iy j)oor Ray ! " Tbere was a long strug- 
 gle to conquer her emotion (of whatever 
 nature it may have been, it was almost the 
 only occasion in my life when I saw her 
 visibly moved), and then she rose. The 
 black veil from her bonnet had fallen over 
 her tace as she left the room. 
 
 We scarcely sj^oke to each other but in 
 monosyllables for many days afterwards. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 The hunger for power, which was mv 
 mother's ruling passion, and before whi'rh, 
 as we have seen, even moral obstacles were 
 as naught, when occasion "justified "* it, in 
 her eyes (for she believed in herself more 
 thoroughly than any one I have ever 
 known), this hunger found something to 
 feed on in the subservience to her will, in 
 all material matters, which she found in me 
 from this time tbrwards. I let her order 
 what she liked, consult with the doctors, 
 and arrange as she pleased our plans for 
 the future. I rar(jly expressed an opinion 
 or a wish. I reserved the exercise of my 
 will for great occasions ; on all minor ones 
 my mother might rule supreme. 
 
 And I date a notable change in myself 
 from that hour. I felt no longer the same 
 man. The elasticity of spirit which, through 
 every vicissitude and anxiety, had never 
 deserted me, was suddenly gone. I became 
 more and more despondent about myself, 
 and, shrinking alike from the " chaff" and 
 the s3'mpathyofmy acquaintance, I declined 
 seeing nearly every one who called. Many 
 were the gratifying attentions I received, 
 if I had not felt apathetic to every thing ; 
 books, rare wine, rare fruit, delicate little 
 
 scented notes of inquiry. The world, 
 which cannot refrain frotn saying many 
 hard things, does manv kind ones, after 
 all. 
 
 Rut it was not in the power of man or 
 woman now tO lighten the weight that had 
 fallen upon me. A cripple, — a wretched 
 valetudinarian for life ! That was the 
 thought never absent f()r five minutes from 
 my mind. As I grew stronger in other 
 ways, as my wounds healed, and my broken 
 bones re-united, the incapacity of move- 
 ment grew more and more galling to me. 
 While I was so weak as to feel averse from 
 exertion, I had not realized what the thral- 
 dom was. Oh ! the hours of self-reproach, 
 of vain repining ! I could fill a chapter 
 with them ; biit they would be neither 
 anmsiiig nor profital)le reading. And this 
 was but the beginning of my punishment ! 
 From the very first, I took a hopeless view 
 of my own case. I knew what doctors and 
 triends meant. It was all very well to buoy 
 me up with tales of the miraculous effects 
 of German baths, of warm climates, and — 
 of time. I was not to be deceived. The 
 conviction sank deeper and deeper into 
 my mind that I should never be as I had 
 once been. The shock to my system had 
 been such, I felt it, as must leave its last- 
 ing effects through life. 
 
 I longed to be in the country ; and at 
 last the doctors pronounced that I might 
 be moved to Hampstead, where my mother 
 had taken a house. The day before I was 
 to leave Mount Street, Joe put his head in 
 at the sitting-room door and growled, — 
 
 " Mr. Francis below. Wouldn't let him 
 up. See him ? " 
 
 " Why, of course. How could you, 
 Joe ? " 
 
 " You kep' that 'ere lord yesterday 
 a-waitin', and wouldn't see him ai'ter all — 
 / didn't know," muttered my faithful Cer- 
 berus. 
 
 Francis's face was the pleasantest and 
 most cheering sight I had looked on all 
 these weeks. He took my hand with that 
 earnest cordiality which characterized him 
 so especially, and sat down beside my sofa. 
 
 " AVe came up from Torquay last night. 
 Mr. Humphrey has been ill, or we should 
 have returned sooner ; for Elizabeth and I 
 have both been sadly anxious about you, 
 my dear bo)', and wanted to be nearer to 
 you. Thank God, you are now out of 
 danger I " 
 
 " Of life, yes : vou wt mv scrawl ? " 
 
 " I did, and, since then, two or three 
 days ago, your mother wrote most kindly 
 and fully. Her first note, some weeks be- 
 fore, was necessarily brief, no doubt. This 
 one relieved our great anxiety about you. 
 And another thinir I know vou will be glad
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 149 
 
 to learn," — here he dropped his voice, — 
 " she sent a kind message to Elizabeth." 
 
 I confess I was too much astonished to 
 finil any thing to say. At last I miirniured 
 an inquiry as to how Elizabeth was 
 now. 
 
 " In health, really well, but her spirits 
 do not recover. She has grown years older 
 in these few months — iroui the undisci- 
 plined child into a thoughtful, almost stern 
 voung woman. The thing that has roused 
 her most since her father's death has been 
 her keen interest in your illness." 
 
 " I am glad it has had one good result. 
 Life-long expiation for an act of folly — it 
 ■was no worse than egregious folly — seems 
 rather hard — don't }0U think so? " 
 
 " I think whatever God sends, and I say 
 it in sincerity, may prove a blessing, if we 
 receive it in the right spirit, Osmund. In 
 every misfortune, we may ' entertain an 
 angel unawares.' " 
 
 " The angel doesn't come to me, Mr. 
 Francis." 
 
 " Do you ask for him?" he said gently, 
 taking my hand in his — '• do you ask for 
 him with your whole heart, my boy ? " 
 
 " I ask ibr nothing, except for the power 
 to move about again. I lie here all day 
 louT, thinking how on earth I'm to support 
 lifelike this ! " 
 
 " Supposing this lot to be yours, which I 
 trust it will not be, how should a man, and 
 a Christian, meet it ? Not by bemoaning 
 his fate. Even the great heathens did not 
 do that ; and there is a courage far higher 
 than Stoic fortitude." 
 
 " I've never thought much about religion. 
 As you know, early impressions are not cal- 
 culated to make me a devout man." 
 
 " AVhy ? Because you have let some poor 
 erring creature like yourself stand between 
 you and the truth. You have noi sought out 
 the Great Light for yourself, putting aside 
 all human instruments, which are like clouds 
 between usand the sun. I belong to a church 
 which clings to tbrmula ; which finds in sym- 
 bol and ceremony, penance and confession, 
 so many helps to God's worship ; they do- 
 not obstruct my views of the Creator. They 
 are only the shell. But the heart of all true 
 faith is spiritual comumnion. AVithout it all 
 creeds are lifeless. Do not think about hu- 
 manity and its weakness ; look upwards, and 
 though the earth fail you, my boy, you will 
 assuredly find help and comtbrt." 
 
 But my mind could not be brought so 
 readily to relinquish the contemplation of 
 my nfis fortunes, ami to seek fbrhigl er sour- 
 ces of consolation than the objective side of 
 the case ailbrded. 
 
 " It is so awful to think of never being 
 able to get about again ! And there's some- 
 thing even worse than that. 1 suppose 1 
 
 nmst give up all my hopes now — you know 
 what I mean ? " 
 
 He tried to cheer me ; Lady Rachel had 
 written to him, what she had told me, that 
 the doctors were sanguine of my ultimate 
 re(;overy, though it might be long first. 
 But I only shook my head. The idea that 
 I should be a crij)ple for life had taken such 
 firm possession of my mind, that nothing 
 would remove it. 
 
 " It is a pity I wasn't killed outright. It 
 would have saved a deal of trouble," I said, 
 with a dreary attempt at a smile. " Eliza- 
 beth would have succeeded naturally then, 
 without all the bother of a transfer. AV^ho 
 are her solicitors ? In less than a month I 
 come of age now, and the thing must be 
 done as soon as possible ; for I won't go 
 abroad till I've signed my name to the 
 deeds. Will you see Little for me ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but you will not ask me to make 
 any arrangements ibr you ? I had rather 
 not give a color, even, to Lady Rachel's 
 suspicion that I had influenced you. Mr. 
 Little will go to Hampstead himself, no 
 doubt, whenever you are minded to see 
 him." 
 
 " Ask him to come on Saturdav, then. 
 I shall tell my mother "^- 
 
 The door opened, and she appeared, a 
 gracious smile breaking through her sor- 
 rowful aspect, like the sun from behind 
 clouds. 
 
 " I heai;d you were here. Mr. Francis," 
 she began, extending her hand, with the 
 air of a beneficent queen ; " and, though I 
 have a world of business this morning, I 
 would not miss seeing you for five minutes. 
 How do you find him looking ? Better than 
 you expected, I h(jpe V " 
 
 " He is not looking ill, at least not worse 
 than one must expect after all he has gone 
 through," rejjlied the truthful man ; " but 
 he is low about himself, and will be all the 
 better for change of air and scene." 
 
 " And a little society," added my mother. 
 " He refuses to see most people who call ; 
 but I think the visits of one or two of his 
 intimate friends and relations at Hampstead 
 will do him good. We shall have two spare 
 rooms. There will always be one for you, 
 Mr. Francis, whenever you can stay." 
 
 I listened in surprise ; but it was nothing 
 to my astonishment at what followed. 
 
 ".•How is Miss Penruddocke ? I hope you 
 conveyed my message to her ? " 
 
 " I did, and she was most .sensible of your 
 kindness. She is a great deal better. Still, 
 like Osmund here, her spirits want rousing." 
 
 " You had better bring her down to Hamp- 
 stead. Though we are almost strangers, she 
 knows Osnnnul well, and the two invalids 
 will entertain each other. You can tell Mr. 
 Humphrey 1 will lake great care of her."
 
 150 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 I saw that even dear old Francis was 
 dunihloiinded. 
 
 '' Elizabeth and Mr. Hiinipliroy will, 1 
 am sm-e, both .... teel very niiuh .... 
 your .... oreat .... unexpected kind- 
 ness. Lady Rachel." 
 
 '• Oh ! Mr. Francis," she said, with a 
 sigh, and then a sweet smile that cliased 
 it away, " you ought to know me by this 
 time. I never continue a struggle, when I 
 am once convinced it is hopeless. I have 
 suiFered cruelly on account of all this, — it 
 would be folly to deny it. It' I Avere vindic- 
 tive, I should positively hate Miss Penruil- 
 docke. But I am not, thank God ! And 
 since I see it is inevitable, the wise thing is 
 to meet it graceiuUy." 
 
 And a very wise thing I thought it. My 
 mother's cordial attitude towards Elizabeth, 
 — the very last thing, certainly, I had dared 
 hope for — would obviate a number of un- 
 pleasant possibilities which I had foreseen. 
 But the fact of her suddenly enduing her- 
 self with this wisdom was to me inexplic- 
 able. Presently, in reply to a question i'rom 
 Francis toucliing the Hampstead house, she 
 said, — 
 
 '• I have taken it for a year. It will do 
 to move my things into from Beaumanoir, 
 for the time, while I look out for a new 
 home. After four and twenty years," she 
 continued q^iite calmly, " the uprooting is 
 no small matter. I must be there for a 
 fortni'j.'ht to pack up my goods and chat- 
 tels, I suppose, before we go abroail. Will 
 you come and take charge of Osmund dur- 
 ing ray absence V " 
 
 He promised to do so ; and soon after this 
 my mother lett us. 
 
 " Remember, I hope to see Miss Penrud- 
 docke," were her last words. 
 When we were alone, I said, — 
 " Impress upon Elizabeth one thing. She 
 is not to allude to Beaumanoir when we 
 meet — especially before my mother." 
 
 "I suspect that will be diflicult. It 
 weighs very much upon her mind, I feel 
 sure." 
 
 " Elizabeth hates speechifying, and so do 
 I. It would simply be odious for her to 
 talk to me of her gratitude and my gener- 
 osity. You, who know how misplaced such 
 terms would be, understand this. Make 
 her understand it, too." 
 
 " I will do my best," said Mr. Francis, as 
 he wished me good-by. 
 
 I bore the drive to Hampstead well, and 
 the aspect of the old red brick house pleased 
 me. Its slope of southward garden, where 
 fruit-trees and flower-knots were delight- 
 fully intermingled, dominated by a terrace 
 upon which the sitting-room windows 
 opened, was the very place for an invalid. 
 I was wheeled here every morning, and lay 
 
 for hours watching the dome and lesser 
 towers of the great city yonder, rising 
 from a sea of 1)1 ue or saffron-colored mist — 
 which evil-minded jjcrsons ]>ersisted in call- 
 ing the London fog. Here I received the 
 friends who occasionally rode out; but I 
 made it known that I did not wish for 
 'j;eneral visitors, though I could not Ije so 
 churlish as to deny myself to the few who 
 toiled up this suburban height to see me. 
 Among those who most fretjuently did so 
 was my uncle. 
 
 He brought me several messages from a 
 person concerning whom, as she will not 
 appear again in these pages, I will here say 
 a few words at parting. 
 
 Lady Castle had written several times, 
 while I was still in town, asking if she 
 might be admitted to see me. I declined'. 
 JNIy mother's presence would have sufficed 
 to lead me to this decision (after all she 
 had said) ; but I had, myself, a strong re- 
 pugnance to such an interview. My seeing 
 her could do Lady Castle no good. I had 
 already rendered her almost the greatest 
 service any human being can render an- 
 other, and I never desired to look upon her 
 again. Her image would always be associ- 
 ated in my mind with the darkest passage 
 in my life. I was not disposed to shift the 
 responsibility of what had come to pass on 
 other shoulders than my own. I knew that 
 my Quixotic vanity of redressing injustice, 
 uncurbed by a consideration of whether the 
 cause was, in truth, a worthy one. was 
 solely to blame ; but my feelings towards 
 the woman whose conduct had bi'ouglit 
 about all this evil had undergone a consid- 
 erable change, nevertheless. She was safe, 
 and my ])ity had vanished. My scorn for 
 her lite of double-dealing with passion and 
 principle had strengthened ibuifbld. I felt, 
 that, in my present mood, I could nut tol- 
 erate her gratitude : her smiles, her tears, 
 her blessings, would have been alike insup- 
 portable to me. I told my uncle to make 
 what excuses he liked. 
 
 " Say what is the truth, — that my nerves 
 are shattered, and I'm unfit for ladies' soci- 
 ety. After what you told me the other day 
 was the general belief about Lady Castle 
 and me, sh<i is the last person I ought to 
 see ; but I don't want to see any one. I'm 
 too down in the mouth." 
 
 " Oh ! that will never do. You mustn't 
 get hipped. You'll be all right again in a 
 short time. I met your chief this morning 
 in Rotten Row. He told me you had six 
 months' leave, and at the end of that time 
 it could be renewed, if you were not quite 
 fit to return to your duty . " 
 
 " I shall never be fit, — that is the fact. 
 I may as well send in my papers at once." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! God bless my
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 151 
 
 soul I because a young fellow like you has 
 a fall and breaks a bone or two, lie is to 
 give up the service I Never heard such 
 rubbii^h ! " 
 
 But it was in vain that he always tried 
 thus to lau;i;h me out of my despondency. 
 I gained strenc^th and appetite, but I suf- 
 fered greatly from my back at times ; in 
 tliat respect I saw no improvement. The 
 doctors, however, declared themselves sat- 
 isfied with my general progress, and de- 
 cided that early in July I should go to 
 Wildbad or Gastein. It was now the end 
 of INlay. 
 
 On the Saturday before-named, Little 
 spent an hour with me, and received my 
 instructions as to the deed of gift to Eliza- 
 beth, -which I was to sign on the day I came 
 of age. 
 
 The Sunday brought with it Francis, 
 •who spent the afternoon with me, and was 
 the bearer of Elizabeth's reply to my moth- 
 er's invitation. She accepted it gladly ; 
 and as Mr. Humphrey did not object (that 
 old gentleman was now almost well, and 
 hated to be considered an invalid), it was 
 arranged she should come to Hampstead 
 the following week, for a few days. Fran- 
 cis would bring her, and return to Cheyne 
 Walk, so as not to leave Ilnraphrey quite 
 alone. Later, when Elizabeth was at home, 
 and my mother had to go to Beaumanoir, 
 Fi-ancis was to come and mount guard over 
 me. 
 
 CHAPTER LIL 
 
 I WAS lying on my chaise longue on the 
 terrace. 
 
 It was a real May morning ; that "bridal 
 of the earth and sky," which, like other es- 
 pousals, has a poetry in early life it can 
 never know in maturer days. These have 
 their ripe summer splendors, — it may 
 even be their sober autumn joys, but the 
 budding passions of spring, the pale swal- 
 low-flecked sky, the pleasant turmoil of the 
 birds, — these belong to the 'teens of the 
 year ; and the boy-and-girl marriage is one 
 of intoxicating delight. 
 
 To me, however, there was more of 
 sadness tlian of pleasure in the sense of 
 nature awakening everywhere refreshed and 
 strong ; the sap rising in each fibre of the 
 ivy on yonder wall, the sycamore leaves 
 bursting their ])ale sheaths, the under 
 boughs of laurel, intolerant of subservience, 
 vigorously thrusting upwards to tlie light 
 their first fruits of tender green. 
 
 I was in that morbid condition when 
 even outward objects, which at other times 
 it is a delight to'watcli, jar upon the over- 
 
 sensitive brain, as recalling, more or less 
 directly, what we have lost or suifered. It 
 was still the spring-lime of my life ; but the 
 sap was sharply checked, the fair promises 
 of summer suddenly cut off. 
 
 I lay there, doing nothing, a book upon 
 my knee unopened, when my mother 
 stej>ped out of the drawing-room window, 
 followed by Elizabeth. I had never seen 
 the latter look so well ; her deep mourning 
 became her ; her reddish hair, and slender 
 figure, which had now a sort of awkward 
 grace of its own, showed to great advan- 
 tage as she stood under a bow of hawthorn 
 blossoms that netted her in a trellis of 
 fiickering shadow. She appeared shy ; and 
 my mother, like a protecting divinity, drew 
 the girl's hand within her arm as they ap- 
 proached. A sight I had certainly little 
 expected to see. 
 
 But while yet some yards distant, moved 
 by a sudden impulse which broke down 
 the rare barrier of restraint which Lady 
 Rachel's presence exei'cised upon her, Eliz- 
 abeth quickly disengaged her arm, and, 
 running up to my chair, seized the hand I 
 held out. Her cheek flushed ; her features 
 were contracted by a sharp spasm, more 
 eloquent than words. It was my mother 
 who spoke, — 
 
 " I bring you a visitor I knew you would 
 be glad to see. I have been telling her 
 how welcome her visit is to us both, 0.s- 
 mund." 
 
 " You find me a poor broken-down chap, 
 Elizabeth. No ' setting-up ' drill, now ; 
 but, as Joe would say, ' It's a sight as is 
 good for sore eyes to see you.' Except 
 dear old Francis, there's no one else I have 
 been glad to see. You'll neither pity me 
 nor chaff me, which is what one's friends 
 generally do." 
 
 " I have not had much chaff in me late- 
 ly," said Elizabeth, and she looked away 
 over the lawn ; " and, as to pity, I hate it 
 myself too much to offer it to you." 
 
 " Besides," said my mother (and her ac- 
 cents were like honey dropped upon Eliza- 
 beth's roughness of speech) — "besides, 
 he is going on so very satisfactorily, there 
 will soon be no cause for pity. His escape 
 was really miraculous — was it notV " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure. Miracles are 
 special interventions of Providence, ain't 
 they?" 
 
 " Yes, and this was a special interven- 
 tion of Providence, I make no doubt of it, 
 as Mr. Putney said in his letter to me the 
 other day." 
 
 I fell a-musing ; and I suspect, from 
 those i'liwr blunt words of my eousin's, that 
 her thought (m some modified form jjcr- 
 haps) was of the same nature as mine. 
 ^Vhy should I be especially protected, when
 
 152 
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 so many better men -were permitted to fall 
 victims to more ri;j,hteous causes ? 
 
 rresentiy my mother asked after Hum- 
 phrey. Eiizabetli replied that she really 
 did not, know how he was ; never knew, 
 indeed, uidess he was actually laid up ; for 
 he resented any in<iuiries, and never 
 ■would ;idmit that any thing ailed him. 
 
 "I should have been glad to see him 
 here," was my mother's gracious commen- 
 tary ; " but his antagonism to our branch 
 of the family has, unfortunately, always 
 been so great that intercourse has been 
 impossible; but for this, my dear Eliza- 
 beth, you would have been our visitor at 
 Beaumauoir lon^r airo." 
 . " You never asked me." 
 
 " No, my dear, I never asked you, be- 
 cause you were in Humphrey's hands, and 
 I knew it would lie useless. It would be 
 so still, if Osmund had not taken an oppo- 
 site view of this legal question to his poor 
 brother. I think him wrong, — I say so 
 frankly ; but I also think it a great pity 
 that such differences, which ought to be 
 left to the lawyers, should divide families ; 
 and that is why I am so especialVy glad to 
 see you." 
 
 She took Elizabeth's hard hand, which 
 looked as though it had been rasped, and 
 enclosed it in her own white taper fingers. 
 The apparent candor of her utterance 
 vrould have carried conviction to most 
 minds ; but, somehow or other — I grieve 
 to say it — I found it difficult to believe in 
 this sudden conversion to a large-minded 
 view of the duties of kinship. " Methinks 
 the lady doth protest too much," occurred 
 to me. I could not obliterate from my 
 recollection the freezing tone in which my 
 mother had always mentioned " our en- 
 emies." With every desire to accept her 
 cordiality towards Elizabeth as genuine, it 
 ■was dilhcult to reconcile this with what I 
 knew, by any theory founded upon a close 
 observation of my mother's character. I 
 must seek elsewhere than in that divine 
 forgiveness of those we have injured, which 
 is so much rarer than the forgiveness of 
 those who have injured us, for the solution 
 of this riddle. 
 
 Elizabeth remained silent, if I rightly re- 
 member, and the rest of that triangular con- 
 versation has left no impression upon me. 
 But, later in the afternoon, my mother hav- 
 ing gone in-doors, Elizabeth and I were 
 alone in the garden ; and yet (it seemed odd 
 to me at the time) for nearly half an hour 
 she did not come near me ! She had brought 
 out some bread in her hand from luncheon, 
 and stood meditatively before the small cir- 
 cular fish-pond, at the bottom of the lawn, 
 flingincT a morsel to its gold and silver den- 
 izerxs, now an'd again, and then lapsing into 
 
 a dreamy forgetfulness of all present things, 
 — at least, so it a])peared to me. 
 
 At length, with her characteristic abrupt- 
 ness, she turned, and walked rajjidly across 
 the lawn towards me. Standing a little be- 
 hind my chair, so that I could not see her 
 face, she said, — 
 
 " Uo you believe in miracles ? " 
 
 This was a field of theolonical contro- 
 versy upon which T had never then entered. 
 1 replied, casuistically enough, — 
 
 " 1 su]ipose I do — when they're in the 
 Bible. Not what my mother calls mir- 
 acles." 
 
 " AVould it be a miracle to receive a 
 message from the dead V " 
 
 " \\'ell, it depends," I answered. " Some 
 people of strong imagination believe they 
 see and hear all manner of thin'is : and 
 then there's that spirit-rapping bosh ! " 
 
 " I don't know any thing about that. 
 All I know is, that I've had a message, not 
 once or twice, but ever so many nights run- 
 ning, from my dad." 
 
 '' You've brooded too long upon your 
 father's death, my dear Elizabeth," I said, 
 after a minute's pause. " Your mind is a 
 little upset." 
 
 " No, it isn't. On the contrarv, it aets 
 more fixed every day. I won't take this 
 property, Osmund, — I hate it." 
 
 " Did Mr. Francis give you my message ? 
 You're to say nothing upon that subject, if 
 vou would oblifre me, while vou are here." 
 
 " I can't help it. I have been thinking 
 how I should get out what was on my mind, 
 and I must S])eak. Taking this fortune 
 from you, Osmund, will make me more iiiis- 
 erable than I already am. What do I care 
 for a big house and a lot of servants, and 
 ever so many thousands a year? The 
 money in itself would oppress me, but 
 knowing it was taken from you would be 
 intolerable. When Mr. Francis first told 
 us, Cousin Humphrey's glee, and the recol- 
 lection of all poor dad's anxieties to prove 
 his title to the estate, prevented my refus- 
 ing it ; but every week since then, I feel 
 more and more wretched about it, and in 
 my dreams now every night I see dear dad, 
 and he says to me, ' Don't take it, Liz. 
 Osmund is a son to me — don't take it ! ' " 
 
 '' Look here, Elizabeth. Supposing a 
 man loses a purse of gold which he has no 
 means of identit'ying, — legally identifying ; 
 and that the man who saw it drop from 
 him — (number one) — picks it up. AVIiat 
 should you say of number two if he kept it ? 
 ' Number one, in a fit of generosity,' may 
 beg him to do so; but (if he's a gentleman, 
 not a poor man, of course) it is simply im- 
 possible. There are circumstances you 
 will never know, which make it doubly my 
 duty tj restore that which is rightfully
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 153 
 
 yours. "What if the purse was not dro|)]H'(l, 
 but niched from you? " I added, in a lower 
 vaice, — '-perhaps the analogy would be 
 more correct. No, Elizabeth, do what you 
 like with it, — give it all away in charity ; 
 only / can't take it back." 
 
 '•' Lady Rachel doesn't think as you do," 
 she said, heaving a deep sigh. 
 
 " I know very little of my mother's 
 thoughts ; but you heard a very wise senti- 
 ment fall from her lips this morning, to the 
 eti'ect that business-matters should be left 
 to lawyers, and that the principals should 
 never "siieak of them. Act upon that, my 
 dear, or^ you'll destroy all my pleasure in 
 your visit." 
 
 She said no more. A few minutes later, 
 my uncle appeareil on the terrace. He had 
 ridden down, and brought with him all the 
 last gossip from White's. I saw him scru- 
 tinizing Elizabeth, as he talked ; and she, 
 on hei'side, eyeil him as she would have 
 done some curious animal of a genus and 
 habits heretofore unknown to her. What 
 with turf and drawing-rooni slang, covert 
 allusions, periphrases, and o'ther ibrms of 
 speech not " to be understanded of the peo- 
 ple," to say nothir.g of the subject-matter of 
 di>coursc, Elizabeth certainly did not com- 
 prehend above one word in ten of it. 
 
 By and by my mother joined us ; and 
 she and her brother walked up and down 
 one of the side-aTleys for twenty minutes, 
 or more, absorbed in conversation, which, 
 by the glances cast in our direction, re- 
 ferred, libit sure, to either Elizabeth or me. 
 
 By and by, he came up to me again ; and, 
 Elizabeth having gone into the house, we 
 bad a few minutes alone, before he took his 
 departure. 
 
 '■ You've heard about Hartman Wild ? " 
 he said. " Found no end of letters from 
 different fellows to his wife, in her desk. 
 Going to sue for a divorce. They say 
 there'are no less than four co-respondents." 
 
 " Is D'Arnheim one of them ? " 
 
 "Yes, and his wife has left him ; but that 
 you know," he added, with a laugh. '• I'm 
 glad to see, by the by, that your mother 
 has got over the shock to her propriety, 
 and Uikes a more lenient view of the ease, 
 — says now she is sure all these women 
 threw themselves at your head." 
 
 " I wish you would persuade her not to 
 talk such stiitf," said I testily. 
 
 '• She seems very nnich taken with this 
 Elizabeth," said he, eying me narrowly, 
 "and it is lucky. Certainly she is a 
 deuced fine girl." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 " Yes. I observed her walk just now, — 
 straight in the leg, — goes like an arrow, — 
 always JAidge how a woman is made by 
 that." 
 
 " As to her walk, I fake some credit to 
 myself for it. She walked like a cow two 
 years ago. I put her on her mettle, — you 
 can do any thing with her in that way." 
 
 " Ah ! I have no doubt if you took her in 
 hand she would turn out a very distiiHjuee- 
 looking woman. Very fetching hair," 
 
 " I can't say I care about red hair my- 
 self." 
 
 " Well, it's all the rage now ; and it goes 
 with a good skin. Skin is a great thing. 
 Hate a pasty, unwholesome-looking girl." 
 
 " Her complexion is improved, — still 
 she is too red at times, — hands espe- 
 cially." 
 
 " Oh 1 that will all come round, — never 
 wore gloves in the backwoods, I dare say. 
 It's an immense pull, by the way, her hav- 
 ing neither father nor motiier. He was a 
 rough customer, I remember." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by an im- 
 mense pull, — it is a teri'ible mislbrtune ! 
 Think how desolate she'll be if old Hum- 
 phrey dies 1 " 
 
 " I mean that it is an innnense pull for 
 any man who may think of marrying her, 
 not to be saddled with that backwoodsman, 
 or some impossible mother." 
 
 " Let me tell you, she is not a girl who 
 will marry the first man who asks her." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't doubt it," laughed the col- 
 onel. " I'm told she shows capital taste; 
 but I can tell you what, Osmund, there will 
 be a great run after that girl, whom you 
 insist on making one of the biggest heir- 
 esses going, if you let her come into the 
 market." 
 
 Then were my eyes opened. I saw my 
 mother's little game, and how she had been 
 priming her brother. 
 
 " I have no power to let or prevent her," 
 I said slowly. " She will do what she 
 chooses with herself and her property ; but 
 I doubt her ever ' going into the market,' 
 as you call it." 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 I HAD now the clew to my mother's hith- 
 erto inexplicable conduct. Failing all 
 other meiuis, a marriage with Elizabeth 
 would prevent the alienation of Beauma- 
 noir. This was the sole motive for her 
 sudden change of tactics ; and the longer I 
 thought over it, the more patent it became. 
 I was amazed that it should not have struck 
 me sooner. 
 
 " A chill fell upon our intercourse from 
 that hour. On Elizal)eth's ])art this may 
 have been the result of the discussion de- 
 tailed in the foregoing chapter. By it she 
 found that the idea she had hugged in se-
 
 154 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 cret, and had come resolved to cjirry into 
 execution, must tiill to the jxround. A cer- 
 tain cons^traint was inevitable, — she was 
 " shut up." On my part, the knowledjjje 
 that every look of interest, every word of 
 approval, ini^ht be misinterpreted by my 
 mother, made me churlishly taciturn. It 
 angered me to think, that, at the moment I 
 ■was trying to repair the wron'g done to my 
 cousin, she should be brouiiht here with 
 such a design as this I A marriage was to 
 be cooked up, which should render my act 
 of renunciation virtually of none effect. I 
 chafed to think how astute old Humphrey, 
 if he divined the scheme, might even now 
 be chuckling over what he would consider 
 my false airs of magnanimity. I had felt 
 real pleasure in seeing Elizabeth again ; 
 and hoped that my mother was, from disin- 
 terested motives, in which I was fain to be- 
 lieve that a troubled conscience played 
 some part, kindly disposed toward my 
 cousin. There was an end to all that now. 
 I had credited Lady Rachel with feelings 
 foreign to her nature ; and each day of 
 Elizabeth's stay would add to my annoy- 
 ance and perplexity. I liked and respected 
 Ler too much to permit her feelings to be 
 played upon ; if indeed, as Mr. Francis be- 
 lieved, this were possible. How could I 
 tell what ideas my mother miglit not instil 
 into the girl's mind V We played at chess, 
 hour after hour, in silence, — she beat me 
 five games out of six, — and then I pleaded 
 fatigue, and lay back to brood over my 
 troubles ; while Elizabeth drew a chair 
 under the hawthorn, a little distance off', 
 opened a book upon her lap, planted her 
 elbows on her knees, and clutched her head 
 between her hands, as in a vice ; but the 
 leaves, I observed through my half-closed 
 eyes, were only turned by the wind. 
 
 There was yet another thought connected 
 with the matter which worried me. Was 
 it possible that Mr. Francis was a party to 
 this plot ? — for so I must consider it. I 
 could not forget his earnest desire for this 
 marriage, and my mother's unwonted cor- 
 diality towards the man whom, but three 
 months before, she had treated so rudely. 
 And yet, after Avhat I had told him, it 
 seemed incredible that he should lend him- 
 self to a scheme the results of which could 
 only be injurious to Elizabeth, and painful 
 to myself. 
 
 On the third day of her stay, be paid us 
 a visit ; and I found an opportunity of 
 speaking with him alone. 
 
 "■ Do you know what my mother's object 
 was in inviting Elizabeth here, Mr. Fran- 
 cis V" 
 
 " I can make a shrewd guess." 
 
 " She never told you, then ? I was 
 afraid she had. I am horribly annoyed. 
 
 God knows what she mayn't say to Eliza- 
 beth, though the idea of marriage con- 
 nected with me now is such a ghastly 
 joke, I should think no one but a manoeuv- 
 ring mother could entertain it." 
 
 '• On that point, your nnnd is in a morbid 
 state," returned Francis; "but, as re- 
 gards Elizabeth, I fully comprehend your 
 feelings, and I confess I hesitated some 
 time before countenancing her visit. I re- 
 llected, however, that, in the first place, 
 Lady Rachel might be a valuable friend to 
 her hereafter, and it was unwise to reject 
 the hand your mother held out. Secondly, 
 that it might arouse Elizabeth, and, as you 
 were so shortly going abroad, could do her 
 no harm. You understand me V " 
 
 " It does harm to ?ne. I should like to 
 be on the same terms with Elizabeth we 
 were six months ago ; but, with all this 
 confounded plotting, how can I ? By the 
 by, we had an animated discussion the day 
 she arrived. She was bent on giving up 
 the property." 
 
 " That does not surprise me. I felt sure 
 that nothing but the thought of her father 
 would have prevented her doing so at first. 
 What did you say? " 
 
 " I told her, as nearly as I could, why it 
 was impossible I could retain it; and I 
 think I convinced her that my resolve was 
 not to be shaken. Do you know if she has 
 spoken to Humphrey on the subject ? " 
 
 " No ; but he is too sharp not to guess 
 something of her feelings about it. He 
 said to me the other day suddenly, ' The 
 realization of our wishes, at the end of 
 years, seldom brings the satisfaction with 
 it we anticipate. My father was set upon 
 the restoration of Beaumanoir to its right- 
 ful heir, and I inherited the crotchet. Now 
 that it is come to pass, I perceive that this 
 thing will be a thorn in the flesh. Eliza- 
 beth will find no pleasure in her patrimony, 
 — she will hate it, because her cousin is 
 dispossessed ; and as to me, sir, if I have to 
 leave my old home, and live in that big 
 place with her, / shall hate it too.'" 
 
 " Does he suspect any thing about Eliz- 
 abeth's visit here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but be at ease. Though be sees 
 some design on Lady Rachel's part (and 
 nothing would please him better than its 
 success), he has small hope of you. ' I wish 
 it could be,' he said ; ' but, unless I am mis- 
 taken, he is not a young man to be talked 
 into a marriage, — especially in a case like 
 this, where his worldly interests are so 
 much concerned.' You may rest assured, 
 therefore, that he holds you quite blameless 
 of any intention to recover Beaumanoir by 
 making Elizabeth your wife." 
 
 " The worst of it is, my mother's perti- 
 nacity. I heard her say yesterday to Eliza-
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 155 
 
 beth, ' How charming it wouM be if you 
 could come abroad with us ! Osmund will 
 be so dull alone with me!' Elizabeth 
 turned quickly round, and looked at me ; 
 but I pretended not to hear." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mv. Francis, shaking his 
 head, " that would never do. I should be 
 alraid for my poor child : she must not go 
 abroad with you." 
 
 Neither of us spoke for some minutes. 
 At length 1 said, with a little hesitation, — 
 
 " I have been thinking that, if Elizabeth 
 knew the plain truth about me and Eve- 
 lyn, — I mean what my hopes once were 
 about her, and that my heart will never 
 change, — there would be an end to all this 
 rubbish of my mother's, which has had the 
 etlect of estranging us. AViU you tell her, 
 Mr. Francis?'' 
 
 " You had better tell her yourself." 
 Then after a pause, he added, " I think it 
 not impossible that she already has a glim- 
 mering of it." 
 
 " Wha,t makes you think that ? " 
 
 " To explain, I must mention something 
 which I have not done yet, for I thought 
 it niicjht excite vou too nmch ; but if vou 
 name Miss Hamlei'j;h to Elizabeth, you 
 ■would be sure to hear it from her. We 
 met her and her mother at Torquay." 
 
 '' At Torquay ? You saw her at Tor- 
 quay, — and you never told me ! What on 
 earth were they doing there V " 
 
 " They came on a visit to Mrs. Hawks- 
 ley, who has had a villa there ibr the win- 
 ter. Mrs. Hamleigh found us out at once, 
 and called, and was most gracious to Eliza- 
 beth." 
 
 " But about Evelyn — that is what I 
 ■want to hear. What did she say ? Did 
 you talk to her about me V and how did she 
 look ? " 
 
 " Delicate, and very sad. I had one 
 long conversation with her, alone. But, 
 perhaps, it is as well that you should know 
 exactly what passed first between her 
 mother and me when j\Iiss Hamleigh was 
 by. She began by saying she had heard 
 from Lady Rachel that morning — that 
 she heard from her most days — and that 
 your mother was crushed by this last grief, 
 which was rendered so much worse by con- 
 firming all she had long feared of your 
 utter depravity. ' You are aware,' she 
 said, ' I suppose, that a Ladif was the cause 
 of this fatal quarrel V But perhaps you 
 have not lieard that his poor mother found 
 another y^er.sort established by her son's l)ed- 
 side when she arriveil. I should not allude 
 to such a subject before Evelyn, but that 
 she has a fixed hallucination abut Osmund 
 — that his dear mother and I have never 
 done himjustice. 1 have been reluctantly 
 compelled, therefore, to let her know the 
 
 truth.' I was sorely grieved, Osmund. 
 I could not discredit your mother's testimo- 
 ny ; all I could say was that, loving you as 
 I did, I would never accept the worst con- 
 struction of any fact that told against you, 
 till I had asked for your explanation of it." 
 
 " AVhat a brick you are, Mr. Francis i 
 I'll explain every thing to you — but tell 
 me first what Evy said." 
 
 " She did not open her lips. She was 
 deadly pale, until I spoke those few words. 
 Then she fiurshed up, and gave me a look 
 of gratitude. However, the day before we 
 left Torquay I was able to have some con- 
 versation with her alone." 
 
 " How glad I am ! Well, what passed ? " 
 
 " She and her mother called, and Mrs. 
 Hamleigh was engrossed with Elizabeth — 
 overwhelmed her with civility ; so I could 
 talk to Miss Hamleigh without interruption. 
 She said, ' Thank you, for speaking as you 
 did to mamma about poor Osmimd. It is 
 so dreadful to hear the same thing repeated 
 day after day ! I cannot believe it. After 
 all his protestations to me, it is impossible 
 he can be as bad as mamma thinks. He 
 has been very weak, I know, and has been 
 led astray ; but, oh 1 dear boy, how terribly 
 he has been punished 1 It makes me so 
 wretched to think of him ! ' " 
 
 "Did she say nothing about ■tvriting? 
 Dill she know it was a toss-up whether I 
 lived or died ? " 
 
 " I doubt if she has been told the whole 
 truth — probably from a fear of exciting 
 her sym])athy too keenly. She said her 
 mother had gone on her knees to implore 
 her not to write to you ; ' but I may send 
 him a message,' she added : ' I am sure it 
 cannot be wrong to do that. Tell hiin, 
 after our last interview, nothing but the 
 most positive' proof shall make me believe 
 him false at heart, as poor dear mamma is 
 persuaded he is. He has ijeen foolish, I, 
 dare say — I will not think him culjiable — 
 at least, to the extent they try to prove. 
 Mamma says that, to go on clinging to him, 
 after his conduct, is to lower myself. 1 sup- 
 pose I have no dignity — but I cannot help 
 it 1 ' I promised Miss Hamleii^h, that, if I 
 learnt any satisfactory explanation of the 
 circumstances, I would let her know." 
 
 AVhen I had told him as much of' the case 
 as I could tell any one — that is to say, of 
 the causes that led to my encounter with the 
 Italian — and when 1 came to speak of 
 Madame d'Arnheim, I asked, — 
 
 " Did Evelyn refer particularly to her? 
 Can you remember if she alluded to her in 
 any way ? " 
 
 " She said something of a friendship for 
 a lady which you assured her the world iiad 
 entirely misconstrued. ' I believed him 
 then,* she added, ' and I will not disbelieve
 
 156 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 him now. IIo would have made a promise, 
 had I exacted it, iK-ver to yee this pL-rsoii 
 ii;4ain. But my oUl faith in him revived 
 alter nearly three years' separation. I liad 
 been told lie was quite elian<red ; 1 did not 
 find him so. lie may have many, many 
 faults, iJr. Franeis, but he does love me 
 still — I am sure of it. If I did not trust 
 him, in spite of all they tell me, I should 
 never trust any thinir a;j;ain in this world.' 
 Those, as nearly as 1 can remember them, 
 were her words, Osmund." 
 
 '• She is an angel ! And to think that I 
 may never see her again, perhaps ■ — never 
 be able to assure her of my eonstancy ! O 
 God ! it is hard." 
 
 " His eliastisements are not always sent 
 us in displeasure, my boy. Bear your trial 
 bravely, and it may turn into a blessing." 
 
 '■ A blessing to be a cripple for life ! " 
 
 " It is foolish to worry yourself about the 
 future, my poor boy. In God's hands are 
 the issues. The present ought to be 
 enough lor us all." 
 
 " More than enough for me. But tell 
 me what vou were going to say about Eliza- 
 beth?" 
 
 " I said that she had some inkling of the 
 truth. I never betrayed her contidence ; 
 but, after the Ilamleighs were gone that day, 
 she said, to me, ' You were talking to that 
 girl about Osmund — I heard his name 
 twice — what did she say V ' I told her 
 that Miss Hamleigh was much distressed at 
 all the reports current as to the cause of 
 your terrible catastrophe. She answered 
 characteristically, ' What does the cause 
 signify? He is lying dreadfully hurt, and 
 I can think of nothing but that. Yet this 
 gh'l is fond of him — I could tell that by 
 her face.' Elizabeth has returned to the 
 subject more than once. That is why I 
 think you will find her, in a measure, pre- 
 pared tor what you ted her." 
 
 '• Very well," I said, as I leant back with 
 a heavy sigh. '• She shall know what my 
 hopes were up to a few weeks ago, and that 
 I shall never care for any one but Evelyn 
 Hamleigh, though I should live on as a crip- 
 ple for the next llfty }'ears. It is no use, Mr. 
 Francis," I continued, as I saw his gentle, 
 reproving smile ; " neither the doctors nor 
 you can shake my own horrible conviction 
 that I shall never be better." 
 
 Then his smile faded away, and he looked 
 almost stern. 
 
 " So you fret and exhaust yourself by 
 dwelling upon that whicli, according to you, 
 is inevitable — is God's decree ? Osmund, 
 1 am ashamed of you ! This iifitation is 
 hurtful to you, both mentally and physically. 
 Y'^ou say you do not trust the doctors — 
 that they purposely mislead you. Ah ! my 
 son, would that I could induce you to turn 
 
 to that heavenly Physician, whose prom- 
 ises never deceive, and who would send 
 down to your heart a peace which is not of 
 this world 1 " 
 
 • • • ■ • ■ • 
 
 He talked to me lor nearly an hour long- 
 t'r. I do not repeat any portion of the 
 remainder of that conversation, for it 
 would be out of place here ; but every word 
 of it is engraved in my memory. It was the 
 beginning of a new jjhase in my inner life. 
 Followed up, as it was, by many similar 
 discussions, when Mr. Francis and I were 
 alone in the house together the following 
 week, it produced an im[)ression the results 
 of which will be apparent by and by. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Elizabrth and I were alone ; the chess- 
 boaril stood between us; she had just 
 beaten me. 
 
 " You have a faculty I shall never pos- 
 sess, Elizabeth. I can make plans lor my- 
 self, down to the third and fourth genera- 
 tion, but I seldom detect my adversary's 
 game. Do you see ahead in this clear way 
 in real life?" 
 
 She looked up sharply into my face. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean. I've no 
 adversaries to detect." 
 
 ' Ah I I am glad to hear it," I replied, 
 thinking how much I could enlighten her if 
 I chose. " But sometimes the designs of 
 those who act, as they consider, for our 
 benefit, we would bafHe, if we suspected 
 them." 
 
 Elizabeth said nothing. She began put- 
 ting the pieces away into their box. 
 
 " Shall I tell you something V " I con- 
 tinued. " My mother and I have been 
 playing such a game of chess for the last 
 year, and I never foresee her moves." 
 
 " So 1 should think," she said quietly. 
 
 " Her object in the game has been to 
 separate me from the person I love best 
 on earth, because that person is poor." 
 
 The girl's face grew deadly pale, but she 
 did not speak nor look up : she went on 
 mechanically placing the pawn in the box. 
 
 " Her first move was to prevent our cor- 
 responding. She and the mother of — this 
 person " — 
 
 " Miss Hamleiffh — go on." 
 
 " Y'es : Miss Ilandeigh's mother and 
 mine are most intimate ; and, as I was 
 poor, the views of the two mothers were 
 the same. Evelyn was forbidden to write 
 to me ; I was not allowed to see her ; and 
 my letters were intercepted. After this, 
 every sort of story that could be raked up
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 157 
 
 about me, to prove that I was? inconstant to 
 Lur, was repeated to Evelyn." 
 
 " That couldn't do much harm," said 
 Elizabeth quickly. " Who would believe 
 any thin'^ of a person she loved, that was 
 told behind his back V " 
 
 " Well, my cousin had not seen me for a 
 long time ; she was a child when we parted ; 
 there was every excuse for her believing 
 what both our mothers told lier. I had 
 always been spoken of as a scapegrace, 
 after I had run away from home ; and the 
 reports of my ' goings-on ' in Lomlon, and 
 of my liaving forgotten her, must liave 
 seemed half confirmed by my never re- 
 turning to Beaumanoir, whei'e tlie Ham- 
 leiglis constantly were. You must re- 
 member all this before you blame her." 
 
 " And why did you never return to Beau- 
 manoir V " 
 
 Elizabeth liere raised her eyes to mine. 
 
 " Tiiat I am not at liberty to tell you. It 
 has nothing to do with this. Nor can I en- 
 ter at length into all my mother's subse- 
 quent plots. I have never been sharp 
 enough to detect them until they have done 
 me miscliief, — that is, looking at tiie case 
 from my point of view : slie believes, no 
 doubt, that all she does is for my welfare. 
 Her last move lias been to let Evelyn know 
 the scandalous stories that are told about 
 this atfair. One would think it was enough 
 to be hali'killed,without being traduced ; but 
 no : we must be separated, at all hazards." 
 
 " But she can't be so — she doesn't be- 
 lieve them ? " asked Ehzabeth vehemently. 
 
 " She does not believe them. As regards 
 that, I know now that they might spare 
 themselves the trouble. She will never 
 give me up ; she will never marry another 
 man, until I myself release her. But fate, 
 you see, though it does not smile upon my 
 mother's I'-ame, seems bent on favoring Mrs. 
 Hamleigh." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 The board was cleared now, and her fingers 
 were knotting; themselves, with feverish rest- 
 lessness, in her lap. 
 
 '• I mean, that a poor maimed devil as 1 
 am, Elizabeth, has no right to think of 
 marriage. The hope of ever being better 
 grows lainter every day. You look liorri- 
 lied, my dear. Yes, I know they don't say 
 so : thi;y all tell me it is a morbid tivncy. 
 You will see if it turns out so." 
 
 " Of course s^ie will stick to you, whether 
 you are ill or well," said Elizabeth, in a 
 choky voice, with averted face. 
 
 " Ah I if I get no better, and see that I 
 ouglit to give her up — God knows what 
 the sacrifice will be to me 1 — but I will 
 not ruin her young life, — 1 shall tell her 
 she must marry. 1 won't be a dog in the 
 mauiier." 
 
 " Fancy giving any one up one loved, be- 
 cause lie was ill! I shouldn't think much 
 of her if she did so I " cried the girl scorn- 
 fully ; but I heard how dillicult it was to 
 steady her voice, as she went on : " Do 
 you think when a girl loves — 7'eallt/ loves, 
 — she can be shunted on to any other line, 
 just for the sake of being married ? Why 
 should she marry V Isn't it better to die an 
 old maid than marry without love ? It Miss 
 Hamleigh is — what you think she is, she'll 
 wait and wait, until you're both old ; and 
 then she'll come and nurse you — she will 
 never give you up." 
 
 " I shall never give her up, — in my heart, 
 I mean, — though I may renounce all claim 
 to her hand. As to living on like this till I 
 am old, I pray to God that I may die to- 
 morrow, sooner than that! " 
 
 " There are worse lots than dying youni-," 
 said Elizabeth. " Living uncared lor is one. 
 I know I wish / were dead I " 
 
 '"Good gracious ! With health, strength, 
 every capacity for enjoyment, at the outset 
 of your life, how can you say that V — how 
 can you say you are uncared tor 'r' '" 
 
 " It all seems very cold to me after — 
 after dad's love." 
 
 " Wait. Depend on it, in time you will 
 find a love that is not cold. You will 
 marry, and be a very happy woman, I 
 predict." 
 
 " I shall never marry." 
 
 " Why do you say that so confidently ? " 
 
 " Because I have enough of the faculty 
 you spoke of just now to know that I shall 
 never be loved — as / understand love — 
 for myself." 
 
 " Nonsense I Y^ou'll see by and by how 
 mistaken you are." 
 
 '• No man loves the sort of half-boy girl I 
 am ; but as I'm to be rich, — you insist on 
 my having this oflious property, — Cousin 
 Humphrey is always telling me I shall have 
 no lack of suitors. He needn't be afraid. I 
 won't marry at all." 
 
 " And what shall you do, then ? " said I, 
 with a forced smile ; for I felt, in truth, very 
 sad for the jjoor child. " iieign at Beau- 
 manoir as a virgin queen, like your great 
 namesake, and take to hunting and shoot- 
 ing V " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I couldn't stand the monotony of such a 
 life for long — alone, linQun. When Hum- 
 phrey dies, perhaps — perhaps I shall go off 
 and wander." 
 
 '• You can't do that alone at your age." 
 
 " Why not V " she said simply. " I sup- 
 pose with money enough I can go where I 
 choose. However, I hope Mr. Fi'ancis will 
 always live with me." 
 
 " Well," I began, somewhat staggered ; 
 and then, refiecting that it was useless to
 
 158 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 discuss conventional proj)rieties with her, I 
 added, " Siillieieut unto the day is the evil 
 thereof. Old lluuiplirey will outlive us all 
 yet." 
 
 " I hope so," she said, with a sigh. " lie 
 cares about life, — he has the funds to 
 wateh. It is better than nothing." 
 
 '• Nothing ! Why, you know how fond 
 he is of you. It is because all his Ibrtiuie 
 is for you that he watches the funds widi 
 such interest, I feel sure." 
 
 " Whi think so? You're wrong. Not 
 that he isn't fond of me, — I don't mean 
 that. I know what I mean. I understand 
 Huniphrev, and he understands me." 
 
 " I'll be hanged if / do, Elizabeth." 
 
 " No : I never thought you did." 
 
 " But we shall always remain fast friends, 
 ■whether wo understand each other or not, 
 sha'ii't we ? " I said, after an awkward little 
 pause. " We may not meet, perhaps, for 
 ever so long, but that will make no dill'er- 
 ence, I hojie. You'll write to me, Eliza- 
 beth V " 
 
 " I can't write beautiful letters about 
 nothing. What is tliere I could write 
 about that you would care to hear ? " 
 
 " Every thing. All that concerns you 
 will interest me, depend on it. With two 
 such far wiser heads than mine near you, 
 it isn't likely you should want my advice. 
 Still, there are matters about the estate, 
 and so on, in which I might be of some 
 use. Promise to write to me constantly 
 while I am abroad V " 
 
 I had not heard my mother enter the 
 room through the folding-doors at my 
 back ; and it was not until I saw Elizabeth 
 look up, that I turned my head, and beheld 
 the beautiful face smiling benignly upon us 
 at my elbow. 
 
 " I am sure Elizabeth will not be so cruel 
 as to rei'use you, Osmund ; but what I am 
 hoping is that Humphrey will spare her to 
 go abroad witli us for a short time, or, if not 
 now, to join us in the autumn. It would 
 be so nice." 
 
 " I shouldn't like it at all," said Eliza- 
 beth, rising bruskly. " I'm very much 
 obliged to you, Lady Rachel," she added, 
 coloring to the roots of her hair, ami sensi- 
 ble that she should modity this rejection ; 
 " but I couldn't leave Cousin Humphrey, 
 even if he wished it." 
 
 My mother's inuuutability was for once 
 disturbed. Her face betrayed, to my eyes 
 at least, her vexation and her surprise. 
 
 Elizabeth returned to Cheyne Walk the 
 following day. My mother made an effort 
 to keep her longer ; but my cousin was res- 
 olute to go, although befure our last con- 
 versation she had certainly entertained the 
 idea of asking Humi)hrey to let her remain 
 with us another week. Francis, however, 
 
 wrote to say that the old gentleman was 
 by no means well, and she seized upon this 
 prete.vt for holding to the limit originally 
 fixed for her stay. 
 
 Olu' parting was common-place enough 
 to the outward observer. Elizabeth was 
 like a little rock. I was really sorry to say 
 good-by to her, and was, moreover, in that 
 condition of mind when partings are 
 fraught with forebodings of evil, — forebod- 
 ings which we snule or shudder over long 
 afterwards, according as they are realized 
 or not ; but my mother's presence checked 
 much demonstration of what I felt, though, 
 even thus, I was more visibly moved than 
 my cousin. Her face looked as it had done 
 during her father's last illness, rigid, and 
 aluiost green, — the effect produced upon 
 that sort of skin by sleepless nights, or any 
 strong and prolonged emotion. She came 
 into the room at the last moment, the car- 
 riage waiting at the door, and walked up 
 to my sola. 
 
 " God bless you, Elizabeth ! " I said, 
 holding out my hand. " Now mind you 
 write.'' 
 
 She grasped my hand tightly for a mo- 
 ment ; then dropped it, without a word. 
 
 My mother came forward, and stooped 
 to kiss her. 
 
 '• I am very sorry — we are both truly 
 sorry to lose you, my dear. I hope, at no 
 distant time, this renewal of our family ties 
 may be " — 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for your 
 kindness," said Elizabeth ra[)idly. " Good- 
 by." And, without another word, — with- 
 out waiting tor my mother's I'cjoinder, — 
 she huriied from the room. 
 
 " Well, she certainly is an odd girl," 
 murmured my mother, as the door closed ; 
 and a slight ilush of annoyance mounted to 
 her cheek. " DilKcult to make any impres- 
 sion upon." 
 
 The week following, my mother went to 
 Beaumanoir, and Mr. Francis came to stay 
 with me lor a fortnight. It was a delii-lit- 
 ful episode in that melancholy time. He 
 drew me upwards in conversation to higher 
 and worthier subjects of reflection than 
 those I was unhappily too jirone to indulge 
 in. I forgot, for the moment, my physical 
 ailments, in discussion upon some of those 
 deep mysteries of our being which every 
 thinking mind must, at times, crave to sat- 
 isfy. Up to this period of my life, when- 
 ever such dilliculties had crossed my 
 thoughts, I had put them away, as matters 
 beyond my ken, which it could profit me 
 nothing to in(juire too curiously into. My 
 religion was positively but little elevated 
 above that of Tennyson's " Northern Farm- 
 er ; " sleepy assent and indill'erence had
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 159 
 
 clinractcrlzcfl my tlicology from the days 
 (if Mr. Putney's teaching until now. Mr. 
 Francis, durin;^ all tlie years he had been 
 at Beauinanoir, had been careful never to 
 distui-b tills state of thin5;s. It had been 
 in the bond that all polemics were to be 
 riirorously avoiiled, and he was far too con- 
 scientious to infringe the rule ; but now 
 he was on another footing, and I, instead 
 of a boy, was a man, suffering in body, mis- 
 eralile in nund, of wavering, unhopeful 
 i'aith. I will not afSrm that he came re- 
 solved to convert me to his own church, if 
 possible j but, that he held himself more 
 than justified in arousing my interest in the 
 question, and leailing me to seek what lie 
 considered the truth, I believe ; and I 
 have nevei' ceased to feel grateful to him 
 for it. When he reads these lines, I hope 
 he will understand that I never, for an in- 
 stant, confounded a character I reverence 
 so deeply wit^h that of the insidious Jesuit 
 of fiction (or fact, may be, for aught I 
 know), who goeth about seeking whom he 
 may theologically devour. To whatever 
 doubt and distress my mind was subjected 
 after this time, it still was, at all events, 
 preferable, as I now think, to the passive 
 materialism from which Mr. Francis had 
 awakened me. 
 
 It was during those days that I attained 
 my majority, that the lawyers came down 
 to Hampstead, and that I duly signed the 
 deeds conveying away the whole of the 
 Beaumanolr property to Elizabeth Penrud- 
 docke. The small Lincolnshire estate, 
 added to what I already possessed, would 
 yield me an income of eleven hundred a 
 year. 
 
 IMy mother and I left England for AVies- 
 baden the beginning of July. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 Of the six months following I have but 
 little to relate. Two letters of Mr. Fran- 
 cis's will show the condition of things as 
 regarded myself and others : I need trouljle 
 the reader with no more. I had heard con- 
 stantly from him, and twice from Elizabeth, 
 when I r(.'ceiv( d the following at Geneva, 
 in the last week of September : — 
 
 "BEAUMANOin. 
 
 "My dear Osmund, — Your letter fiom 
 Munich, received three days ago, has trou- 
 bled me much. I have thought of little 
 else ever since. First, as to your health : 
 it is a sore disappointment to find that 
 Wiesbaden has done, as yet, nothing for 
 you ; but I am told the benefit of such baths 
 only becomes apparent, very often, many 
 
 weeks after ' the course ' is ended, and I 
 trust the warm yet bracing air of Nice will 
 bring to maturity the good seed that Wies- 
 baden may have sown. At all events, let 
 me entreat you earnestly to allow neither 
 patience nor hope to abandon you. The 
 tone of your letter grieves me more than 
 all — it is so desponflini^ ; yet, here and 
 there, I think I see indications that your 
 soul, under its heavy trial, is beginnimj to 
 look beyond this world for comibrt. May 
 it indeed be so ! May your steps be 
 guided, if towards our holy Church, how 
 joyful I shall be I — if not — if towards 
 some other door of Cod's opening — I shall 
 know it is equally his doing. I am not 
 bigoted ; I would ap|)ly the Pagan's line 
 to this Christian need — 
 
 ' Rem . . . quocunque modo rem.' 
 
 " You will expect to hear something about 
 us; but, in truth, I have little to tell. We 
 have now been here two months, and our 
 life continues to be very much what it was 
 after the first two days. Every neighbor 
 within fifteen miles has called, and not one 
 has been admitted. Whatever the weather 
 is, Elizabeth rides for some hours daily, 
 The farm, the stables, the dogs, are her 
 chief interests. She does not care much 
 about the garden, except that little grubby 
 corner that was called }'ours as a child, and 
 which she chooses that no one should work 
 in but herself. She promises to be a capital 
 woman of business, and has mastered all the 
 details of this estate in a manner which 
 has gratified j\Ir. Humphrey beyond meas- 
 ure. She is not satisfied with a superficial 
 knowledge of any thing ; she goes through 
 the bailill's accounts with Mr. Humphrey, 
 and asks cpiestions which he and I are 
 sometimes unable to answer. Altogether, 
 the removal here has had a healthy efiect 
 on her. I do not say that she is happy, 
 but she is roused. Her mind has active 
 emplo\ment for the present ; and those fits 
 of moodiness which threatened to become 
 chronic are now rare. 
 
 " I am not easy about Mr. Humphrey. 
 He is more tetchy than ever as to inquiries 
 touching his health, but I tear he is far 
 fi-om well. His feelings about Beaumanoir 
 are of a mixed nature; he derives a curious 
 satisfaction from the realization of the 
 idea which was paramount in his mind for 
 so many years ; but he hati's the country, 
 and pines for London, and all the busy 
 money-getting interests of his past life. He 
 does not know wheat from barley, or a 
 goose from a gander, to Elizalieth's infinite 
 amusement ; and were it not for the daily 
 papers, and for the accounts connected 
 with this property, which he audits, he
 
 IGO 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 would be misornble. He objects to per- 
 sonal contact with visitors as much as VA'v/.- 
 abeth does, and yet I am sure be would 
 feel annoyed if they did not call. He 
 shrugs his shoulders wdien he see a carriage 
 drive up to leave cards, and says, ' Yes, 
 my good lady, you have a son looking out 
 for a girl witli money ; but you are not go- 
 ing to drop salt on Elizabeth's tail.' I ob- 
 serve, however, in spite of these sarcasms, 
 that he is very punctilious in the due 
 returning of cards, from which I gather 
 that he is not altogether so indifferent to 
 these acts of courtesy as he would have us 
 believe. 
 
 " Elizabeth is writing to Lady Rachel, in 
 reply to her second invitation to join your 
 mother and you. You know what the sul)- 
 stance of that reply will again be. To 
 frame it in suitable words is not an easy 
 task to Elizabeth. Clever as she is in 
 many ways, the facility of expressing her- 
 self on paper, has been denied to her. I 
 say this, as you complain of the ' two bald 
 and frigid epistles ' she has sent you." 
 
 I continued to hear from INIr. Francis 
 constantly that autumn, during which I 
 remained in the same state. The tedious 
 journey to Nice was accomplished, and we 
 were settled in the Villa Lyon. I lay 
 basking in the Southern sun for some hours 
 every day, and life looked to me like a 
 beautiful dream of cloudless sky and tide- 
 less sea ; but I grew no better. Weary — 
 weary of every thing. As Joe held the 
 glass for me to shave, and I looked at my 
 own face, I read the chanc!:e in myself 
 there ; and still they cried, '• Peace, peace," 
 when tiiere was no peace. 
 
 In December I was shocked to hoar of 
 Mr. Humphrey's demise. He was found 
 dead in his bed one morning at Beauma- 
 noir. A week after the news reached me, 
 I received a second letter, from which the 
 following is an extract : — 
 
 "I have now to tell that which will 
 cause you some surprise. Immediately 
 after the funeral, the will was oj)ened and 
 read. By a codicil dated last June, the 
 substance of that will, which had devised 
 all Mr. Humphrey's jiroperty to Elizabeth, 
 is cancelled, and the main portion lell to 
 you. I quote the exact words : — 
 
 •' 'In consideration of the magnanimous 
 surrender of the great Penruddocke estates, 
 by Osmund Penruddocke, to his Cousin 
 Elizabeth (their rightful owner in the 
 sight of God), I hereby, and with the 
 knowledge and approval of the said Eliza- 
 beth, revoke the above provisions of my 
 will made in her favor, with the exception 
 of my plate, furniture, and books, which I 
 
 give to the said Elizabeth, as a memento; 
 and I bequeath all my property in the 
 funds, and of whatsoever other description, 
 to Osmund Penruddocke, son of the late 
 John Penruddocke of Beaumanoir.' 
 
 " He then leaves some legacies to his 
 servants and to me. On a rough calcula- 
 tion, the lawyer tells me the funded pro- 
 perty amounts to about twenty-three 
 thousand pounds. Elizabeth says you will 
 remember an observation about Mr. Hum- 
 phrey you made to her in June. She knew 
 at that time of his intention ; and, <as soon 
 as the title-deed transferring the Beauma- 
 noir estate to her was signed by you, he 
 wrote this codicil in her presence. 
 
 " She feels the old man's death very 
 min'h ; and the question which presses on 
 me, far more than on her, is. What is she 
 to do now ? She is so peculiar, that it will 
 not be easy to find a lady-companion to 
 suit her; without one, I cannot retnain 
 with her, as she wishes. This difficulty, 
 however, has been temporarily removed by 
 Mrs. Haudeigh's offering to come and stay 
 with Elizabeth, as soon as she heard of 
 Mr. Humphrey's death. Elizabeth was for 
 declining at once ; but I persuaded her at 
 last to yield, and Mrs. and Miss Hamleigh 
 arrived yesterday, just before the funeral. 
 (The second time within twelve months 
 that they have come to this house under 
 similar circumstances !) Mrs. Hamleigh 
 was not so much as named in her cousin's 
 will, a fact which, I fear, surprised her 
 more than it did me. 
 
 " I have had no opportunity for private 
 conversation with ]\Iis3 Hamleigh. She is 
 looking very beautiful, but sail, and is more 
 distant with Elizabeth than I could wish. 
 It would be a great advantage to the latter 
 if the cousins became friends ; but Eliza- 
 beth, who is shy with all strangers, seems 
 espec;ially ill at ease with Miss H. She 
 feels, moreover, that neither of these ladies 
 can enter into her heartfelt mourning for 
 her old guardian. For my part, I am 
 most grateful to Mrs. Hamleigh for coming. 
 It relieves me of an awkwanl responsibility; 
 and, before her departure, I trust that some 
 suitable lady may be found as E.'s compan- 
 ion. The bare suggestion of my leaving 
 her causes the poor child such dismay, that, 
 after much deliberation, I have resolved to 
 remain with her, in the curious position of 
 half tutor, half self-appointe(l ojuardian; for 
 I fiicl that I am of more real service now, 
 perhaps, than I was when I came to super- 
 intend her stuilies in her father's and Mr. 
 Humphrey's lifetime. She has no one to 
 look to but me. J] ndar olher circumstances, 
 it would be natural that she should accept 
 Lady Rachel's pressing invitation ; but you 
 will understand whv neither I nor Elizabeth
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 161 
 
 would entertain this idea. To her it would 
 be the re-openinsj ol'a wound wliich I trust 
 is healinj;, or will heal with time ; and I, 
 with my dear pupil's interests so deeply at 
 heart, coulil never countenance it. As to 
 her only other rehitions, the Hamleii^lis, I 
 have said enoup;h to show that Elizabeth 
 would never endure livinjj permanently 
 with them. I can see that Mrs. lIamleio;h's 
 smile, her trick of repeating your last word, 
 — every thinjij about her, irritates E. Mr. 
 Humphrey once called her ' the crocodile,' 
 and E. never speaks of her now but by 
 this name. She has twice asked how lonLi; 
 I think the H.'s will stay, and expresses a 
 desire t<5 leave Beaumanoir herseiti and 
 travel abroad. ' Not in the beaten track, 
 however,' she always adds. If this restless- 
 ness incre;ises, it may be best to yield to it. 
 God sees what is for the child's good, and 
 will guide us, I know.' " 
 
 The news of my unexpected inheritance 
 greatly elated my mother. She said very 
 little, it is true, and that little was cast in a 
 conventional mould ; but there was a flavor 
 of reticent, well-ordered satisfaction which 
 pervaded her whole being, when she ob- 
 served, that, for her part, she had always 
 maintained there was a fund of goodness 
 under jioor Humphrey's rough manner ; she 
 hoped, indeed she Iiad no doubt, that his 
 end was peace. She wished he had left 
 somethinq to dear Belinda ; but she was 
 thankful to learn that, unbiassed by petty 
 jealousy, or un-Christian-like resentment, 
 she was fulfilling the pious task of comfort- 
 ing poor Elizabeth. (I need not say that I 
 only culled the facts from, and did not read, 
 the text of Francis's letter.) 
 
 To me this accession of fortune, alas ! was 
 a matter of indifference. There was no 
 merit in this ; for, had I felt the very small- 
 est amendment in my condition, the remov- 
 al of one important obstacle to my union 
 with Evelyn would have driven me nearly 
 wild with joy. With twelve hundred a 
 year, in addition to what I already pos- 
 sessed, my mother could no longer persist 
 in speaking of me as " a pauper." Nine 
 months since I should have hailed this as 
 an unlooked-for windfall, as nothing short 
 of providential. But Providence had now 
 declared a'^ainst me. Day aiter day, which 
 saw no abatement of my sufferings, was 
 killing by inches the little hope that re- 
 mained in me, till at last I put a violent end 
 to it. And this was how it happened. 
 
 On the first of January, the German 
 doctor who had been attending me since 
 my arrival, found me alone. He had a 
 reputation for insight and skill, l)ut bis out- 
 spoken frankness was said to have militat- 
 ed against greater success in his career. A 
 u 
 
 soft answer turneth away, not only wrath, 
 but many a nervous disorder. Feeble and 
 weakly-minded patients were kept aloof 
 from Dr. Hensel by reason of his proverbial 
 fearlessness of utterance. As I had, almost 
 always seen him, hitherto, in my mother's 
 presence, and, on the rare occasions when 
 I had been alone with him, had felt too lan- 
 guid to do more than reply to his interrog- 
 atory, I was unable to sj)eak of this quality 
 of the doctor's from my own experience. 
 Chance willed it, however, that, on this 
 New Year's morning I was alone, and in a 
 trame of mind, after weeks of cruel struggle, 
 which made it of momentous importance that 
 I should have an honest scientific opinion 
 upon my case. Another year was opening 
 for me, and for her. Was it not my duty 
 to release my darling from her promise, if 
 in truth there was no reasonable prospect 
 of our being united V That miserable dia- 
 logue with conscience, which every one 
 knows at some time or other, kept me toss- 
 ing on my bed night after night ; the natu- 
 ral haven for comfort, a mother's arms, was 
 debarred me ; I had no friend to turn to in 
 my trouble ; and religion — ah ! that I 
 shall have to speak of presently ; but I may 
 here observe, that, though it was a subject 
 which engrossed much of my thoughts now, 
 it could hardly be said to have brought 
 me peace as yet. I resolved, on finding my 
 self tete-a-tete with Dr. Hensel, to leave the 
 issue of this conflict virtually in his hands. 
 I said, — 
 
 " Tell me the truth, without any pallia- 
 tions. Dr. Hensel. I can stand it. Shall I 
 ever be able to move without pain ? Shall 
 I ever walk about again ? " 
 
 He waited a full minute before replying. 
 
 " You cannot be well for a very long 
 time : it is possible that you never will be 
 quite well ; still, though I do not wish to 
 Ijuoy you up with a hope that miv;ht be fal- 
 lacious, I believe, that, in the course of 
 years " — 
 
 " Years I That is enough," and I turned 
 my face to the wall. 
 
 That same afternoon I received a letter 
 from Francis. The following passage in it 
 removed any doubt from my mind as to how 
 I ought to act : — 
 
 "I have had several conversations with 
 both Miss Ilamleigh and her mother. The 
 former shows a quiet lorce of character in re- 
 sisting the pressure to which she is subject- 
 ed, which I confess surprises me. Mrs. 
 Hamleigli never leaves her daughter a day's 
 peace about her ' foolish entanglement ' 
 with you, as the expresses it ; and I can- 
 not help feeling sorry for the poor mother, 
 she is so unhappy al)out her child. 'Eve- 
 lyn's life is being sacrificed to an idea,' she 
 said to me. ' She has had two oiliivs of 
 
 k
 
 162 
 
 PEXRUDDOCKE. 
 
 marriage, and but that she considers her- 
 self bound to her cousin, she would cer- 
 tainly accept one of" tliem, and my mind 
 would be at ease. As it is, if I die to mor- 
 row what is to become of lier ? She will 
 be alone in the world, like Elizabeth, and 
 without her wealth.' Miss Hamleigh, on 
 the other hand, says, that, though she will 
 never uiain-y against her mother's wishes, 
 neither will she be persuaded to break her 
 promise to you, wliile you desire this con- 
 ditional engagement between you to contin- 
 ue. I need not say how anxious she is 
 about you ; and the line Mrs. Hamleigh 
 sometimes takes, of exaggering your inju- 
 ries, and speaking of your condition as 
 though it were hopeless, is the very last to 
 attain her end ; as she would know, if she 
 were not a poor, stupid woman. Her daugli- 
 ter's tender sympathies are doubly excited 
 thereby : they would certainly be less keen 
 were slie to hear of you as robust and riot- 
 ous." 
 
 This it was which, after reading and re- 
 reading, finally clinched the resolve I had 
 taken, in the bitter solitude of sj)irit wherein 
 1 passed my days and nights. To renounce 
 every thing, to shut the door between me 
 and my darling with my own hand, — it was 
 agony to me ; but the longer I thought upon 
 her, the more imperative this sacrifice at my 
 hanils appeared. 
 
 After tearing up a dozen long letters, I 
 wrote to Evelyn, the next day, as follows : — 
 
 " This, my dearest, is the last letter, prob- 
 ably, you will ever get from me. Your 
 mother will not mind your having it, when 
 she knows its contents. 
 
 " I write to release you from your engage- 
 ment. It would be unprincipled and coward- 
 ly selfi>hness were I not do so ; for, alas ! I 
 have no ho[)e of ever being able to call you 
 mine. One doctor has at last had the cour- 
 age to tell me — what I had an inward con- 
 viction of eight months ago — that I shall be 
 upon my back for years. After this, I should 
 indeed merit your mother's reproaches, and 
 I could not stiile those of my own conscience, 
 if I held you bound by vows taken when I 
 had strength and hope in the future. I have 
 neither now, I look forward to the long life 
 that may be before me, — I am ashamed to 
 own with what dread ; but to chain your lot 
 to that of a wretched cripple on his sofa — 
 no, that I would never do. Your love has 
 brightened all my youth, which, God knows 1 
 would have been clouded enough without it. 
 — it is my abiding comfort still ; and the pre- 
 cious memory of it will cheer the years that 
 may yet be left to me, when you have formed 
 otliL-r ties, which I pray earnestly may be for 
 your happiness." 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 Extract from a letter of Mr. Francis's, 
 dated Jan. 7 : — 
 
 " I gave your enclosure to Miss Hamleigh. 
 They were leaving Beaumanoir the same 
 day (as Mrs. Everett had arrived) ; but, be- 
 fore their departure that afternoon, I had a 
 few words alone with Miss H., the substance 
 of which it is right I should repeat to you. 
 She was terribly upset by your letter : first, 
 by the view you take of your case ; second- 
 ly, by your gicin;/ her up, as she expressed it. 
 This renders her position doubly difficult. 
 She would have waited patiently for years; 
 she is sanguine of your ultimate recovery, 
 but now, — what weapons have you not 
 placed in her mother's hands ! Of course, 
 as she never conceals any thing from Mrs. 
 Hamleigh, she told her at once of your let- 
 ter ; indeed, you evidently meant her to do 
 so, as you say you communicated the fact 
 yourself to Lady Rachel. It is clear tome 
 that the latter has written very openly to 
 Mrs. Hamleigh of her views and hopes as 
 regards you. Though no name was men- 
 tioned, I saw at once to whom Miss Ham- 
 leigh referred ; and I began to understand 
 the coldness of her manner to Elizabeth 
 when she said, 'Mamma has been telling 
 me, ever since last June, that Osmund 
 wishes to break off our engagement ; that 
 he has other views, and is prepared, when 
 he recovers, to make a marriage which will 
 be — advantageous to him in all ways. I 
 have never believed it, and I do not believe 
 it now ; but she says I am mad to doubt it ; 
 that I cannot persist in clinging to him if 
 he desires to be free ; that though he may be 
 fond of me, and to give me up may be a sac- 
 rifice, yet,'that during his long illness he 
 has been brought to see how foolish such a 
 marriage would be, — especially when he 
 might marry a person who — in short, a 
 person so much more suitable. I shall suf- 
 fer far more than before,' she added ; ' for I 
 feel as if the ground were taken from under 
 my feet. I took my stand upon my promise, 
 and now what can I say to mamma? O 
 Mr. Francis, you who know dear Osmund 
 better than any one, tell me the truth, — 
 tell me what I ought to do ! ' I replied, ' I 
 feel for you deeply, but this is a case in 
 which advice is impossible. You nmst be 
 guided by your own feelings, and your own 
 sense of what is right, as Osmund, I believe, 
 has been guided by his. One thing, how- 
 ever, I may with certainty affirm. In free- 
 ing you, he has been actuated by no ulterior 
 thought of another marriage.' I could say 
 no less than this, as Elizabeth's friend ; but 
 I could say no more. As to counsel, what 
 could I give ? You have released her word ;
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 163 
 
 you cannot release her affections. Time and 
 absence ni:iy effect this ; and her mother's 
 supplications may, in the end, prevail to 
 make her marry some one else — it is not 
 impossible. * Gutta cavet lapldern.' But it 
 will not be the work of a day .... Mrs. 
 Everett seems the person of all others likely 
 to suit Elizabeth. She is a little swarthy 
 •woman of forty, dressed in a jacket, with her 
 hair cut short ; but her gentle voice and 
 manner are agreeably at variance with this 
 man-like appearance. She has walked the 
 hospitals in America, and taken a medical 
 degree. The ililHculties she encountered in 
 pursuing her profession in this country in- 
 duced her to give it up when E.'s handsome 
 ofler was made her, through a friend of 
 mine. ■ She has travelled half over the 
 world ; she is energetic, intelligent, and, 
 judging by her face, good-tempered ; and 
 her knowledge of medicine may prove 
 valuable, if E.'s roving inclination leads us 
 into uncivilized regions." 
 
 I have added this last paragraph of the 
 letter, though it will readily be conceive 
 that Mrs. Everett and her jacket were mat- 
 ters of the purest indifference to me, be- 
 cause, as I shall not have occasion to refer 
 to Beaumanoir for some little time, it ex- 
 plains how matters stood with its inmates, 
 and 1 may therefore leave them for the 
 present. 
 
 The day following:, mv mother received 
 a longish letter from Mrs. Hamleigh, a pas- 
 sage in which she read to me. She was 
 inexpressibly rejoiced that I had " seen the 
 wisdom of taking the course " I had done. 
 She felt sure it was " for the happiness of 
 both concerned." She had given her dear- 
 est Evelyn permission to answer my letter ; 
 and ]Mrs. Hamleigh was sure my good 
 feeling would suggest that this communica- 
 tion should be final. She trusted that at 
 some future time Evelyn and I might meet 
 as affectionate cousins ; but at present it 
 was best that nothing more should pass be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Then Evelyn's note was handed to me, 
 sealed. She had certainly desired, — and 
 apparently her mother had conceded, — 
 that no eye should see those lines but 
 mine. It did not escape my attention, 
 however, that the seal loc^ked as if it had 
 been tampered with. It might have been 
 bruised in the post ; she might have re- 
 opened her letter; there were a hundred 
 ways of accounting for it ; and the fact 
 made so little impression, that it was only 
 long afterwards I recalled it. 
 
 "My dearest, dearest Osmund, — 
 God knows what is best lor you. I must 
 not think of myself. J pray everj' hour of 
 the day that he may guard and restore 
 
 you to health ; and I feel sure he will do 
 so. 
 
 " They tell me that the thought of our 
 engagement worries you, when you should 
 have perfect rest. If this be so, I have no 
 more to say. What are words ? What is 
 a promise ? My heart will not remain the 
 less true to you, until I know that your own 
 is changed. In that case — if you do not 
 release me from any false fueling of gener- 
 osity, but because you wish to be free, free 
 to form other ties hereal'ter, — send me 
 back that lock of my hair you wear in a 
 locket. You need not write, dear Osmund. 
 I shall know what it means. Until then, 
 " I am still your faithful 
 
 " Evelyn." 
 
 " Those few words, so simple, so reticent, 
 moved me deeply. Ah ! Mrs. Hamleigh, it 
 was clear, did not divine the terms in which 
 my darling had accepted my cancelling our 
 engagement, or she would never have per- 
 mitted those comforting words to reach 
 me. 
 
 I had done all that conscience demanded, 
 — more I would never do. No, that lock 
 of hair which I now always wore next my 
 heart should never leave me. We might 
 not meet again this side the grave ; but she 
 should have the assurance that I had re- 
 mained faithful unto the end. 
 
 I forgot that my mother possessed a long 
 brown curl, set behind a certain miniature 
 of Evelyn that was in her desk. And in 
 her eyes the end justified all means. 
 
 Months passed. There was no altera- 
 tion in my physical condition ; but the color 
 of my mind was undergoing a gradual 
 change. Day by day, morbidly brooding 
 over past folly and present retribution, to 
 which I saw no limit but with life, my 
 thoughts turned to religion, and sought com- 
 fort there, but as yet found none. " Help 
 thou mine unbelief," was the cry of my 
 profound dejection, as I lifted my eyes to 
 the contemplation of that better life, by a 
 firm belief in which good men " possessed 
 their souls with patience " under every" ca- 
 lamity. Mr. Francis had first awoke this 
 spiritual longing within me six months be- 
 fore : it was yet unsatisfied. 
 
 My urgent desire was to become a Roman 
 Catholic, — a member of that church which 
 could bear such fruits as were shown in 
 the character of Ambrose Francis; but I 
 could not bring my mind into the state of 
 subjection necessary to accept its doctrines. 
 My stubborn individuality rebelled against 
 the theory of personal irresponsibility con- 
 soiiuent upon absolution, the suspension of 
 private judgment, and blind obedience to 
 the Church. I struggled and prayed
 
 164 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 against this obstinacy, which I believed 
 was of the Devil. Weary and heartsore, I 
 would fain have cast all ray burdens into 
 the arms of this niiuhty mother, claiming; 
 to be the representative of man's Creator 
 upon earth ; but I could not. 
 
 Here is a passage i'rom one of Francis's 
 letters that winter, which will show that he 
 was too wise, however earnestly he might 
 desire my conversion, to urge my taking a 
 step which he felt would be premature, — 
 
 " Do nothing rashly, my son. God. in 
 his own good time, will bring you to a 
 knowledge of himself, as he is revealed in 
 our holy Church. Of this I feel confident, 
 — the more you study its tenets, the more 
 you will perceive that it is the only one 
 which is indestructible and omnipotent 
 over the erring heart of man. Other creeds 
 tell men to seek God, — mine teaches that 
 God has found them. Your soul cleaveth 
 to the dust, as David's did, and now you 
 lift your eyes, and behold something that is 
 above and beyond this world ; but do not 
 mistake a transient state of feeling for a 
 permanant condition of faith. From the 
 conversions of sentimental impulse little 
 good can accrue." 
 
 That summer was passed in the Pyre- 
 nees. I have nothing to record of it. The 
 autumn saw us back again at Nice, in our 
 old apartments in the Villa Lyon. It was 
 towards the middle of November when the 
 following scene took place. 
 
 CHAPTER LVn. 
 
 " I HAVE heard from Belinda Hamleigh," 
 said my mother slowly, as she stood beside 
 my sofa, with an open letter in her hand. 
 — " and her letter contains a piece of 
 news." 
 
 I looked up interrogatively. My heart 
 stood still ; Ijfelt what it was. 
 
 " I am glad to say Evelyn has at last 
 been brought to reason, and has accepted 
 Lord Tufton." 
 
 I said not a word. The room was dark- 
 ened by the closed persiennes ; my mother 
 could not see my face. 
 
 " After freeing her, as you most rightly 
 did," continued she, " you have too much 
 good sense not to be glad that " — 
 
 " Glad ? — say no more, mother ! Don't 
 I know all my poor darling has been made 
 to suffer before she could be brought to for- 
 swear herself; for she has forsworn herself. 
 The promise she made was none of my 
 seeking, — but she made it, all the same, 
 in her last note to me." 
 
 My mother folded and unfolded the let- 
 ter in her hand a little nervously. 
 
 " Belinda no doubt referred her to your 
 own letter in urging Evelyn to take this 
 step Remember what you said about the 
 hopelessness of your marrying. Though 
 you take too gloomy a view of your own 
 case, yet you could not expect a girl to go 
 on waiting for years " — 
 
 " Years I — why, it is just ten months." 
 
 " In those ten months," she continued, 
 adroitly shifting her ground, " Lord Tufton 
 has come forward twice, undaunted by his 
 previous rejection. Such constancy would 
 touch any girl ; and then such a charming 
 person as he is, — you yourself always say 
 so ! It is a great relief to her poor mother 
 that Evelyn will be so well settled, and I 
 think we ought all to feel very glad." 
 
 " I hope to heaven she may be happy ! " 
 I groaneil ; " only don't ask me to feel glad : 
 my heart is too sore for that." 
 
 " Men are certainly very selfish," said 
 my mother, shaking her head. " You give 
 up your cousin with a shoto of magnanimity ; 
 but immediately you hear that dear Evelyn 
 is trying to reconcile herself to her fate, 
 and has consented to marry a most de- 
 lightful person, you are indignant. It is 
 so unreasonable ! " 
 
 It was, perhaps ; at all events, I felt it 
 to be selfish, for I had no more prospect 
 of ever being able to claim her now than I 
 had a year ago. But the heart of man is 
 " deceitful upon the weights," and I was 
 utterly crushed. Her faithfulness had 
 been the one ray in my darkened lot ; and 
 now the night had indeed closed round 
 me. 
 
 The longer I thought over it, the more 
 inexplicable it seemed, with all I knew 
 myself, and all that Francis had written, 
 of my darling's steadfastness. My fiiith in 
 human nature was shattered. If she was 
 untrue, where, indeed, could I look for 
 truth ? 
 
 I drove during this month almost daily 
 to the Monastery of Cimies. Joe carried 
 me, like a child, from the carriage, and 
 laid me in the vine-trellissed garden, where, 
 far removed from the turmoils of the town, 
 I watched the good monks digging, or pa- 
 cing the terraces in meditation. I envied 
 their peaceful alternations of prayer and 
 toil, and remembered with a sigh the mer- 
 ciless condemnation I had passed upon such 
 lives in the insolent narrow-mindedness of 
 youth. 
 
 Ah ! how far away those days at Ghent, 
 only four years off, now seemed ! 
 
 The thought of a monastic life occupied 
 me much. Of what use was I now to any 
 one ? Certainly of none to my mother, 
 who was still in the prime of life, and,
 
 PENRUDDOCKK 
 
 165 
 
 ■with her great beauty, would easily form 
 new and more serviceable ties, when ab- 
 solved from her " duty " to me. Surely to 
 one sick of the world, as I was, a life of 
 religious contemplation was eminently fit- 
 ted," if I could only bring my mind into 
 unison with the lofty organ-tones of Rom- 
 anism. The narrow, empty-hearted secta- 
 rianism in which I had been educated had, 
 unhappily, been further disfigured in my 
 eyes by the practices, so widely different 
 from the precepts, of some of its stanchest 
 upholders. I could not look for comfort 
 there. Should I find it in a Catholic mon- 
 astery ?' 
 
 Here again stepped in my fi-iend with 
 his true wisdom. " It is natural that you 
 should be struck with the beauty of a con- 
 ventual life at such a moment as this, but 
 those who have a real vocation for such an 
 existence are few. Within the walls of a 
 monastery there is no outlet for energies 
 such as yours once were, and will yet be 
 again some day." 
 
 Later on, in the same letter, he wrote, — 
 
 "I confess that the announcement of 
 Miss Hamleigh's engagement has surprised 
 me. When 1 handed to her the letter in 
 which you released her from her promise, I 
 did not antieii)ate that she would so soon 
 take advantage of it. I cannot reconcile 
 it with her own words to me. It falsifies 
 the estimate I formed of her. When I 
 contrast a love that can be so easily turned 
 aside with the tenacity of attachment my 
 poor Elizabeth manifests, whether it be to 
 her father's memory, or any other object, I 
 cannot but lament what I now know to be 
 unalterable. But in doing so, alas ! I feel 
 that I am a recusant to the faith that I 
 have ever professed — that whatever in is 
 for our ultimate good. Your soul is passing 
 through a grievous trial. I pray to God 
 that it may strengthen those higher aspira- 
 tions which your bodily sufferings origin- 
 ally kindled. But these must not lead to 
 narrow your sphere of action. Selt-imposed 
 restaint would never profit you, Osmund." 
 
 I here recall with a smile — which it hard- 
 ly awoke at the time, in so abnormal a con- 
 dition was I — the characteristic arguments 
 wherewith my faithful Joe opposed my 
 growing tendencies. At first his views 
 were not wholly adverse to a conventual 
 life : — 
 
 " They keeps the women out. H'm I it'd 
 save a deal of bother, if they was kep' out 
 of every thing." 
 
 But when his shrewdness detected the 
 peril to me, he changed his tone. 
 
 '•You're not a' goin' to shut yourself up 
 in one of them vaonA^larj places, I hope V " 
 
 '* Why not ? Better men, and worse, 
 too, have dune so, Joe, and have found conso- 
 
 lation in serving God, and repenting of their 
 sins." 
 
 " H'm ! I'd ha' done it when I was 
 a-gallivanting about London, if I was you. 
 'T'aint nuich good a-shuttin' of y'rself up 
 now, when you can't break out if you 
 wished it ever so — a-lyin' there on the 
 broad o' your back, as harmless as an in- 
 fant ! Why, it's like a widder of eighty as 
 prays that she may keep the seventh com- 
 mandment I " 
 
 My mother gradually became seriously 
 alarmed. It dawned upon her at last that 
 I was in imminent danger of becoming an 
 apostate, and not impossibly a monk. It 
 was not ibr this that she had labored. 
 She was still sanguine as to my ultimate 
 recovery, and unremitting in her care. No 
 effort was spared to divert my thoughts. 
 Ladies whom my mother's English-county 
 ideas of propriety would have excluded 
 under other circumstances she now admit- 
 ted, in the hope of inducing me to receive 
 a few amusing visitors daily ; but I refused. 
 I was sick of the world, and looked back 
 to my London life with acrimony. How 
 right poor Madame d'Arnheim had been ! 
 How often I remembered her warnings ! 
 But for the worthless people I had then 
 lived amongst, I should not be as I now 
 was. All which was brought forcibly to 
 my mind when my mother said one day, 
 on returning from her drive, — 
 
 "I met some friends of yours to-day, 
 who are just arrived from Cannes — quite 
 a large party. Lord and Lady Ancastar, 
 Mrs. Chaffinch, and some men. I went 
 into Lady Susan's, wh^re they were; and, 
 hearing my name announced. Lady Ancas- 
 tar begged to be introduced, and said they 
 would all come and see you to-morrow. 
 She was most kind in her manner. I was 
 quite agreeably surprised, after all I had 
 heard about her." 
 
 " It is more than I am. I don't want to 
 see any of them." 
 
 " Really, my dear Osmund, I think that 
 is hardly right. When old friends who 
 express themselves so very much interested 
 about you" — 
 
 " Friends 1 Do you call such people 
 'friends?'" 
 
 " You lived entirely in their set in Lon- 
 don, did you not ? " 
 
 " The people one sees most of in London 
 are often not one's fi-iends," I said. " At 
 all events, I have no more to do with the 
 things that interest them. I have dropped 
 out of their life, and should not appreciate 
 the last London scandal. They woiiUl find 
 me very slow, and I don't want their pity ; 
 so I decline seeing them." 
 
 It was thus I met every proposition made 
 with the view of changing, if possible, the
 
 166 
 
 PEXRUDDOCKE. 
 
 current of my ideas. I had become ae- 
 quainteil with a priest, who visited me con- 
 stantly, and supplied nio with books, which, 
 I am bound to say, I but imperfectly com- 
 
 f)rehended. Still I strove diligently to be- 
 ieve the dogmas therein upheld : it was 
 no fault of mine if I failed. These visits 
 and these books were a source of <;rave and 
 increasing annoyance to my mother. So 
 were my drives to Cimies, and the hours 
 that I spent, during Lent, in one or other 
 of the cluu'ches ; but she was too wise to 
 expostulate, or enter upon religious discus- 
 sions. She placed evangelical diatribes 
 a'^ainst the Scarlet Woman upon my table, 
 and invited an English curate with a cough 
 to spend two or three evenings a week with 
 us. He was a good man, doing hard work 
 among the poor of his English parish, I am 
 sure, to which I sincerely trust he has been 
 Testorcd long since, renovated in health. 
 Persuasion, however, was not his Ibrte — 
 could not have been, under any circum- 
 stances ; and now his cough was a great 
 aggravation of his tedium. I positively 
 writhed under it, and often retired to my 
 room, pleading a headache. 
 
 My mother was at her wit's end. How 
 could she rouse me from the morbid de- 
 spondency which had taken this religious 
 form, and threatened to drive me into 
 Romanism ? It might even be to take 
 vows of celibacy, and immure myself with- 
 in convent walls ! 
 
 Chance beti'iended her, and brought her 
 help in this strait, from a quarter where she 
 had little riijht to look for it. 
 
 CHAPTER LVm. 
 
 " Tiip:y tell me she's a grand-duchess," 
 said Joe ; " but I don't think much of her 
 grandeur, as has only two flunkies, and no 
 guard of honor — not even a sentry put 
 over her door." 
 
 '• Why, the Prince of Wales hasn't that 
 when he is travelling, Joe : no royalties 
 have." 
 
 " Koyalties, indeed I They seem to be 
 thick as blackberries in these foreign parts, 
 and every bit as poor. They ain't the reel, 
 solid article, like our rovalties, I don't 
 make much account of them," he said, with 
 an air of profound contempt. 
 
 The dialogue referred to the grand- 
 duchess of Bodensee, who had arrived at 
 the villa that afternoon. We occupied the 
 ground-tloor ; the remainder, lately vacated 
 (it was now the end of March), the duchess 
 had sent her Kammerherr from Mentone to 
 engage for a few weeks. Her suite was 
 
 small, consisting of one lady, besides ser- 
 vants. 
 
 The grand-duchess recalled jMadame 
 d'Arnheira, whose intimate frii-nd I knew 
 she was ; but I was far from anticipating the 
 intelligence which Joe communicated to 
 me the next morning, — that he had seen 
 the duchess and her " Hoi'dame " go out 
 walking, and had recognized in the latter 
 " that foreign lady as come and nussed you 
 the fust night ; and a right good un she 
 was too." 
 
 At luncheon my mother said, looking 
 straight out of window as she spoke, — 
 
 ' Who do you think is in this house? 
 Your friend, Madame d'Arnbeim." 
 
 " I know it, and am very sorry." 
 
 " Why ? You will not refuse to see her, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " She is not likely to ask to see me, or 
 put her foot inside our door, after the treat- 
 ment she received." 
 
 My mother said nothing, and the after- 
 noon passed. The following day I wit- 
 nessed a curious little scene from my win- 
 dow, which gave me food for some sarcastic 
 reflection. I caught sight of a figure be- 
 tween the orange and rose trees which was 
 very familiar to me. The tall, slight 
 woman in gray, under a Nice umbrella, was 
 walking leisurely towards the sea, when I 
 beheld my mother hurrying, almost run- 
 ning, — she who never hurried, — after her. 
 Madame d'Arnheim had reached the gate 
 before my mother had caught her up ; and 
 there they stood, full in my view. It was 
 too far off to distinguish the expression of 
 Madame d'Arnheim's face, as she turned 
 round ; but there was a certain drawing 
 back in the attitude which was not to be 
 mistaken. They were there for more than 
 ten minutes, my mother talking earnestly 
 all the time, as it seemed, while the other 
 scarcely spoke. Finally I saw my mother 
 put out her hand : Madame d'Arnheim took 
 it, and they separated. 
 
 I lay back on my sofa with a smile, part- 
 ly of satisfaction that my mother had seen 
 fit to apologize for her behavior (whatever 
 her words might be, the act amounted to 
 this), partly of amusement at the force of 
 circumstances, which had driven her to do 
 this thing. 
 
 It was a great relief to me. I had never 
 been able to think of my poor friend with- 
 out a blush of indignant shame. How 
 should we meet ? was the question I had 
 been asking myself ever since I learnt of 
 her being under f^he same roof; but she 
 had condoned my mother's offence. I was 
 prepared for the message sent me late that 
 afternoon, to ask if I would see the Coun- 
 tess d'Arnheim. 
 
 She was slightly flushed as she entered
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 167 
 
 the salon ; but her countenance bore the 
 traces of suirerinsr durino; the ei'jhteen 
 months since we had met. 
 
 " I scarcely thougjht you would come," 
 said I, holding out my hand. 
 
 " I should not have done so, had not your 
 mother herjcjed me," was the reply. Then 
 she drew a chair to the side of my sofa. 
 " Poor boy ! how much you have gone 
 through ! Ah ! the last time I saw you I 
 littie thought you would be alive now. 
 Every hour of that night I expected would 
 be your last. I grieve to hear from your 
 mother that you suffer a great deal at 
 times ; but you looh by no means so ill." 
 
 " Ah ! well, let us talk of something else. 
 Why did yOu never answer one of my let- 
 ters?"- - 
 
 '• Because — I thought it best not. It is 
 an odd accident that throws us together 
 now, when I had made up my mind that we 
 should never meet again." 
 
 " You did not know of my being here, 
 then?" 
 
 " I only learnt it last night, after we had 
 arrived. Otherwise, to be frank, I think I 
 should have urged the duchess to take an- 
 other a2:)artment." 
 
 " I can well understand that," I sighed. 
 
 " But Lady Rachel has said all and 
 more than I could expect, to counteract the 
 effect of her jealousy when she found me 
 nursing you : and that is forgotten now ; 
 I think no more of it." 
 
 " It is like you to say that. Now tell me 
 about yourself. I thought you were living 
 at Dresden ? " 
 
 " I Avas until December. Then, as all 
 chance of my returning to my husband was 
 at an end, the grand-duchess proposed 
 that I should take the post left vacant by 
 one other ladies. I was glad of any thiug 
 which gave me certain duties to perform. 
 I was of no use to any of my relations, — I 
 could be of use to my old friend ; so I 
 came." 
 
 " And about D'Arnheim ? Tell me why 
 you say all chance of returning is at an 
 end ? " 
 
 "Because he is so infatuated with that 
 woman, that he wants me to consent to a 
 divorce, that he may marry her. In Ger- 
 many, as you know, it is a very easy mat- 
 ter ; but his family, as well as my own, im- 
 plore me not to yiclil, and I have not yet 
 done so." 
 
 " I suppose his people hope, that, after 
 a while, he will return to his allegiance to 
 you ? " 
 
 " I shall never return to him," she said 
 slowly, " unless he is dying. I know Carl's 
 character too well now to believe that any 
 reform wftulil be jxTuianent; but it is not 
 that. A wife may tolerate all that I have 
 
 done, and more perhaps, if there are occa- 
 sions, ever so rare, when she feels that she 
 has a good influence over her husband. 
 Mine, unhappily, after the first year of our 
 marriage, has been the reverse." 
 
 " How so ? You do not mean that liter- 
 ally ?;' 
 
 " Yes, I do. INIy remonstrances aggra- 
 vated him, and yet gave a kind of zest to 
 pursuits of which perhaps he might other- 
 wise have tired. Our characters are an- 
 tagonistic. I am disposed to think he 
 might have been a better man if he had 
 married another sort of woman." 
 
 " And this is why you have left liim ? " 
 
 " I could be of no comlort, — I did him 
 more harm than good. I often wonder if 
 Lady Byron, when she left her husband, 
 asked herself this, — not what were his of- 
 fences, but whether she could recall any 
 transient moment when his heart had been 
 really softened towards her ? If she could 
 recall any one such, then to abandon the 
 slender chance of reclaiming him was un- 
 justifiable. I have not this to reproach 
 myself with," she added, with a slight in- 
 flection of bitterness. " Nothing could 
 ever touch him, — / never did, at least." 
 
 " No wife was ever more patient and 
 long-sufTering," I said. 
 
 " One less so would have suited him bet- 
 ter. Human nature is so strange. In this, 
 Lady Byron's case and mine are alike. 
 Every thing about me irritated Carl. Un- 
 like Byron, sometimes he paid ' the homage 
 that vice ])ays to virtue,' and concealed his 
 conduct ; but often, and latterly especially, 
 he seemed to find a pleasure in openly in- 
 sulting me. It is better for us both this 
 should be no longer in his power." 
 
 " But your family does not think so, 
 since they object to the divorce?" 
 
 " They think it looks ill for a married 
 woman to return to her maiden name. 
 There is alwa}'s a certain number of peo- 
 ple who will believe that there was some- 
 thing against her. On the other hand, his 
 family are anxious to prevent his marrying 
 Mrs. Wild. Of all her admirers, Carl 
 seems to be the only one who has remained 
 constant since her divorce." 
 
 " Do you really believe that a man of 
 the world, as he is, would injure his pros- 
 pects by such a marriage, if lie were free 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes. He is a man of the world, it is 
 true ; but he is a slave to his passions be- 
 fore every thing. He lias never known 
 what it was to deny himself a pleasure. 
 That horrible woman has got an ascen- 
 dency over him for the time, — he would 
 sacrifice every thing to her; and yet he 
 is no fool : but one sees these contradic- 
 tions every day. And now," she said, after
 
 168 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 a momont's pause, " tell me something of 
 your own hopes." 
 
 I shook my head, and returned quickly, — 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 " You say that because you arc de- 
 pressed about your health ; but, — the lit- 
 tle cousin ? She remains true to you '? " 
 
 I yhook my head asjain. 
 
 " I releaseil her. I have no right to com- 
 plain." 
 
 " Do you mean that she is going to marry 
 some one else ? " she asked, in a tone v.'hich 
 indicated far more than the mere words. 
 
 " Yes, — Arthur Tufton. Poor child ! 
 You mustn't blame her. Think what her 
 life would be, bound to me, — a wretched 
 cripple ! " 
 
 '' To lighten the lot of a man who has 
 loved faithfully, and suffered as you have, 
 would sweeten lift to some women," she 
 observed. 
 
 " I should be a selfish brute if I wished 
 for such a sacrifice ! No : it is better for 
 Tier, as it is. She marries as fine a fellow 
 as ever stepped, and I hope to Heaven she 
 may be happy." 
 
 " Did Lord Tufton know of your attach- 
 ment ? " she asked after a pause. 
 
 " No ; though we were so intimate, I 
 never spoke to him of Evelyn." I then ex- 
 plained to her, as I have already done in 
 these pages, how it came to pass that I had 
 never confided the story of my early love 
 to my friend. " Not till he had been bowled 
 over by the very same ball," I added, " did 
 I feel how much better it would have been 
 to have told him all. And then it was too 
 late ! " 
 
 '• Ah ! Is it ever too late to be open ? 
 Y''our friend would have fled the tempta- 
 tion, had he known the state of the case." 
 
 " I ought not to wish it, Madame d'Arn- 
 heim. She would have been made to 
 marry some one, sooner or later. I am the 
 only sufferer ; and for what remains of my 
 lite now, I only desire to be as little burden 
 to any one as I can." 
 
 (Tradually, in subsequent conversations, 
 my Iriend learnt the troubled state of my 
 mind upon the subject of religion, and how 
 the idea of monastic life, if 1 ever regained 
 sufficient bodily strength to embrace it, 
 commended itself to me. 
 
 " Of what good shall I ever be in the 
 world ? Military ambition is at an end. 
 I must send in my papers immediately, for 
 there is no hope of my being able to serve 
 again. I take no interest in any thing. I 
 feel bruised, morally and j)hysically, all 
 over. I fancy that in a life of religious ex- 
 ercise I shouM find peace." 
 
 " Do not think it. Human passions are 
 the same on either side a monastery wall." 
 
 " Then it would free my mother, to whom 
 
 this wandering about the Continent is very 
 
 irksome." 
 
 " She would prefer any thing to your en- 
 tering a monastery, — you may be sure of 
 that. The idea is too horrible I it is pre- 
 posterous ! " 
 
 " ^Vlly is it horrible ? Do you think 
 that lives of prayer and meditation cannot 
 be acceptable to God ? That is the narrow 
 Protestant view." 
 
 " I do not say ' cannot ; ' 1 doubt wiiether 
 they generally are. There may be cases 
 where a man, from temperament or circum- 
 stances, is fit for no active work in this 
 world. Such is not your case. If you re- 
 mained on your sofa for years, your mind 
 would work. It is doing so now, in an un- 
 healthy way, upon this subject of religion. 
 That will riirht itself in time. Shut vour- 
 self up in a convent, and you will be wretch- 
 ed and self-condemned for the remainder of 
 your days ! " 
 
 She grew quite eloquent upon this theme. 
 Then, as regarded a change of faith, she 
 said, in forcible terms, not wholly free from 
 sarcasm, that, in order to be converted, it 
 was well to understand clearly what one 
 was to be converted from, as well as what 
 one proposed being converted to. Was I 
 quite sure that I understood the great work 
 of the Reformation, and the principles then 
 established ? I had been dabbling in the 
 fathers, and floundering through controver- 
 sial works by eminent Romanists, placed in 
 my hand by my prit'stly friend. But what 
 had I read upon the other side ? Only a 
 few evangelical tracts ! 
 
 The result of this and of other subsequent 
 conversations was to make me feel ashamed 
 of the precipitancy with which I had well- 
 nigh abjured the religion of my fathers, 
 because I virtually knew nothing of it. 
 Madame d'Arnheim had read a great deal, 
 and to some purpose. She could give a rea- 
 son for the faith that was in her ; and though, 
 as with many of her countrymen, the limits 
 of that faith were difficult to define, its basis 
 was firmly rooted. I have heard her views 
 called '• rationalistic," " pantheistic," and a 
 number of other hard names. I only know 
 they were free from intolerance, which is 
 not always a characteristic of liberal tenets ; 
 and the exposition of them, thou'j;h too va- 
 gue to satisfy the requirements of any rigid 
 theologian, was more beneficial to me at this 
 juncture than closer reasoning, which did 
 not admit of a divergence of opinions, woidd 
 have proved. ^Madame d'Aruheitn's was 
 essentially the subjective German tone of 
 mind : its enthusiasm was not to be kin- 
 dled by outward a[)peals to the senses. 
 Yearning after the infinite, the sense of 
 spiritual needs, not to be satisfieil by " au- 
 thoritv," have been tartrets for reprobation
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 169 
 
 or ridicule for well-ni2;h a century past; 
 bat none the less, they indicate a deeper 
 thoughtedness than is shown by the jris- 
 sionate credulity which bows, unquestion- 
 ing, to any new dogma imposed by one 
 man upon others. She could have become 
 any thing, or nothing, sooner than Ru- 
 mau Catholic ; but her sympathies were too 
 wide not to embrace every form of earnest 
 human aspiration : and therefore I could 
 talk to her more openly than would have 
 been possible with any one dilferently coh- 
 stituted. 
 
 From that day forwai'ds tliere was a 
 great change in my life. By some means 
 or other, it was contrived that Madame 
 d'Arnheim should be my almost constant 
 companion. That this was by my mother's 
 express wish and contrivance there could 
 be no doubt. She had been presented to 
 the royal lady up stairs, who was charmed 
 with her beauty and distinction, and read- 
 ily accepted her as a substitute for Her 
 Ilighness's ordinary companion in her daily 
 drives, when the nature of the case was 
 explained to her by IMadame d'Arnheim. 
 ThenJ after a while, I was ]iersuaded to ac- 
 cept the duchess's kind invitatiou to mo to 
 pass the evenings in her salon ; and was 
 carried up-stairs in an Algerine horse-rug, 
 swung like a hammock between Joe and 
 our Niceois service. The duchess, a small, 
 vivacious woman, dressed with a simplicity 
 bordering on shabbiness, would come to the 
 door herself to greet me, and punch the 
 pillow of the sofa where I was to lie, and 
 draw a chair near to it, and, affluent of im- 
 perfect English, inundate me with cordial 
 inquiries after my health. 
 
 She was a warm-hearted, self-willed little 
 lady ; resolute to carry out, no matter at 
 what cost, that which she had set her mind 
 to accomplish ; liking every one to be 
 happy about her, but happy in her way. 
 Given certain seeds, such a character was 
 the inevitable outgrowth of royal nature. 
 She was an enthusiast about talent and 
 beauty, and only cared to be surrounded 
 by what was attractive to the mind or to 
 the eye. Every evening, she and my 
 mother, and the select few who were admit- 
 ted to tliese informal receptions, drew round 
 the fire, and the ladies knitted and the 
 men talked, while I lay on the sofa in the 
 corner, close to the table where Madame 
 d'Arnheim made tea. 
 
 I needed such a friend more than any 
 thing, at once to sooth and to rouse me. 
 Hopeless brooding over my temporal mis- 
 fortunes, restless introspection, and doubt 
 as to my theological wants, — between 
 these, my mind had been shut up, breath- 
 ing the same air, and feeding upon itself 
 foi^ months. Its mouldy chambers were 
 
 now ventilated by the sunshine of sym- 
 pathy, and the {'vaQ wind of discussion. I 
 shrank still from all " society ; " I took no 
 part in the general conversation that went 
 on in the duchess's drawing-room ; but I 
 grew more and more dependent on Ma- 
 dame d'Arnhcim's companionship. — more 
 and more to look for her coming, to miss 
 her when absent, and to regard with dread 
 the prospect of our approaching separation. 
 For here is the beginning of May, and, in 
 ten days' time the duchess is going to fly 
 from the coming heat into Switzerland : 
 and we are to return to England, — prob- 
 ably by sea, from Marseilles. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 TfiE idea of returning to England was 
 most distasteful to me. The only faces by a 
 sight of which I should have been gladdened 
 would have left its shores before I reached 
 them. Francis wrote that he and Elizabeth, 
 with Mrs. Everett:,were leaving Enudand, on 
 a lengthened cruise in a large schooner my 
 cousin had bought, with the hope of sailing 
 round the world ! For the summer months,, 
 however, their wanderings were to be con- 
 fined to the shores of the Mediterranean. 
 
 The Hamleighs' name was seldom or 
 never mentioned between my mother and 
 me. I heard that they were in London, 
 and that the marriage was to take place in 
 June ; and I heard no more. 
 
 " The duchess suggests our going to Paris, 
 and your consulting Nelaton," said my 
 mother, one morning. 
 
 " Is site going there ? " I asked quickly. 
 
 " No : she goes to Switzerland direct ; 
 but, if Nelaton approves, we may follow 
 her there later. The first thing is to have 
 his opinion on your case." 
 
 " 1 don't much care — any thing you 
 like. He won't do me any good, and I'd 
 rather by half go to Switzerland at once ; 
 but if you wish it " — 
 
 " I think it the right thing to do," said 
 my mother quietly. " You have had no first- 
 rate opinion for months ; and therefore, as 
 you do not object, I will write to-day for 
 rooms at Meurice's." 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim and I jiarted, 
 buoyed up (I speak for myself) by the hope 
 of meeting again before long. The duchess 
 talkedof passing most of the summer in the 
 Engadine, and I told my friend that I was 
 resolved we shoukl follow her there. What, 
 or at least how nmch she felt, it was diffi- 
 cult to say. She took my hand in silence, 
 and then said, after a pause, — 
 
 " Whether we uaeet again or not, you
 
 170 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 know that my first prayer, nitilit and morn- 
 ing, will be for your recovery." 
 
 It was the middle of July. I had been 
 six .weeks at AVildbad, where the French 
 SU1 "icons had sent me, and was now at St. 
 JNloritz; but I was no lon<j::cr the same 
 man. I liad given but little heed to Nela- 
 ton's opinion that these mineral baths 
 would prove very beneficial. Even when 
 my mother and Joe declared that the im- 
 provement was daily visible, I refused to 
 credit it myseltl When the day came, how- 
 ever, that I raised myself from my couch 
 without pain, and crawled round the room 
 supported by Joe, I shall never forget my 
 sensations. I had fallen back into the 
 slough of despond as soon as Madame 
 d'Arnheim's presence had passed away, and 
 I was left alone with ni)' mother. The 
 prosjiect of restoration to health came like 
 a rush of waters on a thirsty land. In re- 
 gaining the partial use of my limbs, I felt 
 that I regained something of the courage 
 wliich had so miserably failed me of late. 
 
 In the middle of July, the doctor's com- 
 mending the plan (which I had resolved, 
 whether they approved or not, to carry out), 
 we rejomed the duchess and Madame 
 d'Arnheim at St. Moritz. After the absti- 
 nence from all sympathetic society, the 
 sight of my friend did me as much good as 
 the bracing air of that salubrious valley. 
 Her face beamed with silent joy when she 
 saw the wonderful improvement that a few 
 weeks had wrought in me. 
 
 Our life was conducted on this wise : my 
 mother left me more than ever novf, to the 
 companionship of Madame d'Arnheim. She 
 and I sat out on the terrace, overlooking 
 the lake, which led from our suite of rooms 
 at the Kulm Hotel (and was upon the roof 
 of those occupied by the duchess), a great 
 part of the day. Sometimes we made ex- 
 cursions in " Einspanners," when — each 
 crazy little vehicle containing only two per- 
 sons — Madame d'Arnheim always accom- 
 panied me, while my mother went with the 
 duchess. The ardent friendship of the 
 latter for her new English acquaintance in- 
 creased daily. My mother was one of 
 those women who inspire more enthusiastic 
 admiration in their own sex than among 
 men. The royal lady was an impassioned 
 partisan. She had proved so when she 
 espoused Madame d'Arnheim's cause so 
 warmly, as she now did my mother's. The 
 latter was a saint, — a creature perfect as 
 she was beautiful, who had suffered most 
 cruelly. The feeling of a son for such a 
 mother should be one of adoration. This 
 she was never weary of repeating. 
 
 Her circle was exclusive, but she re- 
 ceived every evening tjje visits of the lew 
 
 persons of distinction who were at St. 
 Moritz. Her most frequent visitor was a 
 semi-royal Wallachian ]M-ince, named Orso- 
 va, a puissantly rich widower, who had ab- 
 dicated certain territorial rights in favor of 
 his son, but retained liis enormous funded 
 property, and spent his winters in Paris, 
 his summers in travel. He was somewhat 
 under sixty, and was an imposing-looking 
 personage, though too much " made up," 
 and somewhat too rigid in carriage and 
 manner to satisfy an Englishman's ideal of 
 nobility. But he was said to be agreeable 
 — that is, the duchess and my mother said 
 so ; for I saw too little of him, either then 
 or afterwards, to be able to judge. He 
 passed most evenings in the duchess's xalon ; 
 I seldom went there, unless driven in from 
 the terrace by the cold. We had a spell 
 of glorious weather just then. The blue 
 and golden days deepened into fiery sunsets, 
 and then suddenly melted away into the 
 clear dai'k of starlight, and I lay upon the 
 terrace, watching the purple shadows steal 
 up the pine-clad hills, drink in the molten 
 glory on the rocks, the rosy flush upon the 
 snow. Then the reflections died out in the 
 blue-green mirror below me, and lights be- 
 gan to twinkle from the Kurhaus in the 
 valley, a mile and a half away. 
 
 It was on such an afternoon and evening 
 as this, about three weeks after our arrival, 
 that the conversation I recall with distinct- 
 ness took place. All through the hotel 
 was the distant bustle of parties returning 
 from the day's expeditions to the Bernina, or 
 Mortratsch Glacier. I could hear them dis- 
 cussing their prowess in climbing, or their 
 various adventures, on the loggia or terrace 
 below me. There was the roystering Ital- 
 ian, who drove his four horses, and banged 
 away so lustily at the piano every evening ; 
 and that untiring English family, with 
 green tin cases strapped round them, like so 
 many Cupids with quivers, climbing every 
 accessible height after the Flora of the 
 Engadlne, with an energy that Love him- 
 self might have envied ; these, and the 
 spectacled Professor's family from Berlin, 
 and the five Dutch girls, — I knew them 
 all by sight ; and I heard them discoursing 
 in tkeir divers tongues. 
 
 " Listen to those people," I said. " I 
 wonder if I should make such a row as that 
 if I ever got to the top of Pitz Languard — 
 which I never shall ? " 
 
 " ^Vhy should you not ? " Madame d'Arn- 
 heim looked up from her knitting with a 
 smile of encouragement. " You impi-ove 
 now every day. You scarcely leant at all, 
 to-day in walking up and down." 
 
 " I couldn't do without your arm," I said, 
 shaking my head. " Did I repeat Joe's 
 flattering witticism, that you were the only
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 171 
 
 woman as ever he knew'd that could be de- 
 pended on ? " And I added gloomily 
 " Perhaps he is right." 
 
 She was silent for a moment ; then she 
 said, with a heavy sigh, — 
 
 " One of the kvr real pleasures in life is 
 to feel that one is of use. It is the only one 
 I have left." 
 
 " Nobody knows what it is to me now 
 to have a friend to whom I can open my 
 whole heart. Between my mother and me 
 there never was, there never can be, any 
 confidence ; and when I think, that, for all 
 the remainder of my life " — Here I broke 
 off. - 
 
 " I can guess what you leave unsaid."' 
 Madame d'Arnheim bent her head a little 
 lower • over her knitting. " Has it ever 
 occurred to you that Lady Rachel might 
 marry again V " 
 
 " Never as a serious probability. What 
 do you mean ? You don't mean that — 
 that vou thii>k there is a chance of such a 
 thing?" 
 
 " It would not surprise me — that is all," 
 she replied carelessly. " By the by, I sus- 
 pect she has had news from England to-day 
 which annoyed her. Has she told you of 
 it?" 
 
 " She rarely tells me any thing of her 
 letters. "What makes you think this ? " 
 
 " She talks to the duchess more or less 
 unreservedly, I believe, and she was speak- 
 ing to-day with an open letter in her hand, 
 when I entered the room. She stopped 
 short, but not before I had heard her say, 
 ' It is too provoking, when I had hoped ' — 
 what, I know not. It occurred to me that 
 Miss Penruddocke might be going to be 
 married, as you told me what your mother's 
 wishes had been in that quarter." 
 
 " I should hope they were at an end. I 
 can scarcely think my mother's words had 
 reference to Elizabeth, for she is abroad ; 
 but she is always' hatching some scheme in 
 her head." 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim laid down her knit- 
 ting, and looked across the lake into the 
 bosom of the blue-green hills and fissured 
 rocks opposite, as though she sought there 
 the solution of some difficult problem. Her 
 lips were pressed tight ; her pale eyes 
 never moved ; the breeze stirred the fluffy 
 hair upon her brow ; I watched her with 
 curiosity for some minutes ; she was abso- 
 lutely motionless. At last she said, speak- 
 ing rn a low, distinct voice, — 
 
 " And why should this scheme not be 
 hatched ? Now that your hopes in another 
 direction are at an end, do you never think 
 of ElizabeUi ? It would be what is called 
 a ' suitable ' marriage." 
 
 " In'o, — she is a grand creature, but we 
 are not suited, and we should neiiher of us 
 
 be happy. Elizalieth has not the sympa- 
 thy and repose which are what I should 
 seek tor now in a wife ; and she \rould not 
 be satisfied with the only kind of love I 
 could give her." 
 
 " Your feelings are much changed, even 
 within a few weeks," said Madame d'Arn- 
 heim in a low voice. " They may change 
 yet more. As you regain strength and en- 
 ergy, repose may not seem to you the one 
 thing needful." 
 
 " INIy nature is not changed. I feel 
 about marriage, as I have done ever since 
 I thought about it at all. Few men, I be- 
 lieve, marry their first loves, — the only 
 deep and passionate attachment of their 
 lives ; and I am no exception to the rule : 
 but the marriage of expediency is utterly 
 abhorrent to me. Two sorts of union are 
 possible in my eyes, and only two. If a 
 man's wife cannot be the mistress of his 
 imagination, at least she must be the friend 
 and confidant of his thoughts. That is 
 what, for want of a better word, I call ' re- 
 pose.' " 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 OxE afternoon the duchess made a party 
 to drink tea and whipped cream at Siltz 
 Maria, — some Italians, Prince Orsova, and 
 ourselves. They spread a plaid for me on 
 the grass, under a tree, at the outskirt of 
 the village, where I could see the matchless 
 view, while they all, with the exception of 
 Madame d'Arnheim, wandered up the hill 
 to the chapel, before assembling at the vil- 
 lage inn for tea. JNIadarae d'Arnheim took 
 up her position near me with a book, while 
 I made a lame effort to sketch the moun- 
 tains opposite me. I was roused by seeing 
 my companion fling down her book with an 
 indignant gesture on the ground. 
 
 " What are you reading that makes you 
 so angry ? " I asked with a smile. 
 
 " Well, yes, — I am angry. It is a 
 French book, and by a woman ! — a woman 
 of genius too, — George Sand. It makes 
 me mad I " 
 
 "What is it about?" 
 
 " A woman, who is held up to one's ad- 
 miration, — the cleverest and most charm- 
 ing of our sex. Her grandeur of character 
 is shown by simulating a passion for a man 
 she cares nothing about, and becoming his 
 mistress, in order to disenchant the man 
 she really loves, and who loves her ! " 
 
 " But why ? AVhy, if they are both of 
 one mind should they not marry ? " 
 
 " Because she is many years older, and 
 she believes it is only a Ijoy's fiincy, on his 
 part. So far she is right. He very soon
 
 172 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 falls in love with another woman. She 
 might have left the distriet. where her joimif 
 lover is bound to remain ; hut this would nut 
 have involved a gross outrage of all moral 
 sense (I might say all truth and purity), so 
 dear to Freneh iaiaginatiou I " 
 
 '• Perhaps she would have done better to 
 have married him ? " said I, looking fur- 
 tively into her face. " Was she quite sure 
 that it was tor his good ? " 
 
 '■ The event jiroved her right," she re- 
 plied (luiekly. Then, gazing up to the sky. 
 her eyes filled with tears, she added, '• God 
 knows, I can understand sacrifice, — the 
 sacrifice of every hojie tor the sake of an- 
 other's ultimate happiness, — but not thus. 
 3t is monstrous ! " 
 
 " And yet, putting the morality, — 
 that is, one sort of morality, — aside, is it 
 wo'.'se than what is done daily," I said 
 gloomily, — "a girl sacrificing herself at 
 the altar, for money and position, without 
 the generous excuse of Madame Sand's 
 heroine? " 
 
 " It is immeasurably worse. You know 
 I feel strongly as to the folly and weakness 
 of such a marriage as you speak of," ?he 
 returned pointedly ; '• but God forbid that 
 I should class it for a moment with a hor- 
 ror like this ! A girl may go to the altar 
 under the mistaken notion that it is her 
 duty, jiromising to ])rove a true wife to the 
 man she does not love d'amour, and keep 
 that vow ; but what good can come of such 
 double-distilled evil as this? Here comes 
 your mother." 
 
 " And Orsova. What a handsome man 
 he is for his age ! She says he is very 
 agreeable. Do you like him V " 
 
 " I know but little of him," she replied, 
 looking away. " lie never honors me with 
 his conversation. The duchess says he is 
 clever." 
 
 " Do you know," said I presently, as I 
 watched the two descend the hillside, my 
 mother leaning the tips of her beautiful fin- 
 gers on the prince's arm, and smiling 
 calmly from time to time at his conversa- 
 tion, which seemed to flow on uninterrupt- 
 edly, — " do you know, if the idea were not 
 absurd, connected with my lady, I should 
 say there was a little, just a very little, flir- 
 tation going on there." . 
 
 " Should you V " said my friend calmly. 
 She looked at me for a moment, and seemed 
 about to add something, but changed her 
 mind. 
 
 " I take it he is not a man of much 
 energy and action," I observed. " Other- 
 wise, at his age, he would not give up his 
 estates to his son." 
 
 " He is not a man of decmon, at all 
 events," she said, witli just the shadow of a 
 smile (and at the time I did not know what 
 
 she meant); "but that sort of character 
 suits some women better than a stronger 
 will." 
 
 " You know him very little, you say, and 
 yet vou think you read his character. How 
 Is tint V" 
 
 " I flatter myself I have some observa- 
 tion ; or peraaps I should call it a wo- 
 man's gift, — intuition." 
 
 " And what does your intuition tell you 
 about this AVallachian ? " 
 
 " Oh I my intuition is like the antennas 
 of an insect, — of no use to any one but 
 myself." 
 
 " But one insect probes the way for oth- 
 ers," I replied, laughing. " If this fellow is 
 such a fiiend of my mamma's, I may as 
 well have the benefit of your lights upon 
 him.'' 
 
 " He is quite harmless ; don't be afraid. 
 He has no heart, but plenty of amiability, 
 which is more available coin, you Icnow, 
 for general circulation. His vanity is inor- 
 dinate ; and yet he has no reliance on his 
 own judgment. Self is the central planet 
 in his system, but that does not prevent a 
 number of good little stars in their way 
 from revolving round it, — liberality, easy 
 temper, and so on. A clever talker, I dare 
 say ; but shallow, that I am sure. A man 
 who lives tor the amusement of the hour, 
 now that ho is sixty, as he did forty years 
 ago ; who hates all trouble or responsibility. 
 There, that is what my antennae tell me." 
 
 " Perhaps they tell you something of the 
 same sort of me V " said I, with a sigh. " I 
 am weak, and selfish too, I am afraid ; and 
 I, too, have given up my inheritance, which 
 must look to you like a shrinking from 
 responsibility ? " 
 
 '• No, I quite understand it. You have 
 been weak, but then you showed strength 
 and moral courage. It was weak to be 
 carried away by a current which I warned, 
 vou was dangerous ; and just as weak to 
 want to bury yourself in a monastery, be- 
 cause you were hurt in body and mind ; 
 but you are still almost a boy," she added, 
 with a smile : '• and have all life before 
 you." 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "If left to myself, I may sink into the 
 same morbid state again." 
 
 "Nonsense!" she said, turning away; 
 and her voice shook as she spoke. " You 
 know I cannot always be near you. We 
 shall soon have to part now." 
 
 The prince and my mother here joined 
 us, and our conversation was not renewed ; 
 but from that day I date the birth of the 
 idea which grew up — in spite of discour- 
 agement — within me: the idea that I 
 would ask Marie d'Arnheim to divorce her 
 husband, and become my wife. She knew
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 173 
 
 me better than anv one in tlie world, and 
 in her sympathy alone did I find any con- 
 solation now. If she consented to be mine, 
 it would be with full knowledge of the 
 fact that the love of ray young heart was 
 buried forever, that I valued her beyond 
 every other woman now, and that her com- 
 panionship might save me from despond- 
 ency, or worse ; this, she could not fail to 
 believe. Was I justified in asking her to 
 relinquish a worthless husband, who desired 
 nothing so much as to be free, and to be- 
 come mine, under these circumstances V 
 Thence arose my doubt and discourage- 
 ment. Did the demon of selfishness 
 prompt me to demand a sacrifice, when I 
 had so little to give in return ? And yet, 
 I could not remain blind to the flict which 
 each day made more apparent, that I was 
 the first object of Marie d'Arnheim's 
 thoughts and solicitude. She had a volu- 
 minous correspondence during those weeks 
 — important looking documents arrived 
 daily (upon family business, she said), de- 
 manding well-digested replies ; but she 
 wrote them all upon the terrace, sitting be- 
 side my sofa. The letters must suffer, 
 rather than I. My mother was more charm- 
 ing than ever in her manner to her ; no 
 . one could have believed that the woman 
 on whom she lavished every outward tes- 
 timony of regard and gratitude, was the 
 same one touching whose character Lady 
 Rachel had entertained such injurious 
 doubts a year before. She now evinced 
 the most perfect confidence in Madame 
 d'Arnheim, and constantly averred that 
 the removal of that terrible cloud which 
 had so long hung over my spirits, and my 
 beina saved from Romanism, were due 
 solely to her. 
 
 But this state of things could not go on 
 forever. The w^eks fiew by. The duch- 
 ess's departure to Germany began to be 
 talked of. What did separation mean to 
 each of us ? To myself, I knew but too 
 ■well what it meant, and I could not doubt 
 that to her it was the deprivation of the 
 chief interest in a desolated life. She had 
 said so ; and I felt that what she had said 
 was the truth. If we could mutually con- 
 sole each other — if such measure of loyal 
 aiFection as mine could satisfy her in the 
 long years to come, why should I hesitate V 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 It was a glorious day towards the end 
 of August. Marie and I had driven in an 
 " liinspanner " to the INIaloja Pass. We 
 lay upon a slope of fine, short turf, a shep- 
 herd's broad-caved hut of pine-wood upon 
 one side, the tumbling waters of the inn 
 
 upon the other ; before us, rising up into 
 the clear expanse of blue, the jagged sum- 
 mits of gold-gray rock, with every fissure 
 traced in violet shadow, and the silver 
 thread of a cascade gleaming down their 
 face ; and tar, far below, the winding road 
 into Italy, flung like a ribbon through the 
 mountain defile that guards the entrance 
 to that land of promise. 
 
 On such a day the air in these regions, 
 though permeated with sunlight, retains 
 that thin edge which has been sharpened 
 in jjassing over the neighboring snow. 
 Everv distant bleat and goat-bell is heard 
 with curious distinctness. To-day there 
 arose a conl'used murmur of many things : 
 the river rushing over stones, the wrangling 
 of drivers round the inn-door, a cow-herd 
 singing in some high-up pasture, the tin- 
 kling bells of many beasts, as yet unseen, 
 descendino; to their vallevs for the nisht. 
 There was just enough of life to enhance 
 the sense of enjoyment, and of peace, as we 
 sat there, in perfect silence, for more than 
 half an hour. It was she who broke it at 
 last, with a sigh, — 
 
 " In another week you will be down 
 there, among the vineyards, and we shall 
 be speeding northwards to our cold father- 
 land. Ach ! how quickly the weeks have 
 sped ! " 
 
 " Marie," I said after a pause — it was 
 the first time I had ever called her by her 
 name — "it is for you to decide whether 
 we shall part or not." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked, with 
 a startled look. 
 
 '■ I mean that the life you and I have 
 been leading is a nearer approach to hap- 
 piness than I believed to be possible for me 
 a few months back. You know what I was, 
 and what I never can be again. You are 
 the only woman in the world now I could 
 ever ask to be my wife. Can you consent 
 to come and inhabit a battered ruin, 
 Marie V " 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, and 
 was silent ; but her whole frame quivered. 
 I continued, after a pause, — 
 
 " You have not yielded hitherto to D'Arn- 
 heim's wish for a divorce, I know, but 
 every moral tie between you is snapped ; 
 and )ou can be legally fi-eed to-morrow." 
 
 She raised her head quickly, and seemed 
 about to reply, but hesitated. Alter a few 
 minutes' pause, she said in a low voice, — 
 
 " Are you quite sure you are not deceiv- 
 ing yourself — and me ? You have a warm, 
 generous heart. You pity my cruel posi- 
 non, and you are grateful for the deej) in- 
 terest I take in you ; but your wife — ach ! 
 I shall be an old woman while you are 
 still a young man. It would be sacrificing 
 
 you ; no — no, it must not be."
 
 174 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 " I am old before my time ; the sacrifice 
 is on your side ; you become a garde-malade, 
 I am afraid. If von love me well enouLib 
 not to slirink from sucli a prospect" — 
 
 "I love you better tban any tliinif in tbe 
 rvorld," sbe interrupted; and tbe quick 
 passion of her utterance contrasted strange- 
 ly with her habitual manner. " It is be- 
 cause I love you so much that I shrink 
 from doino; you an injury." 
 
 " Does that mean that you think T shall 
 change? You know me very little. I 
 have weighed this step as regards us both. 
 The love of my youth is dead ; and you 
 have come to me as an angel of consola- 
 tion. Life, hitherto, has been a sad expe- 
 rience to bolh of us. Can't we help to 
 lighten the burden of what is left of it, for 
 each other ? " 
 
 " Have you thought of what your mother, 
 and all the world, will say, — that I have 
 inveigled you into this? " she asked, with 
 a bitter smile. 
 
 " I hope, for your peace of mind's sake, 
 you care as little as I do for what all the 
 world says." 
 
 "I don't know, — I think not, when it 
 affects one I love. ' A divorced woman ' 
 is a term of great reproach, remember." 
 
 " Does that signiiy to us V We shall not 
 live in ihe world. We have both of us had 
 enough of it. Let it talk as it will. You, 
 yourself, have no repugnance to a divorce, 
 for_ I have heard you say, that, when the 
 life of man or wife is one continued act of 
 perjury, the tie is far better severed." 
 
 " No, — I have no repugnance to it," she 
 replied slowly, and her cheek was suffused 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " Why, then, do you hesitate ? D'Arn- 
 heira is bound, body and soul, to another 
 woman, and is doing all he can to be free." 
 
 " I did not say that I hesitated. It was 
 your marrying a divorced woman which I 
 spoke of as disadvantageous to you. As to 
 myself" — here she paused, and seemed 
 uncertain whether to pursue the subject 
 further. 
 
 " Well, Marie ? Speak quite openly, will 
 you not, as to your best friend ? " 
 
 She plucked at the short warm grass on 
 which we lay, with nervous twitching 
 fingers, before she looked up into my face, 
 and said, " You must know, then, that I 
 am free, or shall be so in a few weeks. 
 When we left Nice, feeling for the first 
 time what my love for you really was, I 
 believed that I ought no longer to remain 
 the wife of another man. The only argu- 
 ment in favor of my not relinquishing my 
 husband was taken from me, when I knew 
 that I never could or ought to return to 
 him. I instituted the necessary proceed- 
 ings, but without naming it to the duchess, 
 
 or to any one whom it was not incumbent 
 on me to take into my confidence. 1 knew 
 what a storm of ojiposition it would arouse. 
 It has already begun, — I receive vehement 
 letters from mi/ family and his daily, now 
 that the afi'air has got wind. I must tell 
 the duchess, — there is no longer any use 
 in concealment — or perhaps I should not 
 have told you." 
 
 I took the hand that lay beside me. 
 
 " Make one avowal of it, INIarie, and say 
 that you are to be my wife. I believe that 
 I can make you happy. If I did not be- 
 lieve this, I would never ask you to be 
 mine." 
 
 " Do you remember George Sand's 
 heroine, whom I told you about the other 
 day ? " she said mournfully. " She was 
 wise in her resolution — yes, though her 
 conduct was horrible — indefensible." 
 
 " Never mind precedent ; think of our- 
 selves. Ours is an exceptional case." 
 
 " If you were, as you were a few months 
 ago, — believing yourself a hopeless crip- 
 ple, — then, indeed, I might be your nurse 
 through life : there would be no selfish- 
 ness in that. But, in a year or so, you will 
 be your old self again — and then ? " 
 
 " Then I shall want you more than ever, 
 to stir me 'up to work. I feel as if some- 
 thing was dead within me, which it is im- 
 possible to rekindle myself; and when I 
 think of a life spent alone with my mother, 
 I shudder ! Marie, if you really care for 
 me, as I know you do, don't desert me ! " 
 
 Her tears fell fast, as I drew her towards 
 me, and extracted the consent from her lips ; 
 but it was agreed that, for the present, un- 
 til the divorce was declared, our engagement 
 had best be kept secret. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIL 
 
 The next morning Marie's face was 
 slightly flushed when she came upon the 
 terrace. 
 
 " What do you think ? We are going 
 with you to Venice — the duchess d^'cided 
 it last night. I could scarcely believe her, 
 for joy, when she told me." 
 
 " Hurrah ! What has caused this sudden 
 change of plan ? " 
 
 " Can you not be satisfied with the fact, 
 without asking for the motive ? " she said, 
 with a smile, and a little hesitation of man- 
 ner. 
 
 " Not now, that you excite my curiosity." 
 
 " I think I know the motive. I am afraid 
 it will not please you." 
 
 " So that you do not go back from your 
 word, INIarie, what can any thing else signify 
 to me V "
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 175 
 
 " Should yoa dislike your raotlier's marry- 
 in<T Prince Orsova ? That is what the duch- 
 ess is bent on efTecting, I feel sure. She will 
 induce the prince to accompany us to Ven- 
 ice, and thinks she can brini^ him to the 
 stickiu'T-point. You know liow entette she 
 is when she takes up an idea." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 " It is a matter of indifierence to me. If 
 my mother likes it, by all means. But I 
 can scarcely bring myself to believe that 
 she would marry a foreigner, and a ' papist,' 
 as she calls it. With lier Low-church ideas, 
 — inij)ossible I " 
 
 " I do not think so ; but you ought to 
 know best. She has lost Beaumanoir ; she 
 knows how slight her hold over you is. She 
 craves tor a posuion where she will be again 
 supreriie ; and this is what the prince lias to 
 offer — position, and great wealth. The 
 question to me is, will he offer it ? " 
 
 '• Strange ! " said I, musing. " Well, 
 perhaps you are right. But I should like 
 to see the faces of some of her own set, in 
 England, if the thing ever takes place. As 
 to myself, upod reflection, I shall be rather 
 gla.i." 
 
 " I never saw the duchess so keen about 
 any thing. The ascendency your mother 
 has gained over her is extraordinary. I, 
 who have known her for years, have never 
 obtained the power she has, — not that I 
 am the least jealous," she added, smiling. 
 
 " Well, when we marry," I said, taking 
 her hand in mine, " my mother can supply 
 your place with the duchess, if Orsova is 
 too wary a bird to be caught." 
 
 " I have broken the fact of my divorce to 
 the duchess. She was very angry, and 
 scolded me roundly. Her support and 
 countenance, she said, were given to an ill- 
 used wife, — not to a divorced woman. I 
 told her I was aware of that, and was fully 
 prepared to return to my family, as soon as 
 we reached Germany." 
 
 '• And how did she take that ? " 
 
 "I think she was a little ashamed of her 
 vehement outburst ; but she is so little 
 accustomed to opposition, that she cannot 
 understand it. Otherwise she is too kind 
 to wound me, — not that any thing can 
 wound me much to-dav," and her eves 
 beamed through her tears. 
 
 " Does my mother know of the impend- 
 ing divorce yet V " 
 
 " No, — and mark my words, immedi- 
 ately she learns it, as she wiM, of course, 
 from the duchess, you will see a change in 
 her manners towards me." 
 
 And so it was ; scarcely perceptible, per- 
 haps, to any one who dicl not know my 
 mother as 1 did ; but I detected the thin 
 coat of ice that checked the flow of cordi- 
 ality, the glance of suspicion shot from time 
 
 to time in Marie's direction. There was 
 no longer overt encouragement to our long 
 tete-a-tetes ; but these had become so much 
 a matter of course that the sanction they 
 at first needed was superfluous. 
 
 The duchess and we left St. Moritz the' 
 following week; and, after spending a few 
 days on the lake at Como, reached Venice 
 the second week In September. Orsova, 
 who was to have accompanied the party, 
 was taken ill the night before our depart- 
 ure, and, to the duchess's chagrin, wrote to 
 say it was impossible he could leave his 
 bed, but that, as soon as he was able to 
 travel, he would join us. Was it a ruse to 
 emancipate himself from a fascination he 
 felt growing to be dangerous? Or would 
 the trial of absence only " make the heart 
 grow fonder," and would he appear at 
 Venice more completely subjugated by my 
 mother's charms than he had hitherto 
 proved himself to be ? These were prob- 
 lems which I have now no doubt exercised 
 my mother much, though to the outward 
 eye she was imperturbable ; and, at the 
 time, I thought ]\Iarie d'Arnheim was mis- 
 taken in suspecting my mother of any seri- 
 ous intention to cap^n-e the Wallachian by 
 a coup de main ; but the duchess's demon- 
 strative nature was incapable of conceal- 
 ment ; she was " out of sorts " for some 
 days. 
 
 The evening of our arrival at Danielli's 
 Hotel, we were sitting after dinner, — I 
 have the room before me now, with its 
 painted ceiling, and row of windows open- 
 ing on a balcony where, shall I confess it ? 
 the duchess was smoking a cigarette with 
 me, — when it occurred to my mother to 
 ask for the " Strangei-'s Book," which was 
 brought to her at the window, close to 
 which we were. Marie's back was towards 
 us. She leant over the balcony, watching 
 the lemon-colored sky, across which bars of 
 violet were being rapidly drawn and fast- 
 ened together. The short-lived twilight 
 had beiTun, — in a few minutes more it 
 would be night. My mother opened the 
 book upon her knee, and uttered an excla- 
 mation, which caused me to turn my head. 
 
 " What a charming surprise 1 Here are 
 names, Osmund, you will be as glad to see 
 as I am." 
 
 Sh(! handed the book ; and there I read 
 that Miss Penruddocke, with Mrs. Everett, 
 and Mr. Francis, had arrived at the hotel 
 the j»'cvious day. The idea of our meeting 
 here had never occurred to me, curious to 
 say, though nothing was more likely, as 
 they had been in the Mediterranean ibr the 
 last three months ; and Francis's last letter, 
 some weeks since, had been written from 
 Naples. I was genuinely glad ; few things 
 could give me such unalloyed delight at
 
 176 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 that moment as tbe prospect of seeing my 
 dcarly-lm'ed I'rieiid. And Elizabeth, too, 
 lor whom I always felt the interest and 
 allection of a brother, it would be a great 
 pleasnri' to see again ; and I ex])ressed 
 ■this, in tlu; first heat of surprise, with my 
 wonted lark of reticence. 
 
 The outburst of my joy roused Marie from 
 her dream in the twilight. She turned and 
 asked the cause. 
 
 '•The arrival of his cousin, Elizabeth 
 Penruddocke," replied my mother. 
 
 " Ha ! the young person who has the es- 
 tate," said the duchess. " Brava ! " And 
 I saw her and my mother exchange glances. 
 
 '• I shall be very glad to see my cousin," 
 I said resolutely ; " but I shall be still more 
 glad to see the man who is with her, — the 
 best man who ever stepped this earth." 
 
 The courier entered at that moment, 
 bringing in letters for all three ladies Irom 
 the " Posta Restante," — none for me. I 
 had leisure to watch what etfect their cor- 
 res])ondence ])roduced on the faces of my 
 companions, while I sent to inquire whether 
 the party occupying Number 25 salon were 
 at home. 
 
 My mother did not move a muscle of her 
 face, but I knew her letter was not satis- 
 factory, for all that ; though how such 
 knowl(;dge came to me, I should have found 
 it difficult to say. IShe had not read to the 
 end, however, when the duchess handed 
 the missive she had impatiently torn open 
 to her friend, exclaiming, — 
 
 " I know not what to make of it, — read, 
 ma chere, read, — is it the truth, eh ? " 
 
 And my mother read the proffered let- 
 ter, elevated her eyebrows, and returned 
 it, with a little shake of the head. 
 
 Marie, meantime, looked up at me from 
 a mass of papers she was perusing. An 
 expression of ineffable relief was soon upon 
 her face, and she gave me a scarcely-per- 
 ceptible nod and smile. I knew what it 
 meant. She was free. 
 
 The family of Number 25 were gone to 
 the Piazza San Marco, to hear the band ; 
 but late at night Francis came to my bed- 
 room, and I grasped once more that strong, 
 cordial hand in mine. 
 
 " This is jolly ! How glad I am to see 
 you, dear old friend." 
 
 '• But to me, my dear boy, to see you on 
 your legs again, almost like your old self, I 
 cannot express what delight this is to me ! 
 And one we so little looked for. Why did 
 you not i)re[)ar(i me for your meeting ? " 
 
 '• I had no idea of it myself. You never 
 mentioned that Elizabeth was coming to 
 Venice ; and our couung here was a sudden 
 idea of my mother's. How is Lizzie V " 
 
 " Well in health; but our foreign travels 
 have not worked the good hitherto that 1 
 
 had hoped. The scenery and the people 
 we have been amongst are too tame to in- 
 terest her deeply. She has no feeling for 
 art, as you know. I hope the savagery of 
 the desert may rouse her more. She is 
 bent upon penetrating as far as possible 
 with safety." 
 
 " She knows we are here? " 
 
 " She learnt it when I did, — on our re- 
 turn to the hotel this evening." 
 
 " And what did she say ? After my 
 mother's absurd scheming, I sliould not 
 feel surprised if Elizabeth disliked meeting 
 us." 
 
 " She would not have sought the meet- 
 ing herself, certainly ; that you can under- 
 stand ; but since it has come about acci- 
 dentally, I feel sure it will be a pleasure to 
 her, it it is oidy to see you lookin^i; as )ou do, 
 so dilferent trom when we parted two years 
 ago." 
 
 " Yes," I said, with a sigh, " I am won- 
 derfully better ; but there's something gone 
 out of me that can never come back. I 
 shall never be the same man again." 
 
 " Perhaps that is all the better," replied 
 ray friend, witii a smile ; then he continued 
 gravely, " The mental and bodily suH'er- 
 ing you have experienced has wrought its 
 effect ; it was meant it should do so. But 
 I know by your letters that you have 
 passed through the utterly despondent 
 stage, and liave seized your staff again 
 (actually as well as metaphorically) with 
 courage." 
 
 " h' I have done so, Mr. Francis, it has 
 been the work of a good angel at my side." 
 
 He scanned my face with his keen black 
 eyes, and passed his hand over his blue, 
 close-shorn chin, an action which always 
 with him indicated perplexity. Strange to 
 say, I liilt more difficulty in makinjz; the 
 avowal of my engagement to him than I 
 should have done to any one else in the 
 world. 
 
 " Have you heard any thing of her — 
 Lady Tufton, I suppose I must call her ? " 
 I asked, after a pause. 
 
 '• Not a word. I wrote when we left 
 England, and gave her ' Naples ' as a safe 
 address, in case she wished to write to me ; 
 but evidently she did not. I have not seen 
 the marriage in the paper, but I suppose it 
 took place in July, as it was announced it 
 would." 
 
 " Of course ; and what could she write ? 
 She has learnt now that writing is best left 
 alone," I said, with a touch of bitterness. 
 " That is the only thing I find it hard to 
 e.xcuse, — her writing, after I had released 
 her, to say she should never give me up 
 until I returned the lock of her hair I 
 always wear Acre." 
 
 "Inexplicable!" ejaculated Francis.
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 177 
 
 " You Ccannot tell how strange it is," I 
 continued, " when some one has been abso- 
 lutely a part of one's being, as she was of 
 mine, to feel severed forever — never even 
 to hear her name ; for my mother talces 
 care never to mention her. Oh ! my friend, 
 what a fool I was to set her free ! For she 
 did care for me — I know it ! But she could 
 not withstand her mother, poor child ! " 
 
 He laid his hand on my shoulder. 
 
 " Yes, natures ai-e diflferentlj' endowed. 
 I was sorry you wrote, for it was playing 
 into Mrs. Hamleigh's hand. But her 
 daughter has disappointed me ; and this 
 wound will be healed in time, Osmund, I 
 feel sure, though it may be long first." 
 
 " It will never be healed — never ! " said 
 I ; then, after a pause, looking up into his 
 face, " and yet, what will you say when 
 I tell you I am going to be married? " 
 
 He looked me through and through be- 
 fore he spoke. 
 
 " I say," he returned at last, slowly and 
 sternly, " that if you marry, retaining in 
 your heart this passionate attachment to 
 another, you do wrong, — very wrong. 
 How is this ? " 
 
 I told him every thing. I showed him 
 how the woman who had been my best 
 friend for four years, whose interest in me 
 had never wearied through all my follies, 
 and to whose counsel, had I listened, I 
 should not be in the plight I now was — I 
 showed him how this woman was now deso- 
 late in the world, like myself; how Provi- 
 dence had thrown us again together, and how 
 her companionship and unselfish devotion 
 had been the saving help to my bruised spirit. 
 
 " Do not imagine that she is deceived," 
 I ended by saying. " She was my confi- 
 dant from the first. She knows that no one 
 can ever replace Evelyn in my heart, and 
 she is satisfied. We have both suffered ; 
 we have, neither of us, any illusions ; but 
 the future may be made more tolerable to 
 us both by sharing each other's burdens." 
 
 " God grant it may be so ! " sighed Fran- 
 cis, after a long pause. " But I wish time 
 had tested your feelings before you entered 
 upon engagements so solemn and life-bind- 
 ing. What does your mother say to it ? " 
 
 " She does not yet know it. The fact is, 
 Madame d'Arnheim lias only lately consent- 
 ed to divorce her worthless husband 
 and " — 
 
 " Dicorce ! " almost shouted Francis. 
 " Do you mean that you are going to 
 marry a divorced woman ?" 
 
 " r forgot that your church does not rec- 
 ognize the loosening of the marriage tie," 
 said I, coloring. 
 
 " It is not my church, boy, it is the 
 voice of Christ himself that has pronounced 
 against it," he returned with solemnity. 
 12 
 
 " Protestants do not interpret the words 
 as you do." 
 
 "Interpret! There is no question of in- 
 terpretation ' Whosoever shall marry her 
 that is divorced committeth adultery.' How 
 can you twist those words into any other 
 meaning than that which they bear upon 
 their iace ? " 
 
 " I can only repeat that our church per- 
 mits such marriages ; and when two people 
 want to be married, I think the removal of 
 the restraint more moral than its retention." 
 
 " Strange, strange, — the perversity of 
 the human heart ! " he murmured present- 
 ly, shaking his head. " To reject a pure 
 young heart that offers itself, with every 
 earthly advantage to boot, and to rush 
 headlong into a sinful marriage with one 
 you acknowledge you do not love ! It is 
 past all belief I I would have cut off my 
 right hand, Osmund, sooner than that you 
 should have done this thing 1 " 
 
 I was greatly pained. Though I had felt 
 awkward at speaking to my friend on this 
 subject, I was far from anticipating that he 
 would receive my communication thus. 
 
 " If you knew the peace that her pres- 
 ence brought me, after many miserable 
 months," I said at last, " you would not 
 wonder that I have wished this angel of 
 consolation to remain with me. As to 
 Elizabeth, my friend, you know, as well as I 
 do, that if I had married her upon any feel- 
 ing short of a lover's, she would have been 
 miserable, and certainly have proved no 
 angel of consolation." 
 
 " I know you are about to do that which 
 is good in the sight of neither God nor 
 man,'" he returned severely. " Your mother 
 and I will be one upon this suliject. I implore 
 vou, Osmund, to reconsider this, — to retreat 
 from this false position, before it is too late." 
 
 " I would give any thing that you did 
 not regard it in this light ; but pray under- 
 stand that I would not retract my word, 
 even if I could in honor do so. 1 am too 
 grateful to Madame d'Arnheim for con- 
 senting to share my lot. Whether this 
 step will be pleasing in the sight of man is 
 a matter of profound indifference to us 
 both ; that it will not be displeasing in 
 God's sight I honestly believe. Nine 
 months ago, perhaps, I should not have 
 thought so ; but my views have undergone 
 a great change on many points since then." 
 
 Wo talked for another hoin-, but to no 
 good result. He left me standing at the 
 open window, looking down into the still 
 lagune at my feet, the black shadow of a 
 gondola shooting, now and again, like a 
 dark thought across the silent water : and 
 my heart was luiavy to think, that, for the 
 first time, a cloud had arisun between me 
 and my faithful friend.
 
 ITS 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 AIy niotlior paid an early visit to Eliza- 
 boili. \\'liat passed on that occasion I know 
 not. Later, I limped down to Number 
 25, and (bund my cousin and Mrs. Everett 
 alone. Tlie former looked thin ; but the 
 chan;j:e of the pirl into the woman was 
 niaiked. Au'l the manner, too, denoted 
 habits of authority and decision which had 
 frrown in the interval since we hiul parted. 
 Her countenance was calm, resolute, and 
 joyless. The li^ht which had been wont 
 to kindle in the eyes, the break of merry 
 laughter, were gone. Even after her 
 father's death, the fire of the face, leaping 
 up in Hashes of passionate expression, was 
 not extinct, as it now seemed to rae to be. 
 She was too unconventional to deliver any 
 little set speech about the pleasure of meet- 
 ing ; and whetht'r she experienced any real 
 pleasure it was diiHcult to say, for her man- 
 ner was constrained, and her talk, chiefly 
 of the places they had visited, indicated 
 that apathy which Francis had deplored. 
 
 " What a wonderfully picturesque place 
 this is ! " I remarked, with a triteness 
 ■which I can only excuse by the difficulty 
 of arousing Eliz.vbeth's interest. 
 
 " Yes, it is like a picture, because it is 
 so dead. I like what is active and stir- 
 ring." 
 
 " But you hate large towns, and the bus- 
 tle of sight-seeing, you tell ni3 ? Here 
 you need see nothing but sky and water, 
 if you like it, and hear nothing but the 
 plash of oars, as you float in a gondola 
 from morning till night." 
 
 " Not my idea of supreme happiness ; 
 but tastes differ." 
 
 " Yes ; and Venice is particularly suited 
 to mine just now. Without legs, I am as 
 cood as another man in a "ondola." 
 
 A look of pain shot across her face. 
 
 " I forgot. Of course ; but you are so 
 much better ; to look at you, one wouldn't 
 think you were still an invalid." 
 
 '• I try not to think myself one. Still I 
 can only crawl about, you see, with two 
 sticks. If I am a ' devil ' on them, it is a 
 very poor one." I laughed at my own sorry 
 jest, out she looked grave. 
 
 " Do vou return to Ensjland this win- 
 ter ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not unless my lady wishes it ; and I 
 feel pretty sure she will not." 
 
 " You do not wish it, then ? " 
 
 " I don't care if I never see it again ! " 
 
 " Then you have given up soldiering for- 
 ever V " she pursued, in a tone of pity and 
 disajipointment. 
 
 " I can't go on having e.xtensions of sick 
 leave ; and my regiment goes out to Can- 
 
 ada in the spring. There is no choice in 
 the matter. I must sell out." 
 
 '•I wouldn't — I would stick on to the 
 very last." 
 
 " Ah ! so should I, two years ago. Now 
 — one alters, you see, Elizabeth." 
 
 " You were ambitious. Is that all gone ? " 
 
 She looked at me with curiosity. 
 
 "Yes, — or at least, changed. When I 
 was a boy, a woman who felt my head told 
 me that nothing would save my being as 
 obstinate as a pig, except that I was very 
 impressionable. I am afraid that combina- 
 tion," I added, laughing, " is what is called 
 ' a weak character. ' " 
 
 "You are not weak," said Elizabeth — 
 " at least, you are only a mixture, like 
 every one I have ever known, except Lady 
 Rachel and Mr. Francis. Dear dad was 
 like that. I could twist him round my fin- 
 jrers generally, but he wouldn't give way 
 if he thou.;;ht any thing was for my good. 
 Cousin Humphrey, too, was two-thirds 
 tough, and one-third soft. Only certain 
 people, I think, would ever influence you. 
 Otherwise" — 
 
 She stopped short, and I waited. 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Otherwise, you wouldn't have insisted 
 on ixivinGj me up the property.*' 
 
 Iler bluntness confused me for a moment ; 
 but I replied, laughing, that this was my 
 pig-headed obstinacy. She continued, 
 with that cool perspicacity which, through 
 every digression, keeps in sight the point 
 originally under discussion, — 
 
 " You were saying your ambition had 
 changed, and added that you were impres- 
 sionable. What did you mean V " 
 
 " Did Mr. Francis tell you that last win- 
 ter, when I was in the lowest depths, I 
 nearly became a Catholic and a monk ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I didn't believe it. I remem- 
 bered what you had said at Ghent, that 
 for a man to fly from trials and burdens, 
 and shut himself up in a cell, was cow- 
 ardly." 
 
 "When a fellow is down as I was, his 
 hopes wrecked, he does become a moral 
 coward ; but that wretched phase passed 
 away at last, thanks to the influence of one 
 of the best women that ever lived." 
 
 She sent a swift shaft of curiosity straight 
 into mv eves. 
 
 "What did she do?" 
 
 " She taught me, by her own unselfish 
 life, that, whatever trials man or woman 
 has to bear, the noblest use to which he 
 can apply himself is to help others. That 
 is the way in which I hope to serve God 
 when I am strong." 
 
 Elizabeth was silent for a minute. 
 
 " If, by help, you mean money, I'm ready 
 to give it all up ; but I can't visit cottages,
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 179 
 
 and attend ladies' meetings, and all that. 
 I did tiy it ; but I was no <iood : perhaps I 
 might be, if I lived in St. Giles's. Once I 
 thought there was no place like the coun- 
 try ; now I want activity, exeitement, — 
 that's why I travel." 
 
 " And quite right too. You are very 
 young — see all you can. But you must 
 make my friend's acquaintance, and have 
 some little talks with her. She is here now 
 — in this hotel." 
 
 " Oh ! the person Lady Rachel named ? 
 She is a court lady. My uncouth ways 
 would horrify her ! " 
 
 " Did my mother say any thing to her 
 prejudice ? " I asked quickly. 
 
 " No I she said she was a clever, middle- 
 aged person, who had helped to nurse you, 
 and amuse you at St. Moritz — that was 
 all." 
 
 I could not help smiling. 
 
 " Well, this clever, middle-aged person 
 is a woman of the noblest type. If I live 
 for a thousand years, I can never repay 
 her all I owe her. You will learn to know 
 her worth, Elizabeth." 
 
 I said no more, for Francis entered at 
 that moment. I had bound Inm to secrecy 
 as to my engagement, until it was disclosed 
 to my mother ; and the subject was so 
 painful to him, that I felt sure he would 
 never willingly broach it. 
 . " The gondola is below," he said. 
 
 She turned a little shyly to me. 
 
 " Will you come with us ? " 
 
 " Not to-day, thank you. I didn't sleep 
 last night, and feel seedy. I shall lie down 
 for an hour or two." 
 
 We parted on the stairs. I had, in 
 truth, a splitting headache, and limped off" 
 to my own room. To reach it, I had to 
 pass through an ante-chamber, which led 
 also to my mother's room. The door of 
 this was not quite closed. As I passed it, 
 I was arrested by hearing Madame d'Arn- 
 hehn's voice raised to an unwonted pitch ; 
 and then I heard my own name. What 
 did it mean ? AVhat could she be doing 
 in my mother's room? The temptation to 
 have these questions answered was ii-resist- 
 ible. I stood still. 
 
 " Holding your son in thraldom ! What 
 do you mean, Lady Rachel ? " 
 
 These were the first words I heard, ut- 
 tered in tones sharp and tremulous with 
 indignation. 
 
 " I mean," responded the mellifluous voice 
 I had known since a child — '"I mean, that 
 as you are very clever, very fascinating, so 
 long as you choose to exercise your sway 
 over Osmund, he is like a bird in a net — 
 he has not a chance of escape ; although 
 he is attached to his cousin, and might, I 
 believe, easily be br»ught to think of her 
 
 as a wife, now that that other foolish affair 
 is quite at an end. You must have observed 
 how delighted he was last night when he 
 heard of her arrival. Now, I put it to you 
 frankljf, is it not the kindest tiling, if you 
 are truly his fi-iend, to relax the hold you 
 possess over him, and further a marriage 
 which would be so very advantageous iu all 
 ways ? " 
 
 " And what if I am something more than 
 his fi-iend ? " 
 
 Madame d'Arnheim spoke slowly, and 
 paused before she continued, — 
 
 " W^ho came to me at Nice, and imyilored 
 me to forget his mother's insults, and res- 
 cue her son fr®m the morbid insanity that 
 threatened to drive him into a monastery ? 
 Who fostered our intimacy, and was so prod- 
 igal of flattery and gratitude to me, at St. 
 Moritz, careless of appearances, — or conse- 
 quences, to me, — so long as I was a mar- 
 ried ivoman f But now I am divorced, — I 
 am free ; and you cry out, ' Release my 
 son ! ' It is too late. Lady Rachel. You 
 have pushed me to the edge of the preci- 
 pice, and now you would drag me back. It 
 is too late. I have taken the leap." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 My mother strove to speak oalmly, but 
 her voice quavered. 
 
 " I have too high an opinion of you to 
 think that you would permit a boy like Os- 
 mund to sacrifice himself by marrying a 
 woman of your age, even if — if — you 
 must forgive me, Madame d'Arnheim, — 
 even if there were no other sad drawbacks 
 to such a marriage, — no moral considera- 
 tions " — 
 
 "Moral considerations! Pray, did you 
 shut your eyes to them when you threw us 
 daily together ? Or did it seem of no im- 
 portance if I became — well, no matter 
 what, so long as I saved your son, and that 
 he stopped short of marriage ? Ach ! Du 
 lieber Gott!" she cried bitterly, — "and 
 this woman is called virtuous and religious 
 by the world ! " 
 
 " Your vehemence carries you away, 
 madame. Because I asked you to try to 
 divert my son's thoughts, and expressed my 
 gratitude at your success, you make an in- 
 sinuation, which, in your calmi^r moments, 
 you would shrink I'rom. It is too shocking 
 for me to reply to. I trusted you, for I be- 
 lieved you to be highly principled. I will 
 not abandon that belief. 1 will not think it 
 possible that you would entraj) a boy, who 
 has scarcely been iu the full possession of 
 his fiiculties all this time, into a marriage 
 which can entail nothing but misery and 
 disgrace on him — and you too." 
 
 " I was prepared for this, — at least, I 
 thought so," was Marie's passionate reply ; 
 but her voice steadied as she continued :
 
 180 
 
 PENEUDDOCKE. 
 
 " Such language may make me wince at 
 first, but 1 shall soon become accustomed 
 to it. Hard Avords never made me turn 
 aside from any course I had well con- 
 siilcred : and I have had enou<Th of them 
 in mv life ! Is it worth trvin'f to iustifv 
 myself? I am goinj^ to marry your son. 
 Yes, Lady Rachel, I am going to marry 
 him ; not because he is in love with me ; 
 on the contrary, if he said he was, I sliould 
 have refused liiin. His fancy for a woman 
 so much older would pass away, and leave 
 behind it remorse to me, and misery to him. 
 But I know that it is the truth when he says 
 that I can sooth his wounded spirit, and 
 stimulate him to hope and to exertion as 
 no one else can ; that I can be of use that 
 will remain to him when wrinkles and gray 
 hairs appear. I have lain awake thinking 
 of this for weeks, and if I did not feel sure 
 of it, if I did not feel sure that Osmund will 
 never love again as he loved Evelyn Ham- 
 leigh, I swear to you, Lady Rachel, I would 
 not consent to marry him, though he waited 
 for years. But you never understood your 
 son. His heart is crushed ; if I leave him, 
 he Avill again become misanthropic — his 
 mind, his very health will suffer. This is 
 my true beliet; and in that lies my justifica- 
 tion." 
 
 " You take the maundering of a love-sick 
 boy for a broken heart." "W^ith the nearest 
 approach to a sneer I had ever heard from 
 her lips, my mother uttered these words, 
 " I do not believe in such things myself. 
 In this case, the assumption is preposterous. 
 He is but two and twenty, coiifmed to his 
 sofa, debarred from all amusement and 
 exercise ; and, because his spirits are low, 
 you say his heart is broken." 
 
 " I say he is in that condition in which 
 he needs a woman's sympathy hbove every 
 thing." 
 
 " Elizabeth is ready enough to offer hers. 
 If you are really disinterested, why not let 
 him accept it ? " 
 
 " I have urged him to do so, — though 
 you look incredulous. Lady Rachel. But 
 he has told me repeatedly that she was the 
 last person he should ever think of marry- 
 ing. The fact is, I have a conviction, and 
 this is not vanity, — it is an inward con- 
 viction, independent of his own assevera- 
 tions, that no other woman noio will ever 
 have the beneficial influence over him that 
 I possess." 
 
 " If you feel so confident of this, why not 
 test him V " said my mother slowly. She 
 had kept her trump-card till the last. 
 " Two or three years' absence will prove 
 if you are right, and obviate the fatal 
 consequences of a hasty engagement, which 
 all his friends will deplore." 
 
 " Two — or three years ? " repeated 
 
 Marie, as if bewildered. The blow had 
 struck home. The suggestion was new, 
 and seemed unanswerable. If I allowed 
 my mother to follow it up, it might be im- 
 possible to undo the mischief. I pushed 
 the door open. 
 
 " \Vherever Marie d'Arnheim goes now, 
 I follow. Understand that, mother. It is 
 out of your power to separate us, — you 
 need not try. Your interview with her has 
 forestalled the announcement I meant to 
 make to you to-day ; but you have only 
 heard her. It is as well that you should 
 hear me too. Your object for years has 
 been to prevent my marrying Evelyn. 
 You have succeeded — rest satisfied with 
 that. I have found consolation here. If 
 you attempt to rob me of that, I tell you 
 fairly we must separate." 
 
 " I have long been used to your undntiful 
 language. I was foolish to expect that suf- 
 fering had wrought a change in you," re- 
 sponded my mother, with saint-like resigna- 
 tion, after a pause. " What I did was for 
 your good ; but I wash my hands of all 
 responsibility, — henceforward you must 
 go your own way." 
 
 " That is all I ask — to be allowed to go 
 my own way." 
 
 " The broad way that leadeth to destruc- 
 tion, I fear. You have never caused me 
 any thing but anxiety, sorrow, and mortifica- 
 tion from your earliest years ; and now you 
 are bent on completing your own ruin ! It 
 is too terrible ! But do not be afraid, — I 
 shall trouble you no more. I have nursed 
 you for two years and a half, and have the 
 satisfaction of knowing I have done my 
 duty. You no longer need me ; and as I 
 certainly cannot countenance such a mar- 
 rian^e, a marriage with a divorced woman, 
 years older than yourself, I shall leave you 
 at once." 
 
 My mother delivered herself of this 
 speech with all her wonted composure, 
 resting her long taper fingers upon the ta- 
 ble before her, and never taking her cold 
 blue eyes from my face. No trace of the 
 ao-itation into which she had been betraved 
 a few minutes before was visible ; it was 
 poor Marie who looked confused and dis- 
 tressed. She had sunk into a chair on 
 my entrance, her head buried in her 
 hands. 
 
 " If you entertain this view of my mar- 
 riage, I cannot urge your remaining, moth- 
 er," I replied hotly. " I do not forget the 
 sacrifices you have made. I am prepared 
 to do any thing I can for your comfort ; but 
 I fear, that, after this, it would conduce nei- 
 ther to yours nor to mine that we should 
 continue to be together." 
 
 And, with a flushed face, I turned and 
 left the room.
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 181 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 In the ante-cliambei', a lioht hand was 
 laid oa iny shoulder ; and I met Marie's 
 white iace, as I turned nay head. She 
 Sjioke low, and her voice shook ; but the 
 words came ra[)idly. 
 
 *' This must not be, dear Osmund. I 
 fed there is truth in what she says, — we 
 ou;4ht to separate for a time, at least, — and 
 you must take her back to England, — it is 
 your duty. You cannot let her travel back 
 alone." 
 
 " Why not ? But I am too angry to argue 
 or to' know what is right, — I only know 
 what is ivrotifj. To insult you like that, 
 alter all her llattery, all her line speeches 
 of gratitude I It makes my blood boil, — 
 it does ! " 
 
 " Do not think about it. What does it 
 signily? When you reflect, you will see 
 she is right in this, — some time ought to 
 elapse. You can rejoin me in Germany 
 by and by." 
 
 Whatever it niaj' have cost her to say 
 this, she said ir bravely. 
 
 '' One thing at all events shall be done 
 at once, to obviate any further machina- 
 tions on my mother's ])art. Our engage- 
 ment must be announced. Tell the duch- 
 ess, and I will write to Elizabeth. By and 
 by I will take you to call on her." 
 
 Seeing that I was resolute, she offered 
 no objection to this. 
 
 It was a pleasurable surprise to me, and, 
 at first, wholly unaccountable, that Eliza- 
 beth, who had been unable (so I under- 
 stood) to conceal her jealousy of Evelyn, 
 showed none of my afhanced wife. They 
 became friends from the first hour they 
 met. Each recognized valuable qualities 
 in the other, and they were qualities that 
 did not jar, as such possessions generally 
 do. Evelyn's unmurmuring patience, her 
 subserviency to her foolish mother, the. 
 absence of all demonstration, aggravated 
 her impetuous cousin. INIarie's trenchant 
 intellect, her unconventional habits of 
 thought, her courage to face difficulties of 
 whatsoever kind that she encountered, 
 commended her especially to Elizabeth. 
 
 Francis acknowledged that he had never 
 seen her take a fancy to any woman, as she 
 had done to Madame d'Arnheim. And 
 this, in the face of his own marked avoid- 
 ance of the latter, and — as I could not 
 doubt — openly pronoLuiced reprobation of 
 my marriage. 
 
 Shall 1 say what I think ? The human 
 heart is such a complicated piece of ma- 
 cliinery that it is often diffit-ull to detect 
 the secret workinii of our own thoughts and 
 
 inclinations, — how much more so that of 
 others! But this I feel pretty sure of: 
 that just as my devotion to Evelyn, whom 
 she considered an unworthy rival, was the 
 primary cause of Elizabeth's unsympathy 
 with her cousin, so the knowledge that, 
 while I owed every thing to Marie, I was 
 not in love with her, rather^reilisposed her 
 in favor of the woman whom she consid- 
 ered I was marrying out nf (jraliiud<2. That 
 this was not the truth, the reader knows ; 
 but. in such a case, our fi-iends often think 
 that they strike at the root of an action of 
 which we present to them the mere fruit 
 and foliage. 
 
 Her Serene Highness was mightily dis- 
 pleased with her friend's engagement, as 
 (considering my mother's influence in that 
 quarter) Marie and I both anticipated. 
 Little used to opposition, the duchess alter- 
 nately threatened, cajoled, implored her 
 " Hoi-dame " to relinquish an idea which, 
 she assured her, would cover her with ob- 
 loquy, by lending an apparent confirmation 
 to the scandal which had coupled her name 
 with mine two years ago. Marie stood 
 firm. There should be no undue haste, — 
 she would return to Germany, — I would 
 take my mother to England. Let us be 
 separated for a time ; she acknowledged 
 the wisdom of this, if I could be brought to 
 consent to it ; but give me up, — no, that 
 she would never do ; all the duchess's ar- 
 guments were as waves dashed against a 
 rock. 
 
 Thus matters remained for some days. 
 The intercourse between my mother and 
 me, never at any time genial, was now so 
 constrained that, by mutual consent, we 
 never met but in the duchess's or Eliza- 
 beth's sitting-room. 
 
 One thing jiuzzled me. I had formally 
 announced to my mother my readiness to 
 return with her to England ; but it was 
 clear she had no intention of returning ; nor 
 did she desire me to return. " What was 
 the use of my going back ? " she said. Had 
 not the doctors advised my wintering again 
 in a warm climate ? As for herself, she 
 should probably join the duchess in Ger- 
 many ; but she required no escort, — she 
 preferred travelling alone, now that she 
 had no ties, no duties that bound her to 
 one place more than to another. 
 
 I had anticipated that she would snatch 
 at my proposal, that she would have hur- 
 ried me away, eager to set land and sea 
 between Marie and me, without loss of 
 time ; and trusting to the effect of absence 
 (and possibly furthur scheming) to unknit 
 the bond that now united us. Not at all. 
 As though she had renounced all hope of 
 this, she passed the greater part of the day 
 alone with the duch«ss, and did not talk of
 
 182 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 departure. I was the more surprised, as 
 Marie had discovered that all chance of 
 Orsova's joining the party was at an end. 
 The letter the duchess had received the 
 evenin"' ol" our arrival, and which she had 
 passed on to my mother, announced tliat 
 the prince's physician forbade his ])rojected 
 visit to Venice, and that he had turned his 
 steps northwards. Thus (assuming Marie's 
 hvpothesis to have any tbundation) even 
 this motive was wanting to account for my 
 mother's reluctance to return to England. 
 The Wallachian was too wary, and iled 
 i'roui temptation. 
 
 The pressure brought to bear upon us 
 during these days, therefore, came solely 
 from the duchess, who, not satisfied with 
 attackinijc Marie, thou'ht meet to make an 
 onslaught upon me, for what she was 
 pleased to term my " ingratitude to ray an- 
 gelic parent," who had left her home and 
 all her I'riends in England to devote her- 
 self to me. I could not resist maliciously 
 pointing out that my mother showed no im- 
 patience to return to her home and friends ; 
 and I then cut the serene lady very short 
 by acknowledging that Lady llachel's care 
 of me had been unremitting, which was the 
 more admirable inasmuch as it was insti- 
 gated solely by a sense of duty, and not by 
 atfection ; that I would gladly make any 
 sacrifice, in return, to minister to her per- 
 sonal comfort. "But," I concluded, "I do 
 not admit the right of a mother, nor of an?/ 
 one else, to interfere in a man's marriage ; 
 and permit me to add, madame, that I con- 
 sider whoever does so is very ill-advised." 
 
 After that, it was no wonder that the 
 duchess was unmeasured in her language, 
 when speaking to Marie, of her dear Lady 
 Kachel's graceless son. She told her friend 
 she was throwing herself away on a worth- 
 less boy ; and, in the same breath, upbraided 
 her with causing disunion between this poor 
 persecuted saint and her sole-surviving 
 child. To all this there could be but one 
 end. We haii foreseen it for some days. 
 Marie, harassed by daily altercations, re- 
 quested permission to leave her royal mis- 
 tress upon their return to Germany, and 
 live in retirement with her own family 
 during the winter. The duchess received 
 her " Hof-dame's " resignation in angry si- 
 lence. The next day she announced her 
 intention of quitting Venice the beginning 
 of the following week for Baden-Baden. 
 
 That same day (it was a Thursday) oc- 
 curred something which impressed me very 
 little at the time, but of which I perceived 
 the siiinificance later. Between me and 
 mv first and dearest friend, whom 1 should 
 always revere beyond any man on earth, 
 had arisen a cloud which nothing could dis- 
 perse. It was not that our love for each 
 
 other was less, but rather, that, because of 
 that love, such absolute division on a point 
 of vital importance rendered intercourse 
 ])ainful to us both. I confess I avoided 
 him ; and he certainly never sought me. 
 Jf he came into Elizabeth's salon when 
 Marie and I were there, he invariably re- 
 tired, after a few minutes, on some pretext 
 or other. He passed the days, ostensibly, 
 among the churches and pictures, where he 
 occasionally succeeded in dragging Eliza- 
 beth, occasionally escorted Mrs. Everett, but 
 still more frequently went alone. Whether 
 this self-imposed routine was followed 
 merely for the gratification of his highly- 
 cultivated tastes, or arose from his repug- 
 nance to give the sanction of his presence 
 to a state of things he reprobated so strongly, 
 I cannot tell. That he spoke his mind 
 very openly and decidedly to Elizabeth, as 
 to the unadvisability of her increasing in- 
 timacy with Marie, I feel sure ; but, though 
 usually tractable with him, this was a point 
 upon which she chose to have her own way. 
 
 On this same Thursday, then, I remem- 
 ber being surprised, and a little uncomfort- 
 able, when Francis entered my room, and 
 asked whether I would go to the Lido with 
 him, — his gondola was below. I would 
 have refused, but had no excuse ready. He 
 was strangely silent all the way, with the 
 air of a man who has something which 
 weighs him down at heart, and of which he 
 would fain unburden himself. I felt what 
 it must be, and in my nervous desire to 
 stave oflT discussion which could serve no 
 good end, I talked incessantly, with an as- 
 sumption of gayety which I knew did not 
 impose upon my clear-sighted companion ; 
 but it rendered nearly impossible that last 
 solemn appeal from him which I felt to 
 be imminent. He sat grave and abstracted, 
 looking out upon the tremulous green and 
 gold of the sun-lit lagunes, rarely replying 
 to my chatter, except by a dry monosyllable 
 now and again. We returned to the hotel 
 at the end of two hom-s, without his having 
 'uttered a word of that which was upon his 
 mind. 
 
 The following morning, when I went to 
 Elizabeth's rooms, I was surjirised to hear 
 I'rom Mrs. Everett that my cousin and Ma- 
 rie were already gone out together. This 
 was contrary to all precedent : they had 
 invariably given me notice of their move- 
 ments ; and, as this was the last day but 
 two of Marie's stay in Venice, I felt a little 
 ao-n-rieved that she should absent herself, 
 even for a few hours. I accounted for it 
 by supposing that the necessity which 
 drives women " to shop " in a country town, 
 the day after they have left London, had 
 suddenly possessed both ladies ; such pos- 
 session, however, being quite foreign to
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 183 
 
 Elizabeth's natiiw. The passing irritation 
 melti'd into solicitude, when, on their return, 
 I learnt that Marie was seriously indisposeil. 
 
 I did not see her all day; but I did 
 see Elizabeth, and her manner, always 
 abrupt, struck me as being unusually 
 strange. It was almost with savage fero- 
 city, that, when I expressed my hope that 
 Marie was not suffering, she replied, — 
 
 '• Suffering ! — I should think she is. 
 How could it be otherwise ?"'' then suddenly 
 tuint'd and left the room. Marie had been 
 subjected to some fresh attack from the 
 duchess or my mother — that was clear. 
 I need not say I avoided Her Serene High- 
 ness's- salon that evening. Elizabeth was 
 by Marie's bedside. Francis was out. I 
 spent the evening alone. 
 
 The next morning — Saturday — Joe 
 said, when I was dressing, — 
 
 " Yo'.i've heard, I s'pose, as my lady's 
 goin' to Bad uu o' Monday, with the grand- 
 duchesss V " 
 
 " Nonsense ! Who told you so ?" 
 
 " Her maid, just now. Madame, being 
 ill, is no use to the duchess, she says; so 
 my lady decided last night to go too." 
 
 " Have you heard how Madame d'Arn- 
 heim is this morning ? " I asked anxiously. 
 
 " I see her maid. She says her missis 
 is no wuss — doesn't complain o' nothin' — 
 only lies stoopid-like, and won't eat." 
 
 " Have they sent for a doctor V " 
 
 "Bless you! A doctor ain't no good. 
 Women is like that. A man, he takes to 
 the bottle when he's out o' sorts ; but a wo- 
 man, she takes to her bed." 
 
 Joe, who, of course, knew the state of af- 
 fliirs, divined, quite as well as I did, the 
 cause of Marie's indisposition. 
 
 I did not see her all that day. She sent 
 me a message by Elizabeth, begging me not 
 to be uneasy about her ; she was overdone, 
 and still telt unequal to any exertion; but 
 rest was all she needed; she would be bet- 
 ter to-morrow ; and, whether or not, she 
 would certainly see me. 
 
 My mother tbrmally announced her de- 
 parture to me thus : — 
 
 " The duchess has proposed that I should 
 accompany her to Baden, and thus supple- 
 ment Madame d'Arnheim, whose iiidis])osi- 
 tion, I fear, will render her of little service 
 as a dame de compagnie. As I am of no 
 further use to you, and 1 can be of some use 
 to the duchess, I have accepted her pro- 
 posal." 
 
 I felt bitterly all that my poor Marie 
 would be sulijected to on that journey ; and 
 though I knew the utter futility of remon- 
 strance in such a case, I could not help say- 
 ing, — 
 
 i^ " Whatever may have caused Marie d'- 
 Arnheim's illness, I hope you and the duch- 
 
 ess, between you will not aggravate it by 
 bullying her. It will be very ciuel, and lost 
 time besides. She has given me her word, 
 and she will not go back from it. I have 
 given her mine, and you know me well 
 enough to be sure that / shall stick to 
 it." 
 
 " I will promise you," said my mother 
 blandly, " not so much as to name the sub- 
 ject of your engagement to Madame 
 d'Arnheim : I am sure I may promise as 
 much for the duchess." Then, after a 
 momentary hesitation, she added, — 
 
 " Some day or .other you will do my mo- 
 tives more justice than you can now, Os- 
 mund. It is as well for tie present that we 
 should be separated." 
 
 It was, indeed as well. O wise moth- 
 er I had you remained but a few hours 
 longer near me, God knows into what un- 
 seemly ebullition of violence I mi<'ht liave 
 been betrayed ! 
 
 I saw Marie on Sunday afternoon, and 
 was shocked with the alteration in her ap- 
 pearance, tShe looked literally years old- 
 er — wan and worn; but the spirit which 
 had struggled through much suflering to the 
 light shone out of those deep, true eyes, 
 that never faltered, as their gaze met mine. 
 She was calm, and led the conversation 
 away from herself to discuss my plans tor 
 the winter. She dared say I should winter 
 in England, after all. I was gaining in 
 strength so visibly every day, that climate 
 could now be of no importance to me. I 
 repeated what I so often told her before, 
 that I had no wish whatever to return to my 
 own country. I then asked how long she 
 proposed to remain with the duchess. She 
 replied that her plans were unsettled, but 
 she would write very soon ; I miiiht depend 
 o.n that. She then made me the most sol- 
 emn promise, that nothing which the duch- 
 ess or my mother could say would influence 
 her in the slightest degree. " The time is 
 past, when sarcasm or reproach could hurt 
 me," she said, with a dreary little smile. I 
 told her that I should tly northwards, with 
 the first swallow, to claim her, wherever 
 she might be ; in the mean time, I proposed 
 remaining at Venice, which had a charm 
 for me just now, still crippled as 1 was, no 
 other city could possess ; " besides," I add- 
 ed, '■ it is the last place in which we shall 
 be together, which naturally endears me to 
 it." 
 
 She said nothing; but, by the whiteness of 
 her lips, I feared she was faint. I poured 
 some eau-de-cologne on my handkerchief, 
 and gave it to her. Pi-esently, she held out 
 her hand. 
 
 " You shall not stay any longer now ; I 
 have writing I must do before I go to bed, 
 and I have need of all my strength for to-
 
 184 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE, 
 
 morrow. I shall keep this handkerchief — 
 may I V " 
 
 Fearing to agitate her more, I silently 
 pressed her hand to my lips, and left the 
 room. 
 
 But her face haunted me all night long. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 They arc off. The gondolas that bear 
 them to the railway-station are out of sight. 
 I liave sei'n Marie for only a few minutes 
 this morning, and that in the presence of 
 others. She appeared in the salon, just 
 before it was time to start, in her dust-col- 
 oured travelling-suit, with an ashen face, 
 but in all the quietude of strong resolve. I 
 am the more visibly moved of the two. 
 We are parting, I and this woman, whom I 
 look to now as my only consolation in the 
 otherwise dreary future — we are parting 
 for a, while, and she will be exposed to in- 
 sidious, as well as open, attacks, which I am 
 powerless to ward off. I see how they have 
 made her suffer already — will it not be a 
 thousand fold worse when we are sepa- 
 rated ? But 1, too, can express nothing of 
 this, and very little of what I feel ; for the 
 eyes of all are upon us, — the duchess's, my 
 mother's, and those of the viiiilant running; 
 chorus of couriers and ladies'-maids. 
 
 " God bless and keep you 1 " is all she 
 murmurs. 
 
 j\Iy mother touches my forehead with her 
 beautiful lips, and says she hopes soon to 
 hear I am quite well. That is all. Then 
 Her Serene Highness, brisk and shabby, 
 trips down the stairs through an avenue of 
 landlord, waiters, and couriers, followed by 
 my regal-looking parent, who also bows 
 blandly to right and left ; and my pale 
 jNlarie, too absorbed to notice any thing, her 
 eyes fixed*" steadily before her, glides after 
 them. They step into the gondola — they 
 are gone ! 
 
 I stand gazing after them ; then, almost 
 unconsciously, my e3es turn to Elizabeth's 
 window. There she is, leaning out, and 
 waving a handkerchief; and I can see that 
 ever her small stern face has come a veil of 
 tears. 
 , By and by there is a knock at my door. 
 
 SI litt my face from my hands, where it has 
 lain ibr the last half-hour, and in answer to 
 my " Come in," Francis stands before me. 
 
 " I have a letter for j'ou, my boy ; but be- 
 fore you read it, I have a good deal to tell 
 you," and he draws a chair to the opposite 
 side of the narrow table at which I am 
 seated. I am struck with the animation of 
 his voice and manner. On Thursday 
 
 last I received a letter from Miss Ham- 
 leigh." 
 
 1 started. 
 
 " From il/ws Hamleigli ! — Lady Tufton, 
 you mean." 
 
 '' From ^liss Hamleigh," he repeated. 
 " It is an answer to mine, written before I 
 left England, and v^s forwarded »o me 
 from Naples. Here it is : read it." 
 
 " I think I had rather not," said I quick- 
 Iv, i)uttim>- it awav with tremblins; fingers. 
 " It only opens an old wound, which — 
 which is not yet healed. I had better never 
 hear of her again," I added with a groan. 
 
 " My boy," said Francis gently, " you 
 must read it ; you will thank me when you 
 have done so, and it is essential for your 
 right understanding of what follows." 
 
 What did he mean ? What did it signi- 
 fy to me now what she .wrote ? I opened 
 the envelope with a throb of pain and curi- 
 osity mingled. This is what I read : — 
 
 " The Cottage, Aug. 30. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Fraxcis, — I should 
 have answered your kind letter long before 
 this, but I have been very ill. When it 
 came, I was in bed with brain-fever, where 
 I i-emained many weeks. My illness, I 
 think, had been coming on for months. I 
 want you to know every thing ; for you are 
 the only person to wUom I can open my 
 heart, and I cannot bear that you should 
 misjudge me. When we met at Beauma- 
 noir last January, I was very sad ; but oh 1 
 it was nothing to my wretchedness a few 
 weeks later, when Osmund sent me back 
 the lock of my hair, which I had told him I 
 should accept as a sign that he loished to he 
 free" 
 
 AVhen I had read thus far, the letter 
 dropped from my hand. My eyes were 
 suddenly opened : I understood it all. ]\Iy 
 mother had read Evelyn's note to me, and 
 I now remembered her miniature. I am 
 atraid that an oath broke from my lips as 
 the conviction that she had done this shame- 
 ful thing flashed upon me. 
 
 " I felt," continued the latter, " that 
 every thing was really at an end between 
 us, and I was utterly crushed. I had looked 
 forward to years of waiting ; but, if he had 
 only remained true to me, I knew that my 
 courage would not fail. Now, however, 
 what had I to sustain me ? Poor mamma 
 was overjoyed to think I was free. Ah! even 
 she has now been brought to see things in 
 a ditierent light. Lord Tufton came down 
 shortly after this, but only staid a few 
 hoiu's. I refused to see him, knowing his 
 objwt. Six months later, he returned, at 
 mamma's invitation. She had not relaxed 
 her efforts tor a day, in the interval. Yoij 
 know all that she would say — I need not
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 185 
 
 repeat her arguments ; tJiei/ did not weigh 
 with me ; but my love for her, and my de- 
 sire to ease her anxiety on my behaU", pre- 
 vailed in the end. Worn out in mind and 
 body, I accepted Lord Tufton, but not un- 
 til I had told him all. Wlien I named Os- 
 mund, he was startled and evidently deeply 
 pained ; he had never suspected tlie truth, 
 and had he known his friend's hopes eigh- 
 teen months before, he said he would never 
 have interfered with them. Since Osmund 
 had freed liimself, and ??ie, the case was 
 different. Nothing could be more kind, 
 more considerate, than Lord Tufton's con- 
 duct; but from that hour my wretchedness 
 increased fourfold. He made no demand 
 on my tenderness ; he was content to leave 
 time to work a change in my feelings, he 
 said ; but 1 knew I ougJd to love the man I 
 had promised to marry, and I could not ! I 
 told him he must not hurry on the marriage 
 — that it could not take place until the 
 summer (it was then November) ; and in 
 the mean time, mamma and I went on a long 
 visit to the North. 
 
 " In May we moved to London, and 
 preparations were begun for the marriage ; 
 but I was utterly unfit for it, and grew 
 weaker every day. Mamma at length be- 
 came alarmed. The doctors whom I saw 
 did me no good, — how should they ? I be- 
 lieve tliey thought my brain was affected : 
 I thought so myself, the confusion of ideas, 
 and the pain I suffered in m}^ head, was so 
 great. ' If I go mad, or become imbecile. 
 Lord Tufton will hold himself bound to me 
 all the same,' I said to myself. ' I must 
 break off our engagement before it is too 
 late.' I spoke to Iiim at last openly. It was 
 the middle of June. I said I had done 
 very wrong to accept him ; lor my heai-t 
 was still another's, and that, in the struggle 
 to do ray duty by my husband, either my 
 reason or my life would be sacrificed. He 
 behaved nobly — not a word of reproach — 
 not a selfish consideration ; he blamed him- 
 self for having urged me to marry him after 
 he knew the real state of my lieart ; all his 
 tliought was to spare me. We had been 
 engaged more than seven months ! He saw 
 mamma, and told her that all was at an 
 end. She bore it better tlian I expected, 
 for she began to understand that my illness 
 was of the heart and brain, rather than the 
 body. The doctor had roused her to a 
 sense of my danger; and, indeed, the very 
 next day I was stricken low by fever, and 
 lay between life and death for some weeks. 
 
 " Poor mannna was worn to a shadow. 
 My illness has wrought a great change in 
 her ideas about me. She reproaches her- 
 self for tiie past, poor dear 1 though of 
 course nothing that has happened has been 
 her fault. But all her ambitious views for 
 
 me have died away. She understands now 
 that I should be miserable if I married 
 any one, — no matter whom, — and is con- 
 tent to let me remain as I am. Some 
 strong natures recover more easily from 
 such shocks ; mine has no power of re- 
 bound, I fear. I try to turn my thoughts 
 to other subjects, but what little energy I 
 had is gone. My mind constantly reverts 
 to Osmund. We hear that he is 'entirely 
 engrossed now with the same lady who 
 exercised such influence upon him in Lon- 
 don. Ah, how easily we deceive ourselves ! 
 — how easily we believe what we wish to 
 believe ! He assured me he only cared for 
 her as a sister and friend ; and after that, 
 though I heard that Lady Rachel had 
 found her nursing him, I refused to listen 
 to any thing against her, I believed him so 
 imjtlicitly ! But, alas 1 dear Mr. Francis, 
 how can I doubt any longer that she, a 
 married woman, has come between Os- 
 mund and me, and caused him to break of!" 
 our enfratrement ? 
 
 " Lady Rachel's conduct, I confess, is to 
 me inexplicable : even mamma cannot 
 defend it. To encourage such an intimacy, 
 because Osmund had taken up despondent 
 religious views, — I could not beUeve it 
 possible. Did she not herself speak of it as 
 •a sad expediency'? The ground seems 
 slipping from my feet on every side. Even 
 Lady Rachel, who has always been to me 
 the model of all that was pure and high- 
 minded — she, too, has fallen away ! 
 
 " I have written a volume, which I fear 
 it will weary you to read ; but I could not 
 say less. I so earnestly wished you to 
 know the truth about me. I will now stop. 
 We are going to Hastings, — the air is re- 
 commended for me, — and we shall probably 
 be there until after Christmas. 
 
 " W^rite to me sometimes, will you not ? 
 — and tell me whatever you can about 
 him. 
 
 " Ever sincerely and gratefully yours, 
 
 " Evelyn Hamleigh." 
 
 My hand shook so that I could scarcely 
 read this letter to the end. When I had 
 done, the pent-up misery of my heart broke 
 forth in a great ci'y. 
 
 " Too late, my ])oor darling ! O God ! 
 too late 1 " And I laid my head in my 
 hands and sobbed. 
 
 " Now, listen," said Francis, " before you 
 read another letter, the seal of whi(;h is un- 
 broken. When I received Miss ILun- 
 leigh's, my mind was much trouljled what 
 to do. I had now an additional motive tor 
 desiring to annul your engagement to Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim, and, at the same time, a 
 weapon which, if rightly used, might prove 
 effectual to this end. In your hands this
 
 186 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 weapon, I was aware, would be powerless. 
 You would never break your prouiise to 
 the woman you were pledjjed to uiarrj' ; 
 theretbre, while sorely tempted to show you 
 the letter on Thur:;day last, I retrained. I 
 showed it, instead, to Elizabeth." 
 
 I raised my head, and tried to read in 
 his face what was eomin^r ; but it was in- 
 scrutable, or I was too dazed to penetrate 
 the mystery. 
 
 '• Go on," I murmured. 
 
 " The task was a delicate one, for I knew 
 Elizabeth's jealousy, and — shall I say it ? 
 — a certain contempt of Evelyn's too 
 
 rliant character, as she considers it. But 
 also knew her true nobility of soul. ' A 
 wrong has to be righted, and you are the 
 only person who can do it,' I said. ' Ma- 
 dame d'Arnheim knows that I am ve- 
 hemently opposed to her marriage ; she 
 would naturally mistrust me. She entirely 
 trusts you. You must tell her the sub- 
 stance of this letter, and appeal to her 
 better nature to relinquish her claim upon 
 Osmund.' As I anticipated, she angrily 
 refused, at first, to interfere. Why should 
 she ? What business was it of hers ? Eve- 
 lyn had played fast and loose with Lord 
 Tul'ton, — she had no stability. Marie 
 d'Arnheim was worth fifty such girls, and 
 Elizabeth had far rather see her your wife. 
 But her sense of right in the end prevailed, 
 as I knew it would. She sought her friend 
 with % heavy heart, and read part of this 
 letter to her ; of course what referred to 
 Madame d'Arnheim herself it would have 
 been needless cruelty to show her. Eliza- 
 beth described that interview to me. It 
 has awakened a respect and admiration for 
 this unhappy lady I never could feel before. 
 The result of that morning's work, Osmund, 
 is contained in this packet." 
 
 He laid a sealed letter on the table, rose, 
 and, first touching my shoulder with his 
 kindly hand, as he passed, left me to digest 
 this second missive, and the feelings it 
 might awaken, in solitude. 
 
 " These are the last words, my beloved, 
 that I shall ever write to you, and when we 
 bid each other good-by to-morrow, it will 
 be forever, on this side the grave 1 Yes, 
 though I have the courage to write this, we 
 must not meet again. In your presence, 
 when I feel your eyes bent on me, my be- 
 loved, as they Avere to-night, my strength 
 almost fails me. It is on this account I 
 have shunned you. If I am only supported 
 throu'^rb to-morrow, but for a few minutes, 
 it will be the last time this strength is 
 needed. God help me ! I have passed 
 three sleepless nights crying aloud to Him 
 for this help, but it has not come yet. 
 
 " Had it pleased God that you had 
 
 needed me through the long years to come, 
 you would have found me 'faithful unto 
 death.' As it is, your hope and courage 
 will no longer need sustenance now. I 
 know I laave been of some use in your life, 
 at a time when all around seemed dark ; 
 that will l)e my solace in the future. The 
 ' little cousin ' is free, and is still constant 
 to you ; only by base deception did she 
 ever appear otherwise, I am told. For 
 your sake, I thank God that it is^so. Be- 
 lieve me, much as I must suffer, I would 
 not have it otherwise. Do I not know that 
 your heart has never swerved from its al- 
 legiance to your early love ? There is no 
 heroism in giving you up, since I have 
 learnt that you and Evelyn may yet be 
 happy. I should be a monster of selfishness 
 if 1 did not resolutely snap the chain which, 
 for a short time, has bound you and me 
 together. Your chivalrous nature would 
 have refused to sunder it, and thereby have 
 done me a great wrong. Would my life 
 have been endurable, think you, if I had 
 discovered too late that you had married me 
 from a false principle of ' honor ' ? No ! a 
 thousand times rather would I suffer, as 
 am now doing ; for, at least, I suffer alone. 
 
 " I have told the duchess and your 
 mother. I thought it well to do so, before 
 we started on our journey together ; it 
 might spare me from attacks now rendered 
 needless. Lady Rachel's satisfaction was 
 cloudeil, I saw, when she learnt that the 
 rupture of our engagement was due to a 
 letter of Miss Hamleigh's ; but she said 
 nothing. I doubt whether she will inter- 
 fere further with your future ; but be wise, 
 — go to England at once, and explain all 
 to Evelyn and her mother. 
 
 " And now, before I say farewell, thank 
 you from my heart, beloved, for all the 
 good and joy you have brought into my sad 
 life. The briditest passage in it has been 
 that now suddenly closed, in which 1 have 
 been daily so near to you that I fancy I 
 have read every thought of your heart. It 
 has made me think better of men. Ever 
 since I first met you as a boy on the steam- 
 er, I have seen, through all your faults and 
 follies, a true, noble nature. I had almost 
 lost my belief in such. And the closer I 
 have been drawn to your inward soul, wit- 
 nessing its struggles and dithculties, the 
 more has my heart expanded towards poor 
 sorrowful humanity. My own crriefs had 
 tended to make me bitter and distrustful. 
 I shall never be so much so again. I am 
 going into outer darkness, — • it must needs 
 be so ; but I carry with me the light of a 
 pure and bright memory, that will not fail 
 me as long as life shall last. Am I not the 
 riclu^r for it V 
 
 " Perhaps, years hence, when I am an old
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 187 
 
 woman, we may meet ; but not until this 
 present time shall seem like a tale that is 
 told. You will answer this letter, I know ; 
 but do not ask nie to write again. It is 
 better that I should drop utterly out* of your 
 life ; I feel that sAe would wish it to be so. 
 
 " And now, my beloved, who have been 
 so much more than any thing else in the 
 world to me, for the last time, farewell ! 
 May God bless and j^reserve you, prays 
 
 " Makie." 
 
 Twelve hours later Elizabeth's yacht was 
 under way, and she sailed for Corfu, while 
 I was speeding on my road to England. 
 No woa'd as io my future prospects passed 
 between my cousin and me. Strange girl ! 
 She had Ijeen the direct. ajrent in brin"ino- 
 about- th.e great joy that filled my whole 
 being, and made of me a different man 
 from the one. I have been for the past eigii- 
 teen months, — yet now her manner was 
 hard, almost repellant. I had seen her 
 moved at Marie d'Arnheim's departure, but 
 now no tear dimmed her eye, as she placed 
 her hand in mine and turned bruskly away. 
 Poor child ! And this was to be our last 
 parting ! It is only now, when the proud, 
 sensitive heart has long been at rest, that I 
 think I begin to understand her. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 It was on^ of those soft, pearl-gray days 
 which belong peculiarly to England, when 
 I reached Hastings. My coming was un- 
 announced ; for fear that Lady Rachel 
 mi'iht still exercise enough influence over 
 ]\Irs. Hamleigh to lead the latter to misin- 
 terpret any letter of naine, I had abstained 
 from writing. I drove to the address given 
 me in Robertson Terrace, and was told that 
 the ladies were' sitting on the beach. I 
 alighted, and hobbled down the steps from 
 the terrace to the shore. There, under the 
 lea of a battered old fishing-boat, whose 
 tawny sail formed a serviceable protection 
 alike from westerly sun and wind, — wind 
 just enough to ripple the gray sea, and fret 
 the wave that washed the yellow shingle, sat 
 the slight figure I should have known among 
 a thousand, albeit wrapped in a plaid, with 
 a broad-leaved hat overshadowing her f'ac(!. 
 The hair under it had been cut short, and, 
 owing to this, perhaps, the face looked wan, 
 and the eyes twice their natural size. 
 Those eyes were fixed dreamily upon the 
 shinmiering waters at her feet, her thin lit- 
 tle hands were knotted together about her 
 knees, books and work lay beside her, but 
 she was absolutely idle ; her thoughts, it 
 was clear, were very far away. 
 
 Good Heavens ! how she was changed ! 
 Now that I was close to her, only the 
 length of the old boat dividing us, and 
 could trace the ravages of illness and sor- 
 row upon that sweet young face, I dreaded 
 the effect my sudden appearance might 
 have upon my dai-ling in her shattered 
 state. Mi-s. Hamleigh was pacing the 
 beach a few yards olf, looking for pebbles. 
 Some strange intuition — the maternal in- 
 stinct perhaps — made her raise her head 
 at this moment, and look in my direction. 
 I lifted my hat that she might make sure 
 of my identity, and, pointing to Evelyn, — 
 too absorbed to see what was passing a 
 stone's throw from her, — I put my finger 
 to my lips, and beckoned her mother to- 
 wards me. I shall never forget the gleam 
 that irradiated that worn face : it swept the 
 last doubt away as to any opposition I 
 might meet. The poor woman dropped all 
 the treasures she had been collecting for 
 the last half-hour, and with the old galvan- 
 ized smile I knew so well, came running 
 towards me, holding out her hands. 
 
 " Oh, where do you come from ! Oh, if 
 you only knew how glad I am to see you, 
 my dear, dear Osmund 1 Only think ! It 
 isn't true, then, about your marriage ? 
 Well, really, — well, this is delightful. So 
 unexpected. My poor, dear child, she will 
 be " — here she burst into tears. 
 
 A few minutes later, the ground had 
 been broken by her mother to ray darling, 
 and I was upon my knees beside her. 
 
 I doubt if the lives that have run 
 smoothly on the well-oiled wheels of pros- 
 perity ever know the keen delight of those 
 who have passed through a great tribula- 
 tion, and see the clouds parting, and the 
 sun shining on them at last. What were 
 all our past sufferings when weighed in the 
 balance with the joy of that hour ! When 
 I took the ribbon from my neck, and 
 showed her the lock of hair that had never 
 left it, even the shock of finding how Lady 
 Rachel had deceived both her mother and 
 herself, could only cloud my darling's hap- 
 piness for a few moments. I was her own 
 again, — her own, as of old ; before all the 
 troubles of these last years had come upon 
 us ; and moreover, the fear which had al- 
 ways overshadowed her was now with- 
 drawn ; for lo ! there sat her mother, smil- 
 ing through her tears upon us both. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Hamleigh ! She had passed 
 through a season of the severest trial to 
 which any parent can be subjected. The 
 child lor whom she would have laid down 
 her life had been brought to the brink of 
 the grave ; and the mother could not but 
 feel that this was, in a measure, her work. 
 She had refused to believe in the strength 
 of Evelyn's attachment un-Ul too late. I
 
 188 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 had proved faithless ; but though she be- 
 Hevod tliis, she must have doubted whether 
 Lady Rachel's uiauhiuations, of which Mrs. 
 Haudeigh had beeu iu some cases the pas- 
 sive iastruuient, had not tended to goad me 
 to evil courses, — to sever me from Evelyn. 
 , Her jud'Tment and her conduct in this mat- 
 ter had been as dough in Lady Rachel's 
 hands ; and those hands, as she recognized 
 now, were of iron. Not until several 
 months' absence had rela.xed this inrtexil)le 
 grasp, did the weak but well-meaning 
 woman's mind regain some capacity ot 
 forming an unbiassed opinion. It was no 
 wonder that she clung to the idea of 
 Evelyn's marrying Tufton up to the very 
 last ; but when this hope, to realize which 
 had seemed to her the summit of earthly- 
 happiness, was all but accomplisheil, it sud- 
 denly crumbled into dust. Evelyn was 
 fading visibly away ; the " faculty " could 
 give her mother no comfort ; they could not 
 " minister to a mind diseased ; " and when 
 Tufton announced Evelyn's withdrawal 
 from their engagement, it came almost as 
 a relief from dire responsibility upon the 
 poor distracted woman. Then followed 
 months of anxious watching, of alternating 
 hope and tear, during which her mind was 
 brought into a fitting condition to hail my 
 coming as the one means of restoring the 
 shattered health and spirits of her child. 
 
 During the weeks that followed, when 
 unbroken rest by night, and the tonic of 
 perfect happiness by day, were restoring 
 the roses to my darling's cheeks, the elas- 
 ticity to her step, as of old, I told her of 
 every thing that concerned myself, as I 
 have told them in these pages. I showed 
 her Marie's letter, and made her fully com- 
 prehend, for the Jfirst time, the rare beauty 
 and unselfishness of my poor friend's charac- 
 ter. What wonder that the common judg- 
 ment misapprehended her, when even a 
 man like Arthur Tufton did so ? Opin- 
 ions, tied up in bundles, and docketed by 
 the world, are distributed according to 
 general rough classifications. The " Ger- 
 man sentimentality," the femme incomprise 
 of whom Marie was sneeriugly said to be a 
 type, no more described her than to talk 
 of " ivy " is to distinguish the serrated out- 
 line and delicate articulations of one par- 
 ticular leaf from the thousand coarser varia- 
 tions of the same species. Under all na- 
 ture's generalities, the careful observer de- 
 tects individuality ; and if in the grass of 
 the field, how much more so among the 
 sons of men ? But the docketing system 
 is easier ; and therefore Marie d'Arnheim, 
 except by a very few, is relegated to swell 
 the ranks of mystic, lachrymose women, 
 who are always pining for what they have 
 not, are addicted to a perilous Platonism, I 
 
 and whose aggravating airs of superiority 
 
 form the best justification of a husband's 
 ill-conduct. 
 
 How superficial such a view of her 
 character was, I have attempted to show ! 
 That I shall succeed in enlisting the sym- 
 pathies of all other women I cannot hope; 
 nay, there are good men who will shake 
 their heads dubiously, and speak of her 
 example as " dangerous." But, touching 
 this question of example, I would say one 
 word. If we are to be taught any thing by 
 learning all we can of another human 
 being, it must surely be by the tendency 
 of the whole life, not by any particular ac- 
 tion in it. I cannot discuss my friend's 
 conduct; it is manifestly impossible for me 
 to do so. I know that I owe her a great 
 debt of gratitude, and that, though we 
 have never met since the morning we 
 parted at Venice, now ten years ago, my 
 reverence and regard have suffered no 
 diminution. And I also feel very sure 
 that, whatever the world's verdict may be, 
 hereafter, when all hearts are laid bare, it 
 will be well for many of us if the account 
 we have to render up shows so large a bal- 
 ance to the good as hers. 
 
 Mrs. Hamleigh wrote at once to my 
 mother ; but the reply she received proved 
 that " the little rift within the lute " was 
 ma<le, which has since widened until it 
 silenced all love and correspondence be- 
 tween the two ladies. Lady Rachel, who 
 could never brook opposition from any 
 one, found her whilom devoted worshipper 
 assuming a tone of independence, and de- 
 fending the altered view she had adopted 
 of our marriage, with a freedom of expres- 
 sion which could not but displease her 
 whose word had hitherto been as a law 
 unto her friend. The lock of hair was 
 never so much as alluded to between them, 
 and nothing; showed the estranirement and 
 distrust on both sides so much as this reti- 
 cence. Formerly " dear Belinda " would 
 have written gushingly to ask for an ex- 
 planation of what seemed unjustifiable, 
 sure beforehand that her dearest Lady 
 Rachel would clear it all up, and ready to 
 swallow any sophistry whereby crooked 
 ways should be made to appear straight. 
 
 I will not affirm, that, had my mother re- 
 turned to England at this jiuicture, she 
 might not have regained some portion of 
 her old ascendency over Mrs. Hamleigh. 
 But she did not return ; and when she 
 visited England once, some years after- 
 wards, the two friends actually did not 
 meet. I received a letter from her about a 
 month after my arrival in England, an- 
 nouncinn; her encrasement to Prince Or- 
 sova. All that astute man's efforts to 
 escape had availed him nothing. He had
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 189 
 
 been run to earth at Baden, where the 
 duchess had of course traced liim ; and, 
 after a feeble struggle, had accepted his 
 destinv with a good o-race. And he has 
 never had cause to rei^ent. She is the 
 very woman for such a position, when 
 there is no demand upon the heart, and 
 plenty upon the intelligence. She man- 
 ages his atfairs, she settles differences be- 
 tween him and his son ; she rules him, as 
 she has done nearly every creature with 
 whom she has come into contact through 
 life, with a sceptre so lightly held that no 
 one could tell it was of iron. 
 
 The ease-loving prince is no doubt more 
 comfortably in his advancing years than 
 had he remained a widower. All his wants 
 are ministered to ; and his vanity is flat- 
 tered by the homage paid to the beauty and 
 eminent virtues of the princess. They re- 
 side a part of each year upon their estates 
 in Wallachia, where the princess has estab- 
 lished industrial schools, and done much 
 good in various ways, I am told. They go 
 to Carlsbad every summer ; sometimes they 
 travel as far as Paris — never, but once, 
 have they been to England. The prin- 
 cess's ties to that country are severed almost 
 as completely as those of the renowned peer- 
 ess who espoused an Arab Sheik. My 
 Uncle Levison went once to visit his sister, 
 shot wolves in the Wallachian forests, 
 and brought home a glowing account of 
 the magnificence of the prince's estate ; 
 but Col. Rich has been dead now some 
 years, and the princess has never expressed 
 a desire to see any other member of her 
 family in her far-off home. As regards 
 myself, I neither wonder at nor regret this 
 — the reader of these pages will not require 
 to be told why. If she had not every thing 
 this world can give — if I could be of com- 
 fort or service to my mother in any way, 
 I should go to her at once ; but such is not 
 the case. There is that in the past which 
 renders the recollection of me annoying and 
 hurtful to her ; my presence would be dis- 
 tressingly irksome.* 
 
 I was married in the spring. J had thrown 
 away my stick before this, and had rejoined 
 my i-egiment at Windsor; and, in the alter- 
 nations of this quarter with London and 
 Dublin, I looked forward now to passing 
 some years, at least. But Providence liad 
 ordained otherwise. I received a letter 
 from Francis at Jerusalem in the middle 
 of June, which I can honestly affirm caused 
 me unmixed sorrow. It anncninccjd Eliza- 
 beth's death of lever, caught by reckless 
 exposure to heat and over-fatigue in the 
 desert. Francis wrote with all the ten- 
 
 * The princess Orsova died in Novembor, 1872. 
 She liiul not Hfcu her sou lor five yeai"s before 
 her death. — Ed. 
 
 derness of a father who has lost his own 
 child. "She is taken from me," — thus 
 ran a passage in his letter, — " and it is 
 not for me to repine, since the gain is hers, 
 and she felt it to be so. Her mind, which 
 had wandered much during her illness, was 
 clear at tlie end ; and lier last thought was 
 of you. 'Tell him,' said she, 'that I am 
 very, very glad to go. Life has been up- 
 hill work with me these last two years; 
 now I am going to join my dad, and we 
 shall be happy again, as we were long ago, 
 and Osmund will have his own home once 
 more. lie would never have taken it 
 back if I had lived. I am glad to go, if it 
 was only for that. Tell him that, though I 
 parted so coldly from him, I ' — here she 
 waited a minute, and then added — ' I loved 
 him better than any one on earth. Yes, 
 you can say that when I am dead : I shall 
 not mind. I have been so wretched here, 
 and I shall be so happy very soon — so 
 happy ? ' I think those were her last 
 words. A smile stole over her face. Mrs. 
 Everett, who has been her constant nurse, 
 stooped down and laid her hand on Eliza- 
 beth's heart, — it had ceased to beat. We 
 have dug her a grave under the shadow of 
 that mount where He whose words are our 
 best comfort at such moments as these, sai'd, 
 'Blessed are the pure in heart; for they 
 shall see God.' Yes, even so, Osmund. 
 This is my abiding trust. Though God 
 had not seen fit to bring this nol)le, crystal- 
 clear young spirit into the fold of his true 
 Church, she was ' pure in heart,' steadf ist 
 and unselfish in her devotion, without guile 
 or shadow of deceit ; therefore, I know she 
 has been permitted to pass through the 
 golden gate into the kingdom of her Father 
 which is in heaven." 
 
 Elizabeth left no will. She knew that all 
 would come to me as heir-at-law, and tliat 
 she could trust me not to forget the com- 
 panions of her last journey, more especially 
 him to whom we both owed so much. That 
 dear and wise friend has his home now at 
 Bcaumanoir, and will lead my little boy, I 
 trust, to be a better scholar and a better 
 man than his father. 
 
 I left the Guards with regret; but duty 
 clearly pointed out another path in life, and 
 I did not hesitate to exchange, like Cincin- 
 natus, my sword for the ploughshare. To 
 raise the moral, as well as temporal, condi- 
 tion of my poorer neighbors, to add my 
 unit to the sum of help whereby the distance 
 between Christian gentlemen and those 
 who are born to labor by the sweat of 
 their brow may be lessened, without our all 
 tumbling into the gulf of socialism which 
 yawns between us, — tliis has been my chief 
 study since I inheriteil the j)roperty of my 
 fathers. That my mind was ever turned
 
 190 
 
 PENRUDDOCKE. 
 
 to such considerations — that I have not 
 passed these years solely in huntiii^jr, shoot- 
 inir, and fishiu<i; — is (hie, first, to the lon;^ 
 illness wliicli, thoii'j,h I looked upon it then 
 as a i)unisliinent, 1 now regard as a hless- 
 ing ; secondly, to the elevating influence of 
 that woman's character witli whom my own 
 came into contact at a critical period of 
 my life. 
 
 As time rolls on, I thank God that I can 
 say it confirms tlie love of my childhood, 
 Avliich we may botli of us now regard as 
 among tlie few things in this world that are 
 
 immutable. No shadow of jealousy has 
 ever crossed our path since tliat day when 
 we looked into each other's eyes upon Has- 
 ting's Beach. Arthur Tufton, who has 
 never married, comes to stay with us once 
 or twice a year ; and when Eyelyn's Con- 
 servatism (which she clings to as a reli- 
 gii)n)takes friiiht at some Liberal sentiment 
 of mine, and I threaten to pay a visit to 
 Dresden, where Madame d'Ainheim will 
 feel more sympathy with my views, my 
 wife smiles in her sweet, calm way, and 
 asks when she shall pack my portmanteau. 
 
 THE END.
 
 JUST PUBLISHED. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE CEXTEXARY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 SIR V/ ALTER SCOTT: 
 
 The Story of his Life. 
 
 By R. SHELTON MACKENZIE. With Portraits and Illustrations. 1 vol. 12mo. $2.00. 
 
 TKE distinsrnished Uiferateur, Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie of Philadelphia, has been for somo time 
 engaged upon a life of Sir "Walter Scott; and the centenary of the author of the Waverley Novels, 
 celebrated on the 15th of August, appropriately suggested the publication of the volume in connection with 
 that notable event. 
 
 The lapse of nearly fifty years that has passed since Scott penned his last work has not wasted the 
 freshness and interest of his writings, nor lessened the faBCination of their nobility of thought, artistic pic- 
 turesqueness, and truthfulness. 
 
 The author has, as an appropriate and lasting tribute to the memory of his di.stinguishcd fellow-coun- 
 tryman, prepared thi.s biography of Scott, which is designed to fill a place from which the magnitude and 
 expense of more voluminous biographies exclude them. It is that of 
 
 A Popular Life of " The Ariosto of the North," 
 
 containing, in a convenient and accessible form, minute details of his varied and eventful experiences, the 
 fruits of Dr. Mackenzie's profound study and enthusiastic admiration of his subject. Headers of Scott's 
 works will find in this work something more than a mere biography, and welcome the volume as an agree- 
 able and valuable companion to his writings. 
 
 Dr. Mackenzie is well known as an enthusiastic admirer and profound student of Scott; and we can 
 well imagine that his transcript of the incidents, sayings, and life-work of his illustrious fellow-countryman 
 has been a labor of love to this eminent scholar and accomplished writer. 
 
 *** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 
 
 L.A.TE TiCKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OsGOOD, & CO. 
 
 JUST PUBLISHED. 
 
 Charles Reade's Last Great Novel, 
 A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION. 
 
 Complete in 1 vol. Fully Illustrated. Paper, 30 cents ; Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 By special arrangement ■witli the author of this Story, which has excited a profound 
 sensation in all portions of the world where the English language is read, the Publish- 
 ers are enabled to give the only authorized edition of the Story, with the Author's latest 
 revisions and corrections, accompanied by the original illustrations, complete in book 
 form, simultaneously with its aiipearance in England, and in advance of its issue by any 
 other publishers in this country. 
 
 " Messrs. James R. Osgood .t Co. have just published Charles Reade's story, 'A Terrible Temptation,' 
 complete ,in book form. This will be the earliest publication of the whole story in this country, and simul- 
 taneous with its publication in England. Those who have read the chapters published from weeli to week 
 for some months past in Every Saturday, know well enough how extremely interestitig it is ; and, for the 
 benefit of those who have not yet seen any part of it, it may be said, that it will rank with the most i)owcr- 
 fiil and fascinating works of its author. This is only another way of saying that in the qualities of plot and 
 dramatic incident, and intensity of passion and force of narration, it is as great a story as any man now 
 living has written." — Boston haily Adcertiser. 
 
 '• It opens in all the freshness and abounding sparkle of his style, and the daring freedom and original- 
 ity in which this author is consi)icuous. All who enjoy a good healthy and delightful story of modern times 
 should not fail to secure ' A Terrible Temptation.'" — N.Y. Globe. 
 
 " It is such a novel as only Charles Rcade could have written, in its fertility of invention, wealth of in- 
 cident, originality, dramatic power, intense characterization, and startling innovations upon the literature 
 of fiction. This'jjrompt issue is the ' author's edition,' sent out simultaneously with the aiipearance of the 
 work in P^nelanrl. It is sure of a nuiltitnde of readers, and equally sure of any amount of criticism. Heade'8 
 genius is undeTiiable, however l)old and unconventional the manner in which he has chosen to exercise it in 
 the present instance." — Boston Transcript, 
 
 *** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 
 
 JAMES K. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 
 
 Late Ticknou & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.
 
 CHARLES READE'S NOVELS. 
 
 HOUSEHOLD EDITION COMPLETE. 
 
 UNIFORM, COMPACT, LEGIBLE, HANDSOME, CHEAP. 
 
 \ m*m i 
 
 The popular Household Edition of IMr. Reade's Complete Novels is comprised in 
 
 Ten Volumes, as follows : — 
 
 Foul Play 1 vol. 
 
 Hard Cash. ... 1 vol. 
 
 White Lies. . . .1 vol. 
 
 Griffith Gaunt. . . 1 vol. 
 
 Love me Little, Love me 
 Long. .... 1 vol. 
 
 Never too Late to Mend. 1 vol. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 1 vol. 
 
 Peg Woffington, Christie 
 
 Johnstone, and Other Stories. 1 vol. 
 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation. . 
 
 Illustrated. 
 
 1 vol. 
 1 vol. 
 
 Price, $ 1.00 a volume. The Set in a neat box, $ 10.00 ; Half Calf, $ 22.50. 
 
 " This edition of Charles Reade's novels is somewhat similar in style to the well-known ' Charles 
 Dickens ' series, issued by the same firm. The volumes are all neatly bound, well printed, and com- 
 pact, with the fac-simile signature of Charles Eeade prominently displayed on the outside. We are 
 glad to welcome such an acceptable addition to the American library of modem English literature. 
 After Dickens, no English author of the day appeals so directly to all branches of the English-speaking 
 race as Charles Reade. Although most of his works are intensely English in local coloring, his hatred 
 of class injustice, of petty social spites and prejudices, of official wrongs and abuses, and his warm 
 sympathy with all the fresh and true impulses and instincts of humanity, secure for his works appre- 
 ciative readers wherever the English language is spoken. Charles Reade's works all deserve the widest 
 circle of readers, within whose reach they can be brought, and we are glad to find that the task of 
 placing them before the American public in a tasteful and convenient library form has been undertaken, 
 and so well executed, by those so thoroughly qualified for carrying it out as the publishers of the 
 present series." — New York Times. 
 
 " A very pretty edition of Charles Reade's novels, just such a one as has long been desired by his nu- 
 merous admirers in this country. It can hardly help meeting the success it deserves, from its taste and 
 elegance, no less than from the conspicuous merits of its author." — Liberal Christian. 
 
 " The volumes are neatly printed and of convenient size. Jlr. Reade is one of the most vigorous of 
 modern writers of fiction. And in all his works he has a high moral aim, as the exposure of some evil 
 that demands correction." — New York Observer. 
 
 " The new, uniform, elegant, and cheap edition of Charles Reade is just in time to take the tide of the 
 story-teller's great and deserved popularity." — The Western Bookseller ( Chicago). 
 
 V For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston, 
 
 Late Ticknok & Fields, akd Fields, Osgood, & Co.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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