y 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT and JAMES RICE, 
 
 AUTHORS OF 
 
 " READY-MONEV MQRTIBOY," " THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY," " WITH HARP 
 
 AND CROWN," "the CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT," 
 
 "this S9N OF VULCAN," ETC. 
 
 A NEW EDITION, 
 
 U ti ti n : 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY-
 
 PR 
 
 4(04 
 
 Mqq 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 In the introductory words prefixed to the new edition of " Tliia 
 Son of Vulcan," we have called attention to a remarkable case 
 reported in the papers a year after the first appearance of " My 
 Little Girl." As if to show that fiction can never be stranger or 
 more improbable than truth, the details of Laura Colling wood's 
 pretended marriage with Philip Durnford, were, every one, re- 
 produced in the similar deception of an actual young lady. 
 
 Such a fact might, of course, be adduced in justification of 
 almost any wild and absurd incident in fiction. In our own case 
 we want no such justification, because the wickedness was one 
 which such a man as Philip, in his then stage, Avould be very 
 ready to commit ; but we mention the incident solely to show an 
 otherwise friendly critic that his knowledge of human nature 
 and of the crimes which may be considered fairly probable, was 
 not greater than our own. 
 
 Those who, like one of the authors, have sojourned in Palmiste 
 -Island, have no need to be told what that colony is, and where it 
 is. Those who have not may be assured that it is no fancy sketch 
 which is here given — memory, not imagination, has produced 
 the scenes of the Fontainebleau Estate ; the people, the climate, 
 the background, are all real ; the characters alone are fictitious. 
 Mr. Durnford is copied from one of the hospitable planters 
 once known to the writer ; there never was a Philip Durnford 
 or an Arthur. But the type of Philip is not by any means un- 
 couuaoD- In Palmiste Island, as in every other place where 
 
 971(H)()
 
 In PRETACE. 
 
 vliito niPn liave settled tniKiug lu'gioes, the mulutto aboimda. 
 His mixtuio of blood, coupled Avitli Iho pie judiccs of the place, 
 iiuikes liiiu a most disagrocablo person. For, in the authors' 
 opinion, there can bo no greater misfortune in the way of birth 
 (except, perhaps, to be a Prussian not of the military caste), than 
 to bo born a coloured creolc, and to be condemned to live j^our 
 lil'o in the place of j'our birth, where the wliito people refuse, if 
 they can help it, to enter your liouse or to eit at meat with 
 you. 
 
 " They hate their fathers," once observed a French native of 
 Paliuiste, "because they are white; and they despise their 
 mothers because they arc black." 
 
 It was the peculiar misfortune of Philip Durnford to belong 
 to this unhappy race ; the greater part of this novel shows the 
 development of the baser qualities, and the suppression of the 
 nobler, which result from the ever-present knowledge of a fancied 
 degradation in a sensitive mind. I^o cacjot in old France was 
 ever more keenly sensitive to the misfortune of his birth than the 
 educated mulatto in such a place as Palmiste Island. It is 
 bhameful that such distinctions should bo observed, but it is the 
 fact. 
 
 Hartley Venn, to conclude, is well and happy ; he is still en- 
 gaged upon the preparation of the great work, in which his wife 
 and si.ster lirmly believe ; the other members of the chorus are 
 advancing and prospering. 
 
 W. B. 
 J. R
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 BOOK L-^m THE ISLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the Great Stormy Ocean — that part of it v,'hich is bounded 
 by the Bay of Bengal on the west, and the coast of Mexico on 
 the east (or thereabouts) — lies the island which the French, 
 when they had it, called He des Palmistes, but which the Eng- 
 lish, on taking it at the beginning of this century, patriotically 
 named after their great and good Eegent, Prince George. The 
 geography books call it Prince George's Island still, but no one 
 out of England knows it by any other name tlian the He des 
 Pahnistes ; and all English people, with the exception of the 
 Colonial Oltice, know it by the name of Pahniste Island, It 
 lies, in its rounded and graceful curves, like a maiden at rest — 
 Avitiiin a silver ring of surf, breaking over the coral reef, in 
 latitude 18° S.— a latitude which I take to be the most delight- 
 ful in the world, especially in a country where you can get 
 highlands to live in, and a constant sea breeze to fan you. In 
 Pahniste Island the sea breeze blows all the year round — some- 
 times giving way to a warm west wind, which comes from the 
 neighbouring continent, and sometimes lajshing itself to iury, 
 no one knows why, and performing prodigies as a hurricane. 
 It is bad at these times to be at sea, because all the ships go 
 down. But it is perhaps worse to bo on shore ; for there the 
 roads are mere rushing rivers, down which the wayfarer is 
 burned by the flood to meet an untimely fate, the gardens are 
 sturiny lakes, trees are blown about like leaves, roofs of houses 
 are lifted like sheets of paper ; and men, if th(iy are so unlucky 
 as not to get shelter, are sometimes taken up towards heaven, like 
 
 1
 
 2 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Elijah — only, unlike tho prophet, they generally come down 
 ngaiu with the breakage of a good many legs, arms, ribs, and 
 \vliatevcr bones happen to be must easily fractured. If the 
 hurricane lasts long enough, tho people, shut in their houses, 
 are starved for want of jiruvisions ; and uhile it blows there is 
 no means of cooking what they have. It has its advantages ; 
 for, after it is over, all the planters who were shaky before take 
 the earliest opportunity of going through the form of bankruptcy, 
 and excite universal commiseiation for their hard fate, as they 
 enlarge on the thousands of pounds' worth of canes or coffee that 
 the hurricane has destroyed. Once clear of debt, they go on 
 again with light hearts and renewed hope. By some curious 
 inversion of the laws of political and social economy, very few 
 cither debtors or creditors, unless they are English, seem the 
 worse for their calamities. I have some idea, tliough not in 
 this place, of putting forth a treatise on this important subject 
 from a novel and tropical point of view. My readers will 
 perhaps bear this in mind, and buy me, when I do appear, on 
 the 2sorthern and Temperate Zone System. 
 
 After the hurricane, the papers — there are six daily organs of 
 opinion in the island : two ou straw i^aper, two on a peculiar 
 fabric somethiug stitfer than tissue, and something coarser than 
 homespun, and two on real paper — live for a fortnight at least on 
 tho correspondence which pours in. An " Occasional Corres- 
 pondent" writes to detail the effects in his town, an important 
 centre of at least three hundred people ; a " Special " narrates 
 the effects in the adjoining hamlet, half a mile removed ; " Our 
 Own " writes from the other end of the island, fully thii'ty miles 
 away : they all sign their names, and run up to town the next 
 day to receive the congratulations of their friends. They arrive 
 with folded arms and brows knit. This illustrates the majesty of 
 literature, since even these small dally ings with the muse produce 
 .•such mighty throes of the mental system. And in a month all 
 is repaired : the fields move again with the yellow-green canes, 
 the dark coffee bushes Tjlacken the hill-sides, the roofs are all put 
 on brand-new, the bankrupts have got fresh estates, or retain 
 1h<,'ir old ones through the clemency of their creditors, and all is 
 ns it was. And in the lie des Palmistes nothing changes but 
 the men. 
 
 These are a heterogeneous race. They lie like a parti-coloured 
 pyramid, the single stone at the top representing his Excellency 
 the Governor. The lowest stratum is composed of Coolies, These
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 3 
 
 excellent beasts of burden supply the place of the old slaves. I 
 do not think they are exactly kidnapped ; but I believe it is de- 
 monstrable that very few of them have distinct ideas of their 
 future when they embark on board the emigrant ship off Calcutta 
 or Madras. On the other hand, their condition is certainly 
 improved by the step. They get better wages and a larger access 
 to drink ; they do not work very hard ; they are well fed ; and if 
 they are beaten with sticks, they may, if they like, have up their 
 employer for assault. To be beaten with sticks carries, however, 
 no sense of personal degradation with it, and generally hurts 
 little, much less than the docking of wages, which is the only 
 alternative. Consequently, despite laws and fines, old Father 
 Stick, the first lawgiver, still retains a certain amount of authority. 
 Then, again, their children can go to school, if there happens to 
 be a school near ; and when they are taught to write, come in 
 handy at forging leaves of absence, passes, and such-like small 
 helps to making life pleasant. At least once in six months, too, a 
 missionary comes their way, and beguiles the time for half an hour 
 after sundown by telling them they are going to that place where 
 they will find all their good resolutions. This raises an animated 
 discussion for the evening, and helps to fill up the missionary's 
 trimestrial letter. He writes this the next morning after a comfort- 
 able dinner, at the planter's house, with half a dozen cigars, and 
 two or three goes of brandy and soda. The English collector of 
 those stray shillings which go to make up the million a year 
 spent in this noble work may read the half-hour described as 
 follows : — " Tuesday. Rose half an hour before dawn. Thought 
 of Zech. li. 32, Rode, on my journeying, through the gigantic 
 forest to the estate of Fontainebleaa. Having obtained permis- 
 sion to preach the "Word, spent a long time in deeply interesting 
 conversation with the labourers in the village. All were eager to 
 learn. Alamoodee, an aged Tamul man of sixty-five, was par- 
 ticularly anxious to hear the good tidings. And I was greatly 
 pleased with the intelligent look of Mounia and Cassis, two 
 young Indian women of about sixteen. I lent then a few tracts, 
 and they laughed, putting their fingers in their mouths in the 
 artless Indian manner. They cannot read, but others can read 
 to them. In the eveuing, news came that the husband of Mounia 
 was beating her for some alleged misconduct. How sweet it is 
 to sow the seed ! Alamoodee, poor fellow, Avas brought in next 
 morning on a charge of drunkenness ; but dismissed with a tine 
 and caution. I have reason to believe it was a conspiracy. The 
 
 1—2
 
 4 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 hard toils of the Iiumble missionary have ofteu no reward but 
 hope." 
 
 The next stratum on our pyramid is coal-black. This is com- 
 posed of all the negroes now left alive. Thirty-six years ago 
 they were emancipated — a hundred thousand, of all ages. There 
 are now about ten thousand. For, receiving their freedom with 
 a joy which argued well for the future, as their admirers said, 
 they proceeded to make a solemn covenant and agreement — not 
 on paper, for they liad none, and could not write ; nor by special 
 Parliament, for they never met ; nor by mutual exhortation, for 
 they never talked about it — but by that more certain metliod, 
 the silent consent of the nation, the inarticulate vox populi. 
 They agreed, one with the other, that they would never do any 
 more work at all. And they never have done any. They have 
 kept this resolution with the unbending obstinacy of the medical 
 student who promised his aunt that he would lay aside liis 
 studies on the Sabbath. It has been a pleasant time with them; 
 but somehow they have not prospered. They are dying out. 
 They live in little patches of garden, where they plant potatoes 
 and lettuces, bananas, beans, and such things as grow by them- 
 selves and cost little trouble. What they cannot eat themselves 
 they sell for rice and rum. When they desire to make a feast, 
 the nearest planter's poultry-yard supplies the materials. They 
 smoke their pipes in great peace, while the vertical sun strikes 
 upon their roofless hats and penetrates pleasantly through the 
 woolly protection of nature ; they talk but little, and then of 
 soothing subjects, such as the cheapness of rum, the excellence 
 of their bananas, and their own amazing sagacity ; and they 
 laugh on small provocation, seeing great jokes and effects of 
 humour when graver men look on with a smile. Sometimes 
 they call themselves — all out of the gaiety of their hearts — 
 carpenters, and, if you trust them, will build you a house whose 
 windows are of unequal height and ditfering dimensions. They 
 laugh when you point out this incongruity of things ; and if you 
 foolishly get into a rage, they only laugh the more — but at a 
 distance. When they marry, they buy a large mosquito curtain 
 as a proof of respectability. And their highest ambition is to havo 
 a piano. 
 
 Their wives and daughters love to go to church in white kid 
 gloves and a parasol. Their husbands follow, walking behind 
 in bare feet, battered straw hats, and blue stuff coats. Or, 
 if they are richer, they have a black coat and blue stuff trousers.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 5 
 
 The ladies are miglitily devout, and go tlirougli the external part 
 of religiou with great fervency. The men kneel down, and 
 continue kneeliug, with ^'hat is called the sweet, sad intelligence 
 of the African race, till the}'' catch the eye of a friend ; then you 
 may see two frames convulsed with a mighty struggle. Finally, 
 quite overcome, they go out into the churchyard, and laugh on a 
 tombstone till the service is over — taking turns to laugh at each 
 other, like an Aristophanic chorus. 
 
 By degrees they get old : their wool becomes grey ; the fine 
 calf which once adorned that part of the leg with us called shin, 
 shrinks and shrivels ; the heel projects another two inches or so 
 behind, the frame gets bent — but the man is the same. He does 
 not know that he is old ; he does not know how long he has 
 lived, or how long men usually live. Presently, to his utter 
 amazement, he positively dies, and thinks himself cut off pre- 
 maturely, although he has numbered eighty summers. Cer- 
 tainly he has had no winters, because there is no winter there. 
 
 The best of them go fishing, and are very handy with their 
 boats. Some few have been pushed on in the world : but their 
 patrons generally drop them, on account of defects which make 
 them a little lower than those angels we English once took the 
 race to be. The half-educated fellows are very bad specimens 
 indeed. A hog in black clothes, a monkey with a book before 
 him, would be fair types of their morals and philosophy. As a 
 rule, they drink themselves to death ; and as there are, fortu- 
 nately, but few of them, they hardly count. 
 
 Let us get a step higher. The next stratum is the oddest of 
 all : it is the Chinese layer. I have the greatest liking for this 
 folk. There is a profundity, coupled with cynicism, in their 
 look that few English philosophers possess. They seldom laugh, 
 they despise all people but themselves, they make money dili- 
 gently, live laboriously, fare badly, drink little, are clever 
 artisans, can be relied upon in matters of work ; and, with all 
 these virtues, are so clogged and burdened with vice that they 
 cannot rise. To smoke opium, to gamble all day, and to do one 
 or two other tliiugs that Western civilisation denounces, form 
 their ideal heaven. They arc convivial, too. Their gravity is 
 the result of education, not of nature ; it is grafted — not indige- 
 nous. Witness the air of suppressed fun, inseparable from the 
 nature of the action, with which two of them carry a pig between 
 them on a pole, or attend a porlc-dcvouring religious ceremony, 
 or let off crackers at the funeral of a fricjid, or sell you a box of
 
 AIV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 tuidiiies. And, more remarkfible still, they avo all alike. I do 
 not know how they get over the possible complications that might 
 bo caused by this circumstance. I suppose care is taken so far 
 as the rights of property and the domestic relations are concerned. 
 At least, I never heard but once of any case in which the national 
 likeness was taken advantage of. This was when Ah-Kaug — I 
 knew him well : a good fellow, but deficient in the finer shades 
 of moral principle — going into the shop of Kong-Fow, found his 
 poor friend lying dead behind his own counter. He thereupon 
 conceived the brilliant notion of burying him in the garden, and 
 taking his place. This plan he carried into efiect, and for three 
 months drove a good trade — his friend's name and titles, painted 
 by an imperfectly educated Creole, being all the time on the door- 
 post as follows : — 
 
 J[R KONGFOW ESQU 
 
 IRE LICENSED DEB 
 
 LER IN TOBAC 
 
 CO RETAILER 
 
 OF SPIRRUTS 
 
 N.B. — DAY AND MARTIN's BEST BLACKINO. 
 
 Then he was found out. I forget how. 
 
 Another step. AVe are among the mulattoes. I suppose this 
 is the most intelligent class in the community, because they are 
 always saying so. For the same reason, they are the most truth- 
 ful, the least addicted to the ordinary frailties and backslidings 
 of human nature, the most religious, the most trustworthy, the 
 most enterprising, the most polished, and the bravest. 
 
 That no one else says so is a clear proof of the malignity of 
 other people. Scandal hints that they hate their fathers for 
 being white, and despise their mothers for being black : their 
 enemies maintain that they have the vice.=! of both races, and the 
 virtues of neither ; and, though they have barristers, physicians, 
 and lawyers of their own, assert that their science is Avorthlcss, 
 their eloquence froth, and their law chicanery. "When all is told, 
 I dare say, if they could forget their black blood, they would not 
 be a bad set. The thing that rankles in their bosoms, the injus- 
 tice that sets their blood aglow, is that white people, who shake 
 hands with them on the Exchange, and meet them on terms of 
 equality in the courts of law, will neither enter their houses nor 
 sit at moat with them, nor introduce Ahem to their wives. The 
 law, which formerly forbade them tg wear boots^ has given them
 
 J/r LITTLE GIRL. 7 
 
 all the rights of civil equality ; but no law can remove the pre- 
 judices of caste. Are they worse off than we in Europe 1 Are 
 there not houses where we, who grace the district of W.C., enter 
 only on a kind of sufferance? Does not the Faubourg St. Ger- 
 main still exist, eighty years after the Kevolutiou'? Would the 
 Duke of St. Suiithtield, whose grandfather began life as a journey- 
 man baker, and ended as an earl, sully his blue blood by letting 
 his fair daughter marry me — me, the author 1 And are we, 
 therefore, dear inhabitants of Bloomsbury, to eat out our hearts 
 in malice 1 
 
 Our pyramid narrows. jS^ext we come to the planters and the 
 merchants — the Euglish and tlie French. With the merchants 
 we have nothing to do. Let me try to show you a planter's 
 house. P)Ut first, for [ am tired of my pyramid, let me clear it 
 off, and have done with it. The next stratum is the governing 
 body — the officers sent out by England. Palmiste Island is a 
 Crown Colony. Therefore, the officers are generally men of good 
 family, if of small means. Their posts do not enable them, as a 
 rule, to save much. But they save a little ; and when the time 
 comes for retiring, they have something more than their pension 
 to fall back upon. They are not usually a remarkably brilliant 
 set of men ; but they are generally well bred, and possessed of 
 tact. The Government cart goes on smoothly enough. There 
 are few real grievances, and there would be no imaginary ones 
 Avcre it not for the daily papers. The judges are just ; the Crown 
 law officers have sufficient ability ; the bishop is pious and 
 bland ; the Colonial Secretary is cautious : things get put by for 
 a more favourable opportunity, and then right themselves. And 
 the top story, the apex, the crown ■ of the building, his Excel- 
 lency the Governor-General of Prince George's Island and ita 
 diipeudencies, gives dinners to the elite, balls to society in gene- 
 ral, receives wlnm the Colonial Secretary sends to him, and 
 composes long despatches recommending reforms which will 
 make the colony a Paradise. He is obliged to write them, to 
 show his zeal ; though it must be a fearful bore. And, when 
 they come home, some young clerk in the Colonial Office, who 
 knows as much of Palmiste as of Timbuctoo, annotates the 
 laboured thoughts of the experienced statesman, and snubs him. 
 This done, according to rule, the despatches are put in a book, 
 and carefully bound ujj, to be preserved for ever. There are now 
 so many of these hapless childniii of thou;j;ht, smothered as soon 
 Aa burn, and kept as cult-bound mummies in Downing Street,
 
 8 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 tliat a few years yinco they were compelled to move tlitiin all to 
 the cellars. Their weight was pressinj^ out and criishin<? down 
 the walls, and it was feared that their presence, longer continued, 
 might possibly result in the demolition of tlie whoU; fabric. 
 Shades of departed Governois, pensionlcss wanderers by Brighton 
 sands, consider with gratitude the ^^emesis that waits on the 
 contempt of your labours ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The estate I am going to take you to is called Fontaineblean. All 
 the estates in the He des Palraistes have these pretty F'rench 
 names. One is called Mon Songe, another Mon Revo. There is 
 a Trianon, a St. Clourl, a Soreze, an Araboise, a Chenoncenx ; 
 there are Beau Plan, Belle Vne, Riche en Eaux, Belle Rivi6re, 
 Savanne ; there are Lucie, Eugenie, Adrieune, and Louise. All 
 the poetry in the heart of the owner is lavished on the name of 
 his estate. "All the same," as a wandering jockey once observed to 
 me, " as the owners of the 'orses in tlie Derby " — a remark which 
 seems to throw a new and very pretty light upon horse- racing. 
 
 Fontaineblean lay on the confines of the great forest that 
 filled the centre of the island. On one side rose hills — not the 
 round, indolent hills of England ; but sharp, eager, ambitious 
 little mountains, scarped with precipices tifty and a hundred 
 feet hi^h, jugged with peaks and cut with passes, for all the 
 ■world like a row of Alps. These pretentious elevations tower 
 upwards at least five hundred feet, and are covered with wood, 
 except in small spaces cleared for coH'ee. They look down upon 
 the broad fields of Fontaineblean. Planted with canes, the acres 
 stretch down the sloping land towards the sea, kindly Mother 
 Earth rounding, as it were, into a breast of fertility. As the sun 
 takes iiis swift, long course mill way in the heavens, the yellow- 
 green crops wear a thousand diliercnt shades of light — now as 
 the wind turns up the dark hidden side of the leaf; now as it 
 flutters out the bright upper ]iart ; now when the cane is in 
 flower, when it blows about the feathery beauty like the trappings 
 of a helmet ; or now, when the clouds fly here and there in dark 
 shadows along the glorious colours ; and always the sea breeze 
 raises the gentle waves of the field, like the sweet unrest of a sea 
 which never knows a storm. 
 
 An Euj^lish cornfield, when the sua shines npon it, is a sight
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 9 
 
 to aaraire ; out an estate planted witli canes, in all tlieir richuct^d 
 of colour and beauty of form, is one to till the eye with those 
 tears which rise at the contemplation of nature at its best — tears 
 from no divine despair, but perhaps from a sense of .the unfitness 
 of man for the earth. In the cities it is not felt ; but in the 
 lonely corners of the world, in those tiny spots of the ocean 
 where God's finger seems to have lingered longest, delicately 
 shaping sweet river-courses, shady glens, ravines, cascades, and 
 quaint mountain tops, Avhere nature is most productive and man 
 most out of sight, the heart is saddened, the ej^es dimmed. 
 
 Fontainebleau was a very quiet place, and a lonely. To north 
 and east lay the great silent forest. To south only it opened out ; 
 and standing in the road one could see ten miles of la- id — ten 
 miles, rather, of waving canes — before the ocean seemed to rise 
 up like a wall, and bar the prospect. Looking over the sailless 
 :-ea — for no ships ever came that way — the misanthrope might 
 derive a sense of freedom from feeling that, far and wide, no 
 land interposed between the headland beneath him and the 
 barren peaks of the Antarctic shores, tdv to the south. But the 
 broad fields looked hot, thirsty, and parched. It was better to 
 turn northwards, and climbing over the wall which kept out the 
 deer, and was a nightly gymnasium for the monkeys, dive into 
 the glades and recesses of the forest. 
 
 I suppose it would have been difficult to lose oneself in it. 
 One might, perhaps, wander about in it for a few days ; but 
 sooner or later the end ofSt must have been reached. It is not 
 very large — ten miles one way, by perhaps thirty another. There 
 are few paths in it ; but a man has only to keep going by the 
 sun to arrive somewhere near his destination. And then there 
 are no perils in it. Nothiiig more harmful lurks in its recesses 
 than the monkey, a gigantic beast — species, say, ourang-outang — 
 of at least a foot and a half high. There are also deer, the little 
 bristly jungle pig, and perhaps a wild cat or two — that is, a tame 
 cat gone wild ; not a panther or a leopard, or anything of that 
 nature, understand. There was a tiger. He got away from a 
 menagerie, and betook himself to the woods. Of his end there 
 are two legends. For some maintain that he died of indigestion, 
 having eaten an old negro who disagreed with him ; others, with 
 more plausiliility, affirm that his nature has been changed — ani- 
 mum cum ca;lo, mutavit — that he has been distinctly visible in 
 the grey of the morning, filing his teeth in boulders, and that he 
 lives retired iu the mountains — a vegetarian, .sliunning the sight
 
 lo MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 of man. And this they allege as a proof of the mildness and 
 placability induced by the climate of Palmiste Island. There 
 was once, also, a crocodile. He, too, escaped, being yet quito 
 young, and unfortunately mistook a water-pipe for a cavern or 
 retreat made specially for his behoof. Tliere, many weeks after- 
 wards, he was discovered, choked — a gruesome body ; and Eng- 
 lishmen must needs take consecutive sodas and b.'s as a correc- 
 tive and preservative against any small matter of putrefaction 
 that may have entered their bodies through incautiously drinking 
 the water unmixed — a thing quite iiriprobable, on the fiice of it, 
 and entirely contrary to their known habits. Lastly, there was 
 once found — as the ballads say, I do not lie — half a snake, the 
 tail half. How it got there, where the other half was, whether 
 he had a sister or a brother, a father or a mother, or a dearer and 
 nearer one still, in the jungle, was never ascertained. And in 
 all the annals of Palmiste, no other snake^ crocodile, or tiger was 
 ever found in the whole island. 
 
 As a set-ojff against this immunity from danger, the forest i.s 
 almost silent and inexpressibly dreary. Save here and there 
 the faint chatter of a monkey, or the occasional cry of a coq-de- 
 bois, the silence is profound and oppressive. Few birds are 
 there in Palmiste — very few in the forest. They have two 
 natural enemies : monkeys and hurricanes. The former take 
 down their nests and destroy their eggs — all out of pure mischief; 
 and the latter blow their nests and eggs and all into the sea. 
 
 But besides the mournfulness of its silence, the mere aspect of 
 the forest saddens if you stay in it too long. For a bright, 
 cheery, glorious wood, where you may picnic, wander, or build 
 castles of future greatness, I prefer the New Forest ; for a poeti- 
 cal, dreamy place, where you may make poetry and chansons do 
 geste, that of Fontainebleau — in France, I mean ; for a sweet- 
 smelling, sentimental wood, a place where one can walk with 
 one's love, and fall into tender talk of eternity and heaven, and 
 all sweet hopes and confiding trusts, I prefer a pine forest on 
 the lower slopes of a Tyrolese Alp. But for a place where death 
 and decay stare you in the face — where, if you stay your steps, 
 you fall presently to musing on a mis-spent life, go to the forest 
 in the oentre of Palmiste. There, when you mark the giant 
 creeper crushing the life out of some great monarch of the wood, 
 curling round him like the prieve, Avith its countless arms, think 
 of evil habits, and remind yourself how man never shakes them 
 off, and how the soul is choked with them. Then remember
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. n 
 
 your own, and abandon hope. Or when you see the dense mass 
 of trees — so thick that they press against one another, so close 
 together that they never dream of such a thing as leaves till they 
 are thirty or forty feet high — think of men in great cities, how 
 thick they are, and how they fight for life, and give up all pro- 
 spect of aught but toil, and labour, and oblivion, till the end 
 comes. Presently you will come — it lies in your path — upon a 
 large pillow-like mass of green soft moss ; put your foot upon it 
 — it sinks through to the hip. This was once a great tree. It 
 lies where it has fallen ; its wood is rotten and wasted ; no one 
 ever noticed its beauty, and it served no purpose in life or in 
 death. Then draw your moral, sitting in the shade. 
 
 I extract most of this description from a discourse I once pro- 
 nounced in my friend Venn's rooms. He maintains that such a 
 forest as I have described would affect him with a lively joy ; 
 and points out how all that I have named would but serve to 
 raise his spirits and fill him with gratitude and hope. N'ature 
 can be read in two ways. In all her moods there are joy and 
 hope, and in all there are mockery and despair. I tell of the 
 forest as it affected me. 
 
 There are two or three little watercourses running out of the 
 forest through the estate, which the simple islanders caU rivers. 
 These bubbling streams speedily cut out little ravines for them- 
 selves, and go brawling about among the boulders at the bottom 
 as if most important business, not to be deferred a moment, 
 hurried them down. Here and there they disappear, and you 
 may hear them grumbling belo\\\ When they emerge, it is to 
 make a great leap, as if for joy, into a basin where the water 
 runs round and round in a mighty hurry to get away. These 
 ravines are dark and narrow : tlie steep, sloping banks crowded 
 with trees and brambles. Eich and rare ferns lurk under the 
 shadows, orchids almost priceless are found in the branches ; and 
 you never by any chance meet any one if you care to wander 
 down the ravine, except perhaps a bevy of Indian damsels witli 
 their hair down, performing their ablutions, like Bathsheba of 
 old, in the open. 
 
 By one of these rivers stands the residence of Fontainebleau. 
 It is a large, deeply verandahed wooden house, Avith wooden 
 tiles for roof, all on one floor. All the rooms open into each 
 other, and on the verandah. They are furnished with a curious 
 mixture of things costly and tiling.^ rude. Tliere is a rough, 
 common table side by side with chairs that might do duty in
 
 12 A/ F LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Belgravia. A pianoforte which has nevev been tuned, and never 
 been opened for no one knows how many years, is in one corner, 
 littered with powder-flasks and shooting gear ; a tall bookcase^ 
 filled with volumes whoso bindings have once been splendid, 
 but which are now dropping oif the books from damp; a few 
 pictures, a great pile of newspapers, and a general air of comfort 
 and negligence, mark a drawing-room where there has been no 
 lady for many years. The dining-room is behind : it has a great 
 table and a side-board, both of which were once, it may be pre- 
 sumed, new, but which are now mere monuments of neglected 
 mahogany. It has no other furniture, because the chairs of the 
 house have generally succumbed to time the destroyer; and now 
 at dinner time they take them out of the drawing-room, and 
 bring them back after dinner. i*^ot that they are ever wanted, 
 for easy-chairs stand on the verandah, and cigars are best smoked 
 in the cool night air. 
 
 At the back of the house, outside, stands the kitchen of the 
 Indian cook — a place whence come savoury things ; but within 
 which no one was ever known to penetrate, except one man. 
 He came out with pale face and trembling limbs. They gave 
 him brandy. Presently he recovered. But he never afterwards 
 was known to touch pudding in Palmiste. 1 believe, too, that he 
 died young. And the bed rooms, each furnished with gay little 
 iron bedsteads and mosquito curtains, are, like the sitting-rooms, 
 made to open on the verandah. There are not many of these 
 inhabited now ; for the gay days of Foutainebleau are over, and 
 the grey-haired man who lives there now has little companion- 
 ship save that of his son and his nephew. The society of the 
 town twenty-five miles away has nothing to do with him. He 
 is out of it now, and forgotten ; save once or twice a year, when 
 at some great hunting party in the forest he appears, pale and 
 melancholy ; and old men whisper that poor George Durnford 
 is the ghost of himself. Time was, they tell you, when George 
 was the soul of the island. The ex-cavalry officer, who got into 
 such a devil of a mess with his colonel, and had to sell out ; v\-ho 
 came to Palmiste twenty years ago, and bought Fontainebleau : 
 who married Adrienue — la belle Adrienne — niece and ward of 
 Henri de Eosnay ; who led the life of the place, and was fore- 
 most in everything social and genial — can it be the same jiersonl 
 ]\[ore of him hereal'i.er. Let me finish with the house. 
 About the verandah, or in the dining-room, or about the 
 kitchen, are the boys — Indians — v/ho belong to the service oi
 
 Afy LITTLE GIRL. J3 
 
 the house. There are some half-dozeu of them, dressed in a 
 sort of tight cotton jacket, with Httle caps, looljing, as they are, 
 full of intelligence and life. These, with the bright, fearless 
 look in the eyes, and the slender grace of the limbs, vanish when 
 the boy passes the threshold of manhood ; and he becomes heavy, 
 sluggish, and sensual. At present, however, the boys are from 
 eight to twelve years old, and make the best servants in the 
 world. Mendacious they are, it is true, and as destructive as 
 monkeys ; but if one is going to be thrashed for breaking a glass, 
 it is just as well to say that another did it. Yor get no more, 
 if you are found out. Logically, aud with respect to immediate 
 results, they are quite right. It has not yet entered into the 
 head-5 of the residents of Palmiste that they might Christianise 
 their servants. Certainly, the specimens turned out by the 
 missionaries are not encouraging. The converted Hindoo is, 
 in most cases, precisely the kind of man that no one, will employ. 
 And though things may be better in those districts of Southern 
 India which have been largely Christianised, I think that the 
 less said about missionary labour among the Indians the better. 
 
 At the side of the house stretches its great garden, filled with 
 all sorts of English vegetables, and all kinds of tropical fruits. 
 Here are rows of pines which Covent Garden cannot hope to equal. 
 There are too many for eating, and they are rotting on the stalk. 
 Here is an orchard of letchi trees, the fruit that Warren 
 Hastings tried to acclimatise in England, but failed. I would 
 he had succeeded. Here are mangoes, with vanilla trained 
 upon the trees. Here are custard apples, oranges, citrons, and 
 guavas. Here, too, are strawberries, peaches, mulberries, and 
 grapes. You may look, however, in vain for apples, pears, and 
 such things. These grow not in Palmiste ; and Englishmen, 
 eating fruits more delicious far than these, grumble that they 
 cannot get a pear, and would almost go back to England to 
 get a plum. 
 
 In front of the house lies its lawn— a broad, rolling piece of 
 ground, set with flower beds, mostly neglected, and planted 
 round with rose trees. Side by side with English flowers are 
 others which remind you of greenhouses, Kew Gardens, and the 
 Crystal Palace. They are not, liowever, so sweet as our own ; 
 and yonder bed of mignonette fills the air Avith a perfume far 
 more delicate than any of the heavy laden tropical plants. Hero 
 is a sensitive plant. Touch it : all the leaflets near your finger 
 clobo, and shrink together in a kind of fear. Here is a gorgeoua
 
 14 MV LITTLE GIRl.. 
 
 dracsena. You rememlDer one like it in the Palm House. Hera 
 is a honeysuckle climbing up the wall of the house ; and here, 
 in heavy masses over the verandah, are creepers which if left 
 unchecked would climb over and embrace the whole house, and 
 tear all down together. 
 
 My picture of still life must finish. Throw into the back- 
 ground a row of slender palms ; put in, if you can, that glimpse 
 to the right of a miniature gorge, some fifty feet deep ; mark its 
 tree ferns, tall and symmetrical, with their circled glory of 
 leaves ; throw in for light, the soft, white rays of a sun that 
 wants yet half an hour of setting ; let your air be warm and 
 mild ; let a breeze, cool and crisp, from the south-east, blow 
 through the branches ; while, from the camp of the Indians, not 
 far away, imagine — for 3'ou cannot paint it — a confused murmur 
 of tongues, cries of children, an occasional quarrel among the 
 women, the monotonous beat of the tumtum, and the drone of 
 the Indian storyteller. Then try to fancy that you have lived 
 in all this so long that Europe with its noisy politics, and Eng- 
 land with its fierce battle for lifp, and London with its fevered 
 pleasures and bitter sorrows, seem all dreams of a former exist- 
 ence : that the soft lassitude of the climate has eaten into 
 your very marrow, and that 3 on no longer care to think, or to 
 work, or to do anything violent or in a hurry ; that your chief 
 pleasure is to sit at early dawn on the verandah, with a cigar, 
 and see the day rise over the hills ; or, at evening, watching the 
 southern cross, and letting your thoughts roam here and there 
 unchecked : your chief hope — save at moments when a sickness 
 for home comes on you, and a yearning for the life and vigour 
 of England — always to go on like this : to have no sickness, to feel 
 no sorrows, to be tormented by no sympathy, to make no alter- 
 ation or improvement, to dream life away, to eat the lotos day 
 by day, in a land where it is, indeed, always afternoon. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Come back with me ten years before my tale begins. We are 
 still at Fontaiuebleau. It is a dark, dreary night in January — 
 cold, though it is the middle of the hot season. A fierce 
 gale, to which the wind blowing about the trees is a sort of 
 fringe or outside robe, is raging somewhere at sea. The rain 
 falls at intervals in a continuous sheet of water; doors and
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 15 
 
 windows are closeci ; and George Durnford is sitting alone in his 
 dining-room, with an uutasted bottle of claret before him, and a 
 bitter sorrow at his heart. That morning he had followed to 
 the grave the wife who but two days ago was alive and well. 
 From a window close by comes the prattle of two children, in 
 "bed, but not yet asleep. To them the dismal ceremony of the 
 morning was a pageant which conveyed no meaning. One of 
 them has lost his mother ; and he sits now on his little white 
 bed, a great-eyed, fair-haired, solemn boy of two, with an uneasy 
 sense of something wrong, and a growing wonder that the familiar 
 hands do not come to smooth his sheets, and the familiar lips 
 to kiss his good night. The other — a year or two older, with 
 blacker hair and darker complexion — in the opposite bed, is 
 singing and laughing, regardless of the nurse's injunction to 
 make no noise and go to sleep. He is cousin Phil. And the 
 little two-year-old is Arthur Durnford. 
 
 The baby voices do not rouse the lonely mourner in the 
 room outside them. He sits musing on his brief three years 
 of love and happiness ; on the dreary scene of the stormy morn- 
 ing's funeral \ of death and of sorrows that come to mar the 
 brightest promise. He thinks of the day when he brought 
 home his young bride, flushed with joy and hope ; and of her 
 cold waxen features when he took the last look at the fair 
 face that had nestled at his heart. The hope and vigour of life 
 seem suddenly taken out of him, and he shudders as he remem- 
 bers the long years to come— perliaps thirty or forty — alone in 
 misery. For all sorrow seems to be endless when it begins ; 
 and, when the pain dies away into a sad regret, its very 
 poignancy is remembered as a kind of evil dream. 
 
 The storm outside increases. Housed by the crash of thunder, 
 he raises his head ; and then, for the first time, he sees that he 
 is not alone. 
 
 How long she has been sitting there, when she came in, and 
 how, he knows not She is a young mulatto woman, not darker 
 than many a black-haired woman of Provence, apparently about 
 twenty years of age. Her jet black hair is roUtd up in a wavy 
 mass. She holds her hat in her hand. Her dress is wet and 
 draggled, but her hands are not rough. In her face, as she gazes 
 steadfastly on Durnford, there is a look of mingled triumph 
 and pity. 
 
 He starts with surprise. 
 
 " Marie I — why do you cony: kere? I thought you were in 
 England."
 
 i6 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 She does not answer for a while, and then begins in a sort of 
 low, measured way — speaking English fluently, but with some- 
 thing of a foreign accent. 
 
 " Why do I come to-night, George Durnford ? I think I came 
 to triumph over your sorrow, because I heard about it in the 
 town when I landed yesterda3% But I heard things as I camo 
 along which forbid mo to triumph any longer. Why should I 
 triumph ? You, who loved nje once, would love me again if I 
 chose. You, who deserted mo for tliat goud, dead girl — you see 
 George, I can be just — would, if I chose, take me again to bo 
 your plaything." 
 
 '* Never," said Durnford. " Woman, can you not understand 
 that a man can cease to do evil ]" 
 
 "But," she went on, as if ho had not spoken, "I do not 
 choose. I will be no man's plaything. You taught me some- 
 thing, George. You taught me that a woman, to be what a 
 woman should be, must karn many things. We, the daughters 
 of a despised race, are good enough to be the mistress of an hour, 
 but not good enough to be the companions of a life. We have 
 our year of fondness, and think, poor fools, it will last for ever. 
 We have but one thing to give you — our love. You take it, 
 and trample on it. We have nothing but ourselves. That is 
 yours ; and when you are tired of the toy, you throw it away in 
 the dirt. As 1 am only one of tlio many — only a mulatto girl — 
 I ought not to complain. It has been my fate, and 1 accept it. 
 Besides, you are a gentleman. Not every girl gets an English- 
 man for a lover. You were kind to me ; you put ideas iuto my 
 head ; you taught me things ; you made me feel, without mean- 
 ing it, how great a gulf there is betvveen your race and mine ; 
 and you showed me how to pass the gulf. You did more — not 
 as a salve for your own conscience, because I suppose your con- 
 science never pricked you about it ; nor as a bribe for me to go 
 away and never trouble you again — you gave mo money on that 
 day — the day before you married — when you bade me farewell. 
 1 used the money well, George. Even you will confess I used 
 it well. I have been to your great city — your big, cold, dreary- 
 London. I put myself to school there. I have learned all that 
 a woman should learn, and more. Shall I play to you % Shall 
 I sing to you ? Shall I prove to you that even your cast-off 
 
 mistress can be, if she pleases, as perfect a lady as No, 
 
 George, I will make no comparison. Adrienne, iny mistress — 
 my poor darlirg — whom 1 played with and lov^d, I shall neve? 
 bo like you 1"
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 17 
 
 Durnford made an impatient gesture. 
 
 " I must say what I have to say. I want to say a good deal. 
 Besides, it pleases me to talk. I have talked to no one since I 
 left England, and you must listen. Don't think, to begin with, 
 that I love you any more. The poor gnorant creature that 
 trusted you, and thought herself honoured by having your arm 
 about her, is gone. George, she is dead. All that is left of her 
 and her life is a memory and an experience. I remember, and 
 I know. She could have done neither. She would have gone 
 away, back to her own cousins — the swi ic who live in the huts 
 by the seaside, and scramble once a week for the v^'retched fish 
 that will keep them till another week. She would have married 
 some black clown, as ignorant as herself, and far more brutal \ 
 and would have brought her children up like their father. 
 George, where is my boy T 
 
 Durnford pointed to the bed-room door. 
 
 She snatched a light, and came back directly with little Phil, 
 still asleep, in her arms — kissing and crying over him like a 
 mad woman. 
 
 " Oh ! Phil, Phil — my darling, my darling ! Could I leave 
 you all alone % Speak to your mother, my son — my son ! Will 
 you never know her? Will you never be proud of her, and cling 
 to her, and be good to her?" 
 
 The child opened his eyes, looked up sleepily, and then 
 heavily turned his face from her, and was asleep again in a 
 moment. 
 
 She took him back, and placed him again in his cot, and took 
 the light, and looked long and steadfastly at the other. She 
 returned, and sat down again, sighing deeply. 
 
 " Your child is mine, Marie," said Durnford. " What I swore 
 to you then, I swear to you now, he will be brought up like the 
 oth(;r, educated with him, and shall share with him." 
 
 "Will he never know the story of his birth?" asked the girl. 
 
 " It is my hope that he never will. He will be nailed — he ia 
 already my nephew. I told all to my wife. She had forgiven." 
 
 " When you die, Avill he, or will the other, have this estate % " 
 
 Durnford hesitated. At laat, he looked KteadUy at her and 
 Kaid — 
 
 " My lawful son will bo my heir. What ^vcalth I have shall 
 ho hirf. Your son will have a competence ; but I will not — I 
 cannot, Marie, defraud my heir of what is his." 
 
 ^larie sat silent for a time. 
 
 B
 
 1 8 MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 Then sho began to walk about the room, 
 
 " I am not myself to-night, George. I was angry as T walked 
 here through the forest. I am only repentant now. The old 
 love for my poor Adrienne drowns the resentment that filled my 
 heart an liour ago. I came to upbraid you — I cannot. Her 
 spirit is in this house. I felt her breath as I leaned over the 
 face of her boy, I saw her face as I came in at the door. I 
 feel her here now, George. If I think more of her, I shall see 
 her. I do see her ! She is here — before me. Adrienne " — she 
 bent forvj'ard Avith streaming eyes and supplicating hands — 
 " forgive me. Forgive the poor passionate girl that never did you 
 any harm, but whose heart has been filled with bitterness'agaiust 
 you. You did not wrong me, my poor dear ; and as for him 
 who did — here, in your presence, I forgive him. George, for 
 three long years, far away from here, among strangers I have had 
 but one prayer every night. I have prayed that misery might 
 fall on you and yours. Adrienne, Adrienne — speak to me, if 
 you can. Give me some sign that my prayer was not answered. 
 Let me go away at least forgiven." 
 
 As she spoke, the hurricane swept with all its fury against 
 the house. The wind howled like an accusing spirit. George 
 rose from his chair, pale and trembling. 
 
 " Woman," he cried, " you are answered." 
 
 But as suddenly the wind dropped, and with one last effort 
 blew back the shutter of the window. Durnford hurried to re- 
 place it ; and with the driving rain that came in, like tears of 
 wild repentance, a poor dying dove was blown through the win- 
 dow, straight to Marie's bosom. 
 
 " I am answered," she said, folding the creature in her hands, 
 
 Neither spoke. Presently Marie fell on her knees, with the 
 dove in her hand, and prayed aloud. Great tears rolled down 
 Durnford's face. When she had finished, he lifted up his voice 
 and wept, saying — 
 
 '' God have mercy upon me, a sinner." 
 
 * * * ♦ 
 
 It was midnight. Marie rose from her knees, another Magdalene. 
 
 " I must go," she said ; " but first, George, aid me to carry 
 out my plan of life. I am going back to London. I have got 
 a great voice — a splendid voice, George — a voice that will bring 
 me, they say more money than I can spend. I shall save it for 
 the boy. To make it useful, I must study and work. Let me 
 have some more money I don't think it degrades me to ask it of
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 19 
 
 you, does it ? My real degradation no one knows, over there. You 
 must give me money, George," 
 
 He told her how he would help her in England, and give hei 
 what he had. They were both very quiet and subdued. 
 
 " I have seen you," she said, " and I have not cursed you. 
 But, ah ! my heart misgives me, I came through the lonely 
 forest tonight, and heard sounds that mean misfortune." 
 
 " Marie, it is superstition." 
 
 " Perhaps. I cannot help it. It is in my blood. And a voice 
 whispered in my ear, as I came along, that I should have no joy 
 with my boy ; and that you would have no more pleasure in 
 life j that my fortune was to come, but my misery and punish- 
 ment with it, George, was it no bad omen that my child turned 
 away his face from me? Is it good to come to a house of sudden 
 death and mourning % Shall 1 begin the world afresh with a 
 brighter spirit for this night of tears and repentance 1" 
 
 " You are shaken. Stay to-night. Take the child to sleep 
 ■with you. In the morning you can go, if you will." 
 
 " !No — now, now," she said. " I cannot stay here. Take 
 care of him, George — take care of him. Some day, perhaps — " 
 
 " You cannot go through the forest to night," 
 
 " I must — I cannot stay here. Farewell, George. I think I 
 shall never see you again. Pray God to forgive us both, I 
 will pray every day. They say God hears if you go on praying. 
 And write to me sometimes to teU me of the boy." 
 
 They stood one moment, face to face. George took her hand ; 
 and then their faces met. There was no passion now, in that 
 last embrace. The memory of the wife came between them like 
 a spirit. Ihey kissed each other, like children, in token of for- 
 giveness, and in self-abasement ; and then, lifting the latch, 
 Marie went out into the darkness, and disappeared. 
 
 George Durnford, lighting a cigar mechanically, went outside 
 to the verandah. The Indian guardian, whose duty it was to 
 make the rounds, and keep off nocturnal thieves, was coiled up 
 in a corner, fast asleep. The storm had died away. A pure sky, 
 bright with the southern constellations and with a clear half- 
 moon, was overhead. George's eye fell on the cross of the south 
 — that heavenly sign that once filled the sailors with hope. He 
 felt the warm, soft air of the summer night. Sitting down, he 
 presently fell asleep. When he awoke, the day was breaking ; 
 the mill was lighted up ; the day's work was begun ; and he 
 pondered in his mind whether he had not dreamt it all.
 
 20 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Little Philip, coming to liim at six o'clock, bcgau to ask who 
 had taken hini out of bed. And, lying on the floor, George 
 Durnford found a handkerchief with the name of Maiie on it. 
 Then he knew that he had not dreamed this thing. And he kept 
 it in his heart. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 ^Ir. Alexander Macintyre used to describe himself, as a dingy 
 card on i\Ir. Durnford's table testified, as Professor of the Classics 
 and Mathematics, Instructor in Foreign Languages, Fencing, 
 Fortification, Hindustani, and the Fine Arts. He was a most 
 accomplished man. With the exception of the last-named de- 
 partment of learning — which, I fancy, he inserted rather with 
 a view to the effect and roundness of the sentence than with any 
 intention of instructing in the Fine Arts — he really knew and 
 could teach the things he professed. He was not a Porsou in 
 Greek, but he made boys fairly good in Greek scholarship. He 
 Avould not have become senior wrangler, but he knew a good lot 
 of school mathematics. He could really fence ; he could talk 
 Italian, or French, or German, with equal fluency ; and he could 
 and did swear horribly in Hindustani. Finally, on occasion, he 
 talked about Fortification as glibly as Captain Shandy. 
 
 This great luminary of science was engaged for some years as 
 private tutor to the two boys at Fontainebleau. He used to ride 
 over on a little pony from his house, some miles off, and ride 
 back again in the evening. Sometimes, when he stayed to 
 dinner, j\Ir. Durnford would leave him on the verandah, smoking 
 and sitting in friendly proximity to the brandy bottle. Then 
 it was the delight of the two boys — for Mr. Durnford had got 
 into a habit, of late years, of going to his own room about 
 nine o'clock — to observe their reverend instructor drink tumbler 
 after tumbler of brandy and water, getting more tliirsty after 
 each, and more rapid in his despatch of the. next. At the oppor- 
 tune moment — that is to say, when he was not too far gone — 
 they would emerge upon the scene, and engage him in talk. He 
 would then mako a laudable effort to give the conversation ;i 
 philosophical and improving turn. Getting into difficulties, h»j 
 Avould try to help himself out by another pull at the brandy ; 
 and when, as always happened, he got into fresh complications, 
 he would fall back in his cliair, and make use of a regular and
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 21 
 
 invariable formula. He wouLl say, quite clearly and distinctly, 
 " I am a Master of Arts of the University of Aberdeen — I'm the 
 Maclntyre !" Then he would become speechless ; aud the boys, 
 •with a huge delight, would carry him neck and heels to bed. Xu 
 the morning, he would rise at six, an<l emerge with unclouded 
 brow. Perhaps, in the course of the day, he would hnd occasion 
 for a few remarks on temperance, with an excursus on his own 
 moderation in spirituous liquors. 
 
 He was a small, spare man, in glasses, with, sandy hair, a pale 
 face, and a red nose. He lived by himself, in a little house of 
 three rooms, two miles down the road. He had no pupils except 
 the two Durufords, and at odd moments an uueasy consciousness 
 would seize him that when these went he would starve. Nor had 
 he any friends to help him. The voice of rumour, which aggra- 
 vates a man's vices and subtracts from his virtues, said that he 
 went drunk to bed every night. As to his antecedents, there 
 were many reports. Some said that he had been in the army, 
 but was cashiered for embezzlement while he was adjutant; 
 others that he had been a courier, a billiard-marker, all sorts of 
 things. Rumour lied, of course. He had been none of those 
 things. He had, after a laborious and meritorious career at 
 Aberdeen, " gone in " for Scotch mission work in Constantinople. 
 Here he preached the Gospel to the Jews, till he preached hi?, 
 belief away. This becoming known to his employers, he was 
 turned out with ignominy. 'Chen he wandered about the Levant, 
 living no one knew how. After a few j'ears, he turned up again 
 in England, and became a lecturer to some society. Difficulties 
 about the money ensued, and Mr. J\laclutyre once more left his 
 native shores. This time he came to P.dmiste, with a letter to 
 Mr. Durnford, and set up as a public teacher of everything in 
 the principal town. Troubles of all sorts fell upon him, and he 
 removed to the other end of the island — partly to escape them, 
 &nd partly to coach Vlx. Durnford's buys. He had a Avay of in- 
 troducing remarks — which at first sight appeared to be of the 
 protoundest wisdom, and took in the unwary — with a magisterial 
 and Aberdonian " obsairve." He was sententious and deferent. 
 Ho had no morals, no principles, no self-will, no self-control. 
 All his better qualities were wrecked on the quicksand of drink; 
 and of the hard-working, hopeful days of Aberdeen, nothing was 
 left but the knowledge lie had acquired, and a habit of industry 
 which never deserted him. He was not, it must bo confessed, tho 
 best tutor possible for boys. I>ut education in Pulmiste is ditiicult.
 
 22 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Mr. Durnford liked to keep his boys at home. There was 
 less liarm to he learned tbevc, at all events, than in the hot, un- 
 healthy town where the college stood. And even Mr. IMacIntyro 
 could teach them mere book learning. So they stayed at home, 
 and grew in years and stature. 
 
 In appearance they were as different as in manners. For 
 Philip, the elder, was strong, sturdy, and overbearing. Arthur 
 was slight, delicate, and yielding. If Philip wanted anything, 
 he always had it. Philip, too, wanted everything. The best 
 pony was his, the best dogs, the best gun. He was the cleverer 
 — the ftivourite with Mr. Maclntyro : sharp of tongue, and cool 
 of temperament. But he was not popular. Arthur was. By 
 his soft, feminine ways ; by the gentle sympathy which he 
 showed for all alike ; by the kindly grace of his manner, which 
 he inherited from his mother, he won affection where his cousin 
 only gained fear. The children ran after him when he walked 
 through the village ; tlie women came to him to adjust their 
 differences ; the Indians, when they had a petition to offer, or 
 a point to gain, which was nearly every day, waited till they 
 could get hold of the chota sahib — the little master. Philip, 
 though he pretended to despise this popularity, was secretly 
 annoyed at it. It rankled in his heart that he, for his part, com- 
 manded no man's affection. By degrees, too, as he grew up, he 
 began to ask questions about himself. These his uncle put 
 aside, quietly but firmlj'. And gradually a sort of feeling of 
 inferiority took possession of him. There was something — 
 Avhat, he never guessed — that was not to be told him : some- 
 thing that had better not bespoken of, something that made him 
 different from his cousin. It was the germ of what was to grow 
 into a great tree — a tree whose fruit was poison, and whose very 
 shade was noxious. But at this time it only stimulated him. It 
 made him more eager to surpass his cousin ; threw him with 
 fresh vigour into his studies ; and urged him to practise more 
 and more the arts which he thought would lead to success in life. 
 These— for the boy's knowledge of life was very small — he 
 imagined to be chiefly skill at shooting and riding. He did both 
 sjjleudidly. Arthur did both indifferently. 
 
 Mr. Durnford seemed to take but little notice of their pro- 
 gress. Still, from a word here and there, they knew that he 
 watched them. Nor could Philip complain, when his uncle gave 
 him the best horse and the costliest gun that could be got in the 
 island, that ht> v/as overlooked. There were few times when the
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 23 
 
 grave man conversed much witli tliem. Sometimes at breakfast 
 — that meal which means, in a planter's house, an early dinner 
 at half-past eleven, when the work of the day, Avhich has gone 
 on for five or six hours, is more than half over, Avhich is followed 
 by two or three hours of rest and lazy talk — he would relax, and 
 tell them long stories of English life and youthful adventure, at 
 which their faces were set aglow, and their hearts beating with 
 excitement. Or he would set forth the perils of a young man's 
 course ; hiding little ; lettiug them know some of the tempta- 
 tions that lie in the way of life ; telling them something of the 
 battle that lay before them ; and — for George Durnford was now 
 a religious man — backing up his pictures with a homily on duty. 
 Surely, there is but one thing needful to teach boys — to do their 
 duty ; and one thing above all to train in them, the power of 
 will that will help thein to do it. On Sunday mornings, they 
 would read the service of the Church, the three together — Phil 
 taking the first lesson, and Arthur the second. By this arrange- 
 ment, the younger boy seemed to get aU the teaching of Christ, 
 and the elder all the passion and rebellious self-will of the 
 Israelites. 
 
 Once a week or so they generally rode, the two boys together, 
 but sometimes ^Ir. Durnford with them, to see Madeleine. 
 
 Madeleine, some three years younger than Arthur, was the one 
 thing that kept the boys alive to a sense of the social side of life. 
 She, like them, was motherless ; and, liked them, lived with her 
 father, M. de ViUeroy, on a sugar estate, his property. She was 
 everybody's pet and plaything — a bright little black-haired 
 beauty, whose laughter kept the house gay, and whose wilful 
 ways were law. M. de ViUeroy was one of those grand French- 
 men — some day we shall see them all in their proper place again 
 — whose manners are the perfection of courtesy, and whose ideas 
 chiefly date from a time when Louis the Sixteenth was king ; 
 or, to speak more truly, from time when Francis the First 
 was king. Kot that his own birth dated from either of those 
 reigns. He and his were colonists in Palmiste Island from very 
 early in the last century. The Marshal de ViUeroy he spoke of 
 as his cousin. He had the right, if he Avished, to call himself 
 marquis. He had a profound contempt for roturiers, and held 
 that gentleman was a name that belonged to him by Divine 
 right ; but he lield, too, that the name involved duties — and 
 truth, honour, and bravery were the tliree points of his creed. 
 For Christianity, I fear that, like too many of his countrymen,
 
 ?4 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 he considered it as an admirable method of imparting notions of 
 order to the vulgar ; and though ho would not openly scoil' at it, 
 yet, when alone with his friend Durnford, he would let fall such 
 slight indications of a contemptuous toleration as almost justitied 
 the priests in calling him a Voltairean. Voltaire — or ]\I. Arouet, 
 as he preferred to call him — ho always declared to be a man 
 who had done an infinite amount of mischief; and he held all 
 men of genius in equal dislike, from a persuasion that their 
 mission in life was to prematurely popularise the ideas of the 
 nobility. The Eevolution, he would explain, was the work of 
 men of genius. The ideas which they propagated had long been 
 current among the more cultivated of the nobility. These, how- 
 ever, forbore to carry to their bitter end the logical consequences 
 of their convictions. Nothing in social and political economy 
 could be logical. All must be compromise. But what the Re- 
 volution took thirty years to achieve would, he maintained, have 
 been accomplished by the liberalitj'' of the divinely appointed 
 rulers of things in ten, without bloodshed. 
 
 "Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, " Mirabeau was a gentleman." 
 
 To which M. de Villeroy replied that Mirabeau's life was fatal 
 to any kind of purity of action ; and that, despite any alleged 
 instances to the contrary, great things could only be done by 
 men of pure life. 
 
 We must not, hovrever, waste time on M. de Villeroy. He 
 disappears directly out of the story. But he was one of the few 
 influences brought to bear upon the boys' daily life. Mr. Durn- 
 ford, with his high standard of duty and Christian honour ; M. 
 de Villeroy, with his standard of a gentleman's ideal ; Mr. Mac- 
 lntyre, alternately presenting the example of a scholar — various, 
 if not profound — and the drunken, helpless helot ; the ignorant, 
 childish mass of Indians and blacks on the estate ; and pretty 
 little Madeleine, to keep them gentle, and give them that deli- 
 cacy of feeling which only contact with the other sex can impart. 
 Let us bear these things in mind, and remember in the story to 
 come how ever so little an accident may mar the growth of the 
 must promising tree. 
 
 The accident happened thus. Phil was now about fifteen — 
 a strong, handsome boy, whose dark wavy hair and slightly 
 olive skin were set off by a pair of bright black eyes and regular 
 features, closely resembling those of Mr. Durnford. It was some 
 little time, he could not himself say how it began, since the feel- 
 ing had sprung up, that I have alluded to, of his own inferiority.
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 25 
 
 As yet it was but an uneasy thought, somethnes dying away 
 altogether, sometimes springing again full-grown into his brain. 
 But it was there. He awoke this particular morning with it, 
 and went out, in the early dawn, morose and sullen. Presently, 
 when Arthur joined him, and they walked about with their 
 arms round each other's necks in boyish fashion, the ghost 
 vanished, and Phil became himself again. They got their ponies 
 saddled, drank their coifee, and rode off to meet the tutor. 
 
 Presently they came upon him, plodding slowly uphill, on his 
 broken-kneed Pegu pony, with his huge straw hat on and his 
 cigar in his mouth, 
 
 '■ Obsairve," observed the philosopher, as they turned to go 
 back with him, '' man's just the creature of habit." 
 
 He pronounced it " hahbit." 
 
 " So he is," said Phil, who immediately guessed that his in- 
 structor had been more than usually drunk the night before. 
 " Somebody else has made that remark before you Mr, Mac- 
 Intyre." 
 
 *'• Don't take the word out 0' the mouth o' the prophet of the 
 — T mean your tutor, young man,'^ said Mr. Maclntyre. " Man, 
 as I said, is the creature of habit." 
 
 They rode on in silence for a while, waiting further light from 
 the sage. 
 
 This presently came. 
 
 '•'Of all habits that flesh is heir to," he went on, "let mo 
 caution you against intemperance. AVhiskey, in my country, 
 may be taken in moderation. Brandy, never. You will ob- 
 sairve that it fuis the tongue, confuses the brain, and prevents 
 that orderly sequence of thought inseparable from metapheesical 
 study. Take the advice of one who has seen the world, young 
 men ; and when you go into it, be careful to stop at the fourth 
 or lifih tumbler. What is taken after that gives headache." 
 
 " Have you a headache this morning, sir T 
 
 " Philip, your question pains me. It is true that I have head- 
 rtche, the result of eating imperfectly cooked steak last night. 
 But your question, in connection with my warning and advice, 
 might seem — I only say seem — to imply suspicion that I had 
 been drinkiug last night." 
 
 " Not at all, sir," said Phil. '•' Steak k indigestible. Let me 
 living you a bottle of soda when we get in." 
 
 •' Ye'ro. a good lad," answered I^laclntyre, "and I think Vli 
 take it,"
 
 26 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 He took it, and they presently fell to their studies till break- 
 fast. The day passed as usual till the afternoou, when the clatter 
 nf hoofs told the approach of visitors. They were Madeleine and 
 liev father. The boys ran to help her off her pony, and they all 
 three went off to the garden together. 
 
 jNIadeleine's favourite Avas Artliur. But Philip, as usual, 
 wanted to appropriate her. Already the girl was conscious of 
 herself. She took the usual feminine delight in being petted 
 and caressed ; and accepted the homage of the boys with an 
 air that seems to come naturall,y to beautiful women. She 
 was born to be admired. Women who have that destiny accept 
 it Avithout any murmuring, and with no surprise. 
 
 Philip to-day, however, Avas cross-grained. He did not want 
 her to talk to Arthur — he wanted to have her all to himself. Then 
 they began to quarrel. It was a children's quarrel, that might 
 have been ended directly but for a luckless remark of Philip's. 
 
 "Xever mind, Madeleine," he said. "You can play with 
 Arthur if you like ; but Avhen Ave groAV up you'll marry me." 
 
 " Indeed, I shall not," she said. " I am going to marry 
 Arthur," and Avent and held up her face to be kissed by that 
 blushing youth, 
 
 " Arthur !" said Philip, with great contempt, " Why, I can 
 turn him over as easy as See," 
 
 He caught his cousin by the shoulder, and turned him round, 
 throAving him oflF, so that he tripped and fell Avith his face to 
 the ground. Arthur, hoAvever, rose to the occasion ; and spring- 
 ing up struck him smartl}^ in the face. 
 
 The battle lasted for a moment only, and Philip stood victor- 
 ious, Madeleine ran to the rescue of her prostrate lover. 
 
 " Go away," she cried. " I believe Avhat people say of you. 
 I will never speak to you again." 
 
 " And, pray, Avhat do people say f asked Philip. 
 
 " They say that you are cruel and selfish ; that you tease 
 Arthur and vex him ; and that you Avant to get everything for 
 yourself Go aAA'ay," 
 
 Philip went aAvay. It was the first time the boys had struck 
 each other. He was angry Avith himself, angry Avith Arthur, 
 angry with Madeleine, And in this mood he strolled along till 
 he found himself at the stables. Then he thought he Avould 
 have a ride. Going into his OAvn pony's box, he found the 
 syce had not rubbed him doAvn, or even touched him since 
 the morning, and Avas now sitting — a gaunt, tall Indian of six
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 37 
 
 feet — eating rice in perfect unconcern. Phil's temper boiled 
 over. He flew at the man in a fury of rage — kicking, striking, 
 and cursing him. The poor groom was first appalled ; and stand- 
 ing up sideways to the wall, he lifted his leg and covered his 
 face with his arms, as some small protection against the blows. 
 At last they became insupportable, and in self-defence he took 
 the boy by the shoulders, and held him at arm's length. 
 
 Hindustani is gifted, above all languages, with a capacity of 
 swearing. The power of insult is in no other language so great. 
 (Jur own noble vernacular, when judiciously used — say, by the 
 mate of an American sailing ship, or an able seaman in our 
 merchant service — can do a good deal ; but its resources are 
 miserable indeed compared with the strength and vivacity pos- 
 sessed by its sister branch of the Aryan family. 
 
 Phil had picked up this knowledge. He used it now, pouring 
 out great volleys of insult — words which he had often heard, but 
 never used before ; terms which conveyed reproaches he did not 
 even understand — on the head of the offending groom. He, 
 for his part, only looked scared ; until, stung beyond all endur- 
 ance, he pushed the boy back into the straw, seized the great 
 wooden bar of the loose box, and brandished it over him, 
 crying — 
 
 " Bastard, I'll kill you !" 
 
 Phil looked at him, bewildered. Then, suddenly, he seemed 
 to take in the whole force of the word, and instead of offering 
 any resistance, or making any retort, he seemed to be suddenly 
 crushed, and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 The groom put down the bar, and began to tremble. Then 
 he furtively — something after the manner of a burglar on the 
 stage— stole out of the stables. Between the stables and the 
 nearest canes there was an open space, cleared for some purpose 
 or other, of a quarter of a mile. Across this he sped, half doubled 
 up, in long strides, and was lost in the canes. 
 
 Three weeks elapsed before he showed up again ; then he was 
 brought back a monument of emaciation. He had been 
 hiding in the forest, making predator}' excursions at night to 
 the nearest canes, and on these he had lived. The watchman 
 apprehended him, and marched him in at daybreak, brandishing 
 his long stick with an air of great importance and grandeur ; 
 tlie miserable prisoner, who was about two feet taller than his 
 captor, slouching along after him. And when he came to the 
 house, seeing Phil alone on the verandah, he fell, a mere mass
 
 28 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 of terror and despair, and grovelled before him. Phil kicked 
 him up, and ordered loftily that ho should be sent back to the 
 stables. 
 
 l)Ut when he was left alone, he was, for the moment stunned. 
 Suddenly, it all burst upon him. Without other evidence than 
 the mere insult of the Hindoo, he Tcncw it was true. The posi- 
 tion he held in the house ; the superior consideration in which 
 Arthur was held ; the silence of his uncle about his own father 
 — all were proofs to him. He rose and cumo into the open air, 
 as miserable as boy could well be. 
 
 Suddenly, however, anotlier thought struck him. 
 
 Imagine that you have been brougiit up to believe — not by 
 being taught in so many words, but by power of association — 
 that there are two distinct races of mankind ; that God has 
 made one for mastery and the other for subjection ; that while 
 it is your duty, as the sovereign, to rule wisely and mildly, you 
 cannot but feel a certain amount of contempt — proportioned, of 
 course, to your wisdom and mildness — for the governed race. 
 Suppose you have gone on, being neither very wise nor very 
 mild, till your contempt has become overweening, and your pridft 
 of race excessive. Then suppose, in the height of your arro- 
 gance, you hear suddenly that you are an impostor ; that you 
 belong to the race you despise ; thab you are nothing more nor 
 less than one of the humblest of them. This was Phil's thought. 
 Like the first, it was not a conjecture, but a certainty. Little 
 as he knew of the wickedness of the world, he knew well enough 
 that illegitimacy implied black blood : nothing else was possible 
 in Palmiste. He thought, too, of his black wavy hair, his pale 
 olive skin ; aud he moaned in his agony. 
 
 There was one more test. He looked at his nails. Beneath 
 them was the blue stain that the African blood always leaves. 
 And he gave up all hope. 
 
 Then he sat down and sobbed. It all seemed so cruel ; it 
 was so strange and so dreadful. The pride of life was gone. 
 Nothing was left but shame and degradation. He crouched 
 among the trees, and would have cried for death, had death oc- 
 curred to him as even a remote possibility. He sat motionless 
 while the v>-eight of his grief bent down his young shoulders. 
 
 As he sal there, the sun got lower. Presently it disappeared 
 behind the hills. Long fingers of light came out, vibrating a 
 sort of good night to tlie v.-orld ; aud tlicn it became dark. The 
 darkness weighed upon him. He got up, and wandered outj
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 29 
 
 thinkiu.^' how he should go into the house ; and found himself 
 near the stables. There he saw some one with a lamp, lb 
 seemed as if the lamp was unsteady, shifting about like a light 
 at a masthead. 
 
 After studying this phenomenon for a little time, he went to 
 discover its cause. I regret to say that he found his preceptor, 
 Mr. Maclntyre, very drunk indeed, making shots at the stable 
 door, with the view of getting out his pony and riding home to 
 dinner. 
 
 He had been left alone all the afternoon, and finding a brandy 
 bottle in the immediate neighbourhood, had finished it, with 
 these disastrous results. 
 
 Phil helped him to open the stable door, and saddled his 
 pony for him. 
 
 " Ohsairve," said ]\Ir. i\IacTntyre, " the mind of man, as you 
 will find from, a study of the Philosophy of the Condeetioned, 
 has a tendency to — to — " 
 
 Here be fell over the bar that the groom had left behind him. 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre," said Philip, " you're drunk again." 
 
 "Young man, no — no, young man. The curry at breakfast 
 was prawn cu — curry. It always makes me so." 
 
 A thought struck the boy. 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre," he vsaid, " did you know my father?" 
 
 " Your father T repeated the drunken scamp. " Of course I 
 know your father. Mishter Dnrnford's your father, and Marie's 
 your mother — pretty lutle Marie." Then he began maundering 
 on — " Pretty little Marie, pretty little girl — wouldn't speak 
 to me." 
 
 " Marie— what Marie T 
 
 " Marie — never had 'nother name. AYent away — went away 
 to England — died." 
 
 Philip tuincd away and left him, and presently he heard the 
 pony, wlio knew his way better than his master, go clattering 
 down the road. 
 
 He went in, washed and brushed himself, and appeared at 
 dinner, pale and quiet. Madeleine and Arthur had it all theil 
 own way for once, for he never even coutradiutetl them-
 
 30 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Time passed on. Philip said nothing of his discovery, only he 
 becume quieter. The boy of fifteen in a year changed into a 
 tall, resolute young man, who might have been taken for two 
 and twenty. The light moustache on his upper lip proclaimed 
 i?is manhood. Boyhood grows more rapidly into adolescence 
 under the hot sun of Palmiste, and his firm step and upright 
 carriage announced one who, at any rate, seemed ready to make 
 a fight for it. 
 
 He never, but once, alluded to his conversation with Mr. 
 Maclntyre. But one day, after a long silence, Arthur being out 
 of the way, he reminded the tutor of what he had told -him. 
 Poor Mr. Maclntyre was thunderstruck. He remembered abso- 
 lutely nothing of it. 
 
 "Tell me," he gasped, his face becoming fearfully red — "tell 
 me exactly what I said, Phil. Ah ! Loard, what an evil spirit 
 brandy is." 
 
 Phil told him. 
 
 " I suppose it was true," he added, carelessly. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre rose and went out on the verandah, looking 
 round every corner to see if there were any listeners about. 
 Then he opened every door — there were seven in the room — and 
 looked in each chamber. No one was at hand, save in the 
 dining-room. Here there were two of the Indian boys amusing 
 themselves with a rude dramatic performance ; for one had put 
 on a pair of spectacles, and, with an empty bottle in his hand, 
 was staggering up and down, like one who was well drunken, 
 while the other looked on and applauded. Mr. Maclntyre him- 
 self wore glasses. He could not, of course, imagine that the 
 representation was a description of himself; but, as a friend of 
 discipline, he felt bound to inflict chastisement, and accordingly 
 horsewhipped the one he caught, who had been doing nothing, 
 and then he came back flushed with the exercise. 
 
 Sitting down again, and pouring out a glass of brandy and 
 water, he sighed out — 
 
 " Yes, Phil, it is true — more's the pity, my poor bairn ! It's 
 just awfu', the wickedness of the world. We fight against it, 
 wo philosophers, but we do awfu' little. It's quite true. But, 
 Phil, no one knows it. I know it, because I brought you here,
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 31 
 
 a \ree bit thing of eigliteen months, and told the folk you were 
 Mr. Durnford's nephew. And Mrs. Durnford knew it, for her 
 husband told her. Eh, she was good. There must be a Heaven, 
 boy, for some people — if there's an after-life at all, which I vara 
 much iloot. "We, who have had our backslidings, would not be 
 comfortable in the same place with her and her like. They Avonld 
 have their own apaiitments. I sometimes think, Phil, I should 
 be happier down below, near the Bar." 
 
 " And no one suspects T 
 
 " I sometimes think M. de Villeroy suspects. He's just a devil, 
 th-at man. He finds out everything. Last week he came to me, 
 and told me that he'd found out how I had — " 
 
 " "Well 1" For the good man stopped. 
 
 " I think I'll take another glass, Phil, Yes, thank you. You 
 were saying — " 
 
 " "^^''hat became of my mother, then V 
 
 " I don't know, Phil. I can't tell you. She went away. 
 Your father told me she went to England. Afterwards he said 
 that she was dead. She was lady's maid, companion, humble 
 friend, whatever you call it, to Mrs. Durnford before her mar- 
 riage. And remember, Phil, that she was the handsomest 
 woman in the island. Hardly a touch of — " 
 
 " Stop !" shouted Philip, crimson — " stop, I won't hear it." 
 
 The tutor stopped, and presently went away, seeing no further 
 opportunity for either philosophy or drink. 
 
 And, for good reasons of his own, he forbore to inform JMr. 
 Durnford of what had passed between himself and Phil. 
 
 But, one evening, Philip had a little conversation with his 
 uncle, as he still called him. 
 
 " If you can spare five minutes, sir," he said one evening when 
 Mr. Durnford had smoked his cigar, and was showing the usual 
 signs of departure to his own quarters. 
 
 "Certainly, Philip— what is it?" 
 
 He sat down to listen. Then Philip began, with consider- 
 able trepidation, but with a certain dignity of manner, to explain 
 himself. 
 
 "You know, sir, that I am past eixteen?" Mr. Durnford 
 nodded. *' And I think you will allow me to ask you if ray father, 
 of whom you have told me nothing, gave me at his death any 
 means of entering life. I have seen, sir, fot ^me time, that there 
 are points connected with our family history i hat you do not wish 
 known to me. I shall never ask for inf on aation. My father.
 
 32 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 as you have told me, was in the army. I ask for nothing mora 
 He was a gentleman, because you are a gentleman. That he did 
 nothing to disgrace himself in the eyes of the world, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " In the eyes of the world ? No," said Mr. Durnford. 
 
 " That is all I wanted to have from your lij^s. Now, sir, am 
 I a beggar ? — that is, am I whollj'' dependent on you T 
 
 Mr. Durnford did not answer for a few moments. 
 
 " I am glad, Phil, that this talk has been held between us. It 
 must have come, sooner or later." 
 
 "Why should it not come, sirf 
 
 " No reason at all — none. Only, family business is always 
 disagreeable. Let me tell you, once for all, that your father's 
 money was placed wholly and unreservedly in my hands 
 for your benefit. I have done for your benefit what I could 
 for you. You will be, at the age of twenty-one, the master of 
 four or five hundred pounds a-year. It is not much ; but with a 
 profession, it is plenty." 
 
 " It will do, sir," said Philip. " I am glad it is so much." 
 
 "But what profession Avill you take? You are not a book- 
 worm. The law would do little for you. The church ?" 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " Quite so, as I was about to remark. Then, what are we to 
 do with you T 
 
 " I shall go into the army, sir. ' At least, I can carry a 
 sword." 
 
 " And use it, too, Phil, I think. We will talk about this 
 afterwards." But they never did. 
 
 Early that year, while the hot rains of January were still 
 soaking into the steaming earth, and the sun was vertical at noon- 
 day, there was brought a rumour — vague at first, but too soon 
 confirmed — that cholera had appeared in the principal town. Up 
 to tliat day, cholera had been unknown. No scourge or pesti- 
 lence had ever fallen on the island that insurance companies 
 ranked rather higlicr than England, and on which they put a 
 tropical per centage out of mere fun, and with the cheerfulness of 
 men who are certain to make their money. Nobody ever died 
 young, except from drink. Nobody read the lessons about the 
 uncertainty of life as applying, even indirectly, to himself; and 
 the very parsons had forgotten that life was ever anything but 
 threescore years and ton, fully told. So that when men first 
 heard that the ch«lera was come, they laughed.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 33 
 
 There were various rumours as to its origin. One said that a 
 captain of a coolie ship had put ashore, being then in quarantiiie, 
 and having spent the evening with four friends, had gone back 
 at night to his ship. But the four friends died next day ; and 
 there was no one to tell whether the captain had left the ship or 
 nut, for all his sailors died. 
 
 Others said that it was produced by the shameful excesses of 
 the Chinamen in pork. This was disproved by the fact that no_ 
 Chinaman died of cholera at all. They went about in great 
 glee, with mighty uplifting and pride of heart — rubbing their 
 hands when they came upon some poor negro doubled up by 
 the enemy that seized him so suddenly and killed him so easily. 
 
 Others, again, attributed it to the British Government. That 
 malignant power — conscious for many years of the foe that 
 threatened the island — delibprately, and with malice prepense, 
 had left unguarded all the avenues by which it might enter. The 
 editor of the most respectable paper, daring to say that the en- 
 forcement of the quarantine laws had been more rigid than usual 
 of late years, was set upon, one starry evening, by a dozen 
 public-spirited mulattoes, and horsewhipped. That is, they 
 began to horsewhip him ; but a soldier happening to come round 
 the corner, slung his belt and dispersed them, devious, rapidly 
 flying. An account of the affair appeared in both of the straw-paper 
 organs next day, in which the brave assailants were held up to 
 public admiration as patriots of the deepest dye. They were 
 compared to Timoleon, to Brutus, to Harmodius, to Mirabeau, to 
 Soulouque, to Oliver Cromwell, to Wilberforce, and to Toussaint 
 L'Ouverture. They were to have been brought before the 
 magistrate for assault ; but he and all the officials of his court 
 died of cholera, and the affair dropped. A.nd as the pestilence 
 grew worse, men's hearts failed them for fear. The town of St. 
 Denys had a population of some sixty thousand. These were 
 dying at the rate of three hundred a day. All day long, and all 
 night, the prisoners were kept at work digging graves — not 
 single graves, but long common fosses, fil'ty feet long and eight 
 feet deep. There was no time to make coffins. As fast as the 
 bodies were brought, the upper part of the shell in which they 
 were laid was slipped out, and the sand covered them up. The 
 priests — is there any fearlessness like that of a Catholic priest? — 
 stood all day by the grave chanting the monotonous funeral 
 service, burials going on all the time. I>Iqw and then one of the 
 gravediggers would be struck down, and carried off, shrieking 
 
 3
 
 34 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 and crying, to a hospital, for if a black is once taken to a hospital 
 he abandons hope ; and should he come out again, is received by 
 his friends — not with the rejoicing that would await one risen 
 from the dead, but rather with such disappointment as greeted 
 Martin Chuzzlewit Avhen he came back from Eden. 
 
 The shops were closed ; the Avharves deserted ; the streets 
 empty, save for the frequent bearers of the dead. Most mournful 
 of all was the absence of mourners. You might see a little pro- 
 cession slowly moving down the street — one big coffin and three 
 little ones. Following them, not some young and stalwart 
 mourner — not one whose life was still before him — but a poor 
 old down-bent black, the grandfather of the little coffins, the 
 father of the big one, hobbling sideways after the dead. Or if 
 it was one who had lived long and in high esteem, his coffin 
 would be followed by two or three out of the hundreds who 
 counted him friend, and who, in better times, would have 
 followed him to the grave, and pronounced a funeral oration 
 over him. 
 
 Sometimes the closed shops never opened again at all ; and 
 then, long after the cholera had gone, the police would go afc 
 dead of night, or in the early morning, and execute their dread- 
 ful task. 
 
 Englishmen got together — they always do in time of danger. 
 I once was in a French ship with some half dozen English pas- 
 sengers. One was the most foul-mouthed blasphemous man I 
 ever met — abaft the fo'c'sle, that is. We had very bad weather 
 for a week. For one whole day we thought we should go down. 
 Involuntarily, we of Great Britain found ourselves grouped to- 
 gether by the davits, holding on. Quoth the blasphemer — 
 
 *' Since we are to go down, we English will stick together, 
 and let the damned Frenchmen drown by themselves. Is there 
 any fellow here that can say a short prayer ?" 
 
 It was a dreadful punishment to him for his evil life, that he 
 couldn't remember even the shortest in the whole Church 
 Service ; and I am quite sure, so staunch an Anglican was he, that 
 he would far rather have gone to the bottom with no prayer at 
 all, than with anything extemporaneous or irregular. Even the 
 petition for rain would have comforted him. 
 
 However, in St, Denys, the English merchants sat together in 
 each other's offices. They drank a good deal of brandy in those 
 days, in little occasional nips, that touched up the liver if they 
 did not keep off the chgiei'a. J^o bu^icess was dpne of any kind,
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 35 
 
 nor was there any pretence at it. Ko clerks came — ^these were 
 mostly mulattoes, and kept themselves at home, with the shutters 
 half-closed, sitting in a horrible circle in the dark, and with a 
 fearsome fluttering at their hearts. If they perceived an internal 
 rumbling, they took a dose of cholera mixture. If any one said 
 he felt unwell, the rest sidled from him ; and if one was actually 
 seized, they generally all ran away. The doctor in charge of the 
 hospital — he was not a Frenchman, nor was he English, and it 
 would be invidious to proclaim his race — ran away from his post. 
 He had a struggle of some days between fear and honour. At 
 last, as the sick were brought in more thickly, honour lost ground. 
 He fled : " L'existence," he said, " avant tout." It was an honest 
 confession, and proved a sort of martyr's creed ; for when he 
 came back, after the thing was all over, and the hospital swept 
 up again, clean and neat, he was astonished to find that the 
 Government — British, of course — was taking a harsh view of 
 the matter, and that he was kicked out in disgrace. The straw- 
 paper organs made capital out of the event. The writer of one 
 crushing article crammed for it, like Mr. Pott's young man. 
 John Huss, the early saints of the Church, Savonarola, Cranmer, 
 Sir Thomas More, and Louis the Sixteenth furnished illustrations 
 for this admirable treatise. 
 
 Nostrums came into great use. Men, at other times supposed 
 to be of sound mind, went about peppering their noses with 
 camphor powder. Some swathed their bodies Avith flannel, and 
 some wore as little as they possibly could. Some would at intervals, 
 apply cold ice to the back bone — others, warm water. Others, 
 again, would breakfast off bitter beer and boiled eggs, and dine 
 on brandy and water and soup. One man wrote to the paper 
 calling attention to the fact that few Englishmen died of cholera; 
 and that, as he had recently discovered, the English colonists 
 always washed every morning, all over. This he recommended 
 to his own countrymen, as a thing not, indeed, suddenly to be 
 adopted, but to receive that serious attention and thought which 
 the gravity of the step demanded. For himself he confessed he 
 sometimes washed his feet ; but rarelj'. 
 
 One poor Briton nearly came to terrible grief. He was a 
 mariner; and one evening, finding himself, some miles from St. 
 Dunys, overcome with lujuor, he fell down by the wayside and 
 slumbered. Native policemen, coming by with a cart, gathered 
 him up as one dead ; and a grave bi:iug already pre|)ared, they 
 laid lum in it, fortuaately removing the shell. The English 
 
 3—2
 
 36 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 clergyman read the service, with sorrow for the poor fellow cut 
 ofl' so suddenly, whoo.e very name was unknown, and who lay 
 there perhaps to bo looked for, many a weary day, by wife and 
 children. He had finished, and they bei^an lieaving in the earth. 
 As soon as it fell upon his face, the shock awakened him. Start- 
 ing up still unsteady, he began to bawl out, " Ahoy there ! — 
 ahoy 1" The aborigines fled, howling in terror; nor wouid they 
 ever accept any otlier version of the story than that it was a 
 veritable post-mortem appearance, a spectre, that greeted them. 
 Ajad the churchyard is haunted by it to this day. 
 
 As for the sailor, he was taken home by the clergyman, and 
 took the pledge ; which he kept till he got tc the next port. 
 But be always swore he would never get drunk again in 
 Palmiste. 
 
 They were not all cowards. Brave deeds were done. Fore- 
 most of all, the brave deeds of the diviue Sisters of Mercy. If I 
 die, poor and alone, forlorn and deserted, may oneof the«e minis- 
 tering angels come to me with her sweet, unlovely face, and 
 passionless tenderness o^ heart ! Then may she make me a 
 Catholic, or a K'.^uaiist, or anything she like ; — all for dear 
 memory of the things I have known her sisters do. For to 
 them all duties are equally holy and equally divine. To them is 
 nothing loathsome, nothing revolting ; no form of disease or 
 suffering too terrible to help ; no accumulations of misery and 
 poverty, no development of sickness, sufficient to keep them 
 away. 
 
 Is it fair, without mentioning a living man's name, to mention 
 his deeds? Perhaps he will never see it in print. This is what 
 he did. In the height of the chulera, two coolie ships put into 
 port, both with cholera raging on board. They were promptly 
 sent off to quarantine off an islet — a mere rock, half a mile across 
 — twenty miles awa}^ 
 
 Thence, after some time, news came somehow to Palmiste that 
 their a])otliecary was dead, and the captain, and all the English 
 sailors but a few. And all the coolies were dying with cholera. 
 Who would go there ? One young army surgeon stepped out, so 
 to speak, from the ranks. To go there was to go to certain death. 
 It was a forlorn hope. There would be no one to helf) him, no 
 one to talk to even ; no one to attend him if he was seized. He 
 went. For weeks he struggled with the pestilence, saving some 
 from the jaws of death, and burying others. The place, which 
 was a mere charnel-house, he turned into a hospital — a Hotel 
 Dieu.
 
 ^fV LITTLE GIRL, yj 
 
 The poor, terror-strickeu Indians slowly regained hope, and 
 therefore, health ; and, when the evil time died away, he was 
 able to bring back half, at least, of his flock, rescued from death. 
 
 It is a heroism that is beyond the power of any Victoria Cross 
 to reward; and when it tires the blood, and f^ets the heart aglow 
 of him that reads it. the doer of the geste has his tittest crown of 
 gloiy, though he never hear of it. 
 
 In the country, away down at Fontainebleau, they were com- 
 paratively safe. Few cases liappened on the estate in the earlier 
 stage ; but, when it began to leave town, it broke out in the 
 country. Mr. Durnford took no precautions. In these matters 
 he thought it was like a battle-field. You could not, he said, 
 devise any armour against a cannon-ball. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclutyre, taking a nip of brandy, 
 " some men are killed by a bayonet thrust." 
 
 But one evening, when Phil and Arthur came home from a 
 stroll with their guns, they found Maclntyre in a state of wild 
 alarm on the verandah. Mr. Durnford had been seized. No 
 doctor had been sent for, because nc je was within twenty miles. 
 They had no medicine, except brandy, Mr. Maclntyre had been 
 giving him copious dranglits. He had taken a bottle and a half 
 without the smallest effect; and now Mr. Maclntyre, seeing the 
 boys go into the bedroom, retreated to the other side of the 
 bouse, and began to drink the rest of the bottle, glad to be re- 
 lieved of his charge. 
 
 There was very little hope. They sent off a dozen messengers 
 for as many doctors. But, with the utmost speed, no doctor 
 could arrive before the morning. 
 
 All night long they watched and tended him. Mr. Maclntvrc 
 by this time, what with terror and brandy, was helpless. Ill-y 
 could do literally nothing. But, in the morning, came collapse, 
 and comj.'arative ease. The dying man lay stretched npou his 
 back, breathing painl'ully, but conscious. Philip bent over him, 
 and whispered, with dry eyes and hard voice, while Arthur was 
 Sobbing on his knees — 
 
 " Father, tell me of my mother?" 
 
 Mr. Durnfurd turned his head and looked. He would have 
 spoken ; but a trembling seized his limbs, and bis eyes closed in 
 death. 
 
 He was buried the next morning. All the people on the estate 
 went to the funeral. But Mr. Maclntyre wa« ahsent. For, in 
 the night, a thought struck him. It was but a week since he had
 
 3% MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 received, in hard cash, tho half year's salary duo to him. Now 
 he saw his occupation gone. Without any chance of finding 
 employment in the island, he would be left stranded. He was 
 staggered at first. Then he reflected that no one knew of the 
 payment except his lata employer. How if he could get the 
 receipt 1 So, when the funeral procession started, Mr. Maclntyre 
 stayed behind, no one noticing his absence. 
 
 The house clear, he stole into the dead man's room. His desk 
 was open, just as he had left it. Here was a chance which it was 
 impossible to resist. 
 
 " It makes my heart bleed to wrong the lads," said Mac- 
 lntyre, wiping his eyes ; " but one must consider oneself." 
 
 Then he looked out the receipt from the file, and put it into 
 his pocket. That done, he searched for the private account book, 
 which also fell into his coat-tail pocket. Then it occurred to him 
 that it would be an admirable thing to g3t a whole year's salary 
 instead of a half, and he began to hunt for the previous receipt. 
 This he could not find, though he searched everywhere. But he 
 found something which interested him, and he wrapped it in 
 brown paper, and took it also away with him. It was a big, 
 fat book, with clasps, and a small letter padlock, marked 
 " Private." He went down to his cottage, and cutting open the 
 clasps, he read it from end to end. 
 
 It was a sort of irregular journal, beginning sixteen years be- 
 fore. It opened with a confession of passion for Marie. 
 
 " If this girl were but a lady — if only, even, she were not 
 coloured — I would take her away and marry her. TVhy 
 should I not marry her? What dift'erence would it make to 
 me whether people approved of it or not ? , . . 
 
 "I saw Marie to-day. She met me in the garden behind 
 her mistress's house. How pretty the child looked, with a 
 rose in her black hair ! She will meet me again this evening." 
 
 And so on, all in the same strain. 
 
 In the leaves of the book were three short notes, kept for 
 Bome unknown reason, addressed to his wife; but without date. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre, in a fit of abstraction, took pen and ink, 
 and added a date — that of Philip's birth. There was another 
 paper in the journal ; the certificate of marriage of George Durn- 
 ford and Adrienne de Eosnay. He took this out, and, shutting up 
 the journal, began to reflect.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 39 
 
 In the afternoon, when the aun grew low, he went to the little 
 Catholic church which lies hidden away among the trees, about 
 three miles from Fontainebleau. 
 
 Just then it was shut up. For Father O'Leary, the jolly Irish 
 priest, who held this easiest of benefices for so many years, hac" 
 only lately succumbed to age ; and in the disturbed state of thi 
 colony no priest had yet been sent down. The presbytere was 
 closed, the shutters up, and the church door locked. 
 
 The tutor went to the back of the house ; forced his way in 
 with no difficulty, by the simple process of removing a rotten 
 shutter from the hinges. 
 
 Hanging on the wall were the church keys. He took these, 
 and stepped across the green to the vestry door, which he opened, 
 and went in shutting it after him, whistling very softly to him- 
 self 
 
 Then he opened the cupboard, and took down the two duplicate 
 registers of marriage. They were rarely used ; because in that 
 little place there were few people to get married, except the 
 Indians, who always went before the registrar. Turning over 
 the leaves, which were sticking together with damp — Father 
 O'Leary was always the most careless of men — he came to a place 
 where one double page had been passed over. The marriage im- 
 mediately before it was dated twenty years since ; that after it 
 sixteen. He looked at the duplicate register. No such omission 
 of a page had occurred. 
 
 Whistling softly, he fiUed up the form between INTarie — no 
 other name — and George Durnford, gentleman, for a date about 
 a year before Philip's birth. Then he attested it himself — 
 " Alexander Maclntyre " — in a fine bold hand ; forged the sig- 
 natures of the others ; and added, as a second witness, the mark 
 of one Adolphe. Then he rubbed his hands, and began to con- 
 sider further. 
 
 After this, he got the forms of marriage certificates, and filled 
 one up in due form, again signing it with the name of the 
 deceased Father O'Leary. Then he replaced that one of the two 
 books in which he had written the forgery, put the forged certi- 
 ficate in his pocket, and the other register under his arm ; then 
 lock(;d up the cupboard. 
 
 When he had finished his forgeries he looked into the church. 
 The setting sun was shining through the west window full upon 
 the altar, set about with its twopenny gewgaw ornaments. He 
 shook his head.
 
 40 My LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 *' A blind superstition," he marmured. " ^o, who live under 
 the light of a fuller Gospel have vara much to be thankful for." 
 
 He went back to the presbyt^re, replaced the keys, and 
 walked home with his icgister in his hands. 
 
 He had no servant, and was accustomed, wlien he did not 
 dine at FontaincI)Ieau, to send an Indian boy to tlie nearest shop 
 to buy some steak, which he curried himself. He went into thu 
 kitchen — a little stone hut built at tlie back of the cottage — lit 
 a fire of sticks, and proceeded to burn the register and Mr. 
 Duruford's private journaL 
 
 The books would not burn at all, being damp and mouldy^. 
 
 "At this rate of progression," he remarked, "I shall be a 
 twal'raonth getting through them. Let us bury them." 
 
 He dug a hole in the corner close to his house, buried his 
 books, piled the earth over them, and cooked his dinner with a 
 cheerful heart. 
 
 " A good day's work," he murmured. " Half a year's salary 
 gained, and the prospect of a pretty haul, if good luck serves. 
 Marie dead, O'liCary dead, one register gone, the certificates in 
 my possession. Master Phil, my boy, the time will perhaps 
 come when you will be glad to buy my papers of me." 
 
 Mr. Durnford's death showed tbat he had become a rich man. 
 All his property went by will to " my son," while of Philip no 
 notice whatever was taken. Only the lawyer wrote him a letter 
 stating that by a special deed of gift, dated some years back, a 
 sum of money was made- over to him, which had been accumu- 
 lating at compound interest, and had now amounted to five 
 thousand pounds. This, at Palmiste interest, was live hundred 
 pounds a year. As his father had told him, it was his sole 
 provision. 
 
 Philip's heart was stung with a sense of wrong. That no 
 mention was made of him — that, through all his life, he had not 
 received one word of acknowledgment or alfection — that he had 
 been evidently regarded as a mere incumbrance and a debt, 
 raukled in his bosom. He said nothing, not even to Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre — who, now that he had no longer any further prospect of 
 employment, began to turn his thoughts to other pastures. But 
 he brooded over his wrongs ; and now only one thought possessed 
 him — to escape from a place which was haunted by shamo. 
 
 Arthur, too, wanted to go ; and their lavi'yer and adviser took 
 passages for the boys, and gave them proper letters to those who 
 wore to take care of them in England till they were of age.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 4f 
 
 Mr. !MacIntyre, the day before they started, came to say fare- 
 well. He had an interview with eacli of his pupils separately. 
 To Arthur, by way of a parting gift, he propounded a set of 
 uiaxims for future guidance, including a rule of conduct for 
 morals, which he recommended on the ground of having always 
 adhered to it himself: and he left his late pupil with a heavier 
 purye, and consequently a lighter heart. Mr. Maclntyre in all 
 his troubles, had never yet wanted money. Asa Scotchman, he 
 never spent when he could avoid spending. 
 
 His conversation with Philip was of greater importance. With 
 much hesitation, and an amount of nervousness that one would 
 hardly have expected of him, he hinted that he was possessed 
 of certain information, but that the time was not yet arrived to 
 make use of it. And then, biting his nails, he gave the young 
 man to understand that, if he ever did use it, he should expect 
 to be paid. 
 
 " But what is your knowledge?" asked Philip; "and if you 
 have an}^ why, in the devil's name, don't you let it out at once? 
 And how much money do you want T 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. 
 
 "Suppose my information proved your mother's marriage? 
 Suppose that a man — I'm not for saying that I should be the 
 man — brought all this to light?" 
 
 " Poor Arthur !" said Philip. 
 
 "That's not the point," urged the other, "To be plain. 
 What would that information be worth T 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Should we say five thousand pounds?" 
 
 " You mean that I am to give you five thousand pounds for 
 giving information which you ought to give for nothing ? Mac- 
 lntyre, you're a scoundrel." 
 
 " Eh ! mon," replied the moralist. 
 
 " Can you give mo these proofs ?" cried Philip, hie voice 
 rising. 
 
 " No, I cannot — not yet. And perhaps I never shall be able 
 to do so. AVhether I do or not depends upon yourself. And 
 don't be violent, Mr. Philip iJiirnford. Remember," he added 
 with a touch of pathetic dignity, " that you are addressing your 
 old tutor, and a Master of Arts of the Uuivairsity of Aberdeen." 
 
 " Go to the devil," said Philip, " and get out of this. Go, 
 I say !" 
 
 \ am grieved to say that Arlhui-, wlio was sitting outside, was
 
 42 AfV LITTLE GFRL. 
 
 slaitled by the fearful spectacle of his reverend tutor emerging 
 with Philip's hand in his collar, and Philip's right foot accelerat- 
 ing his movements. 
 
 It was all done in a moment. Isix. MacTnt3Te vanished round 
 the corner, and his pony's hoofs were speedily heard clattering 
 down the road. 
 
 Arthur looked up for explanation. 
 
 "JS'ever mind, old boy," said Philip. " The man's a scoundrel. 
 He's a liar, too, I believe. Arthur, give me your hand. I have 
 been worried lately a good deal. But I won't wrong you. Ee- 
 member that. Whatever happens — you shall not be wronged. " 
 
 The next night they were steaming gallantly away. The 
 headlands of Palmiste lay low on the horizon as the sun set, and 
 touched them with his magic painter's brush. 
 
 Arthur took off his cap, and waved it. 
 
 " When shall we see the dear old place again, Phil % " he said, 
 with a sob in his throat. 
 
 " J^ever, I hope," said Philip. " It will be to me a memory of 
 sickly sorrow and disappointment. Never. And now, old boy, 
 hurrah for England and my commission ! I am going to forget 
 it aU." 
 
 He stood there, with the bright look of hope and fearlessness 
 that so soon goes out of the eyes of youth, and the sea breeze 
 lifting his long black hair, a possible — nay, a certain hero. It is 
 something in every man's life for once to have been at peace with 
 God — for once to have thrilled with the warm impulse of true 
 nobility. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
 
 BOOK 11. —A T HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 Ho5rE in England. It is ten years later on. We are in Gray's 
 Inn, on a certain Saturday evening early in the year. The cham- 
 bers where we are met, like most of those in that ancient hostelry, 
 have the appearance of untidiness. Unlike most, they are clean 
 and carefully dusted. The furniture is well worn, but comfort- 
 able — easy chairs with bits of the padding sticking out here and 
 there, and the leather gone in parts. The books are those of a 
 man who regards binding less from an artistic than from a useful 
 point of vie\7, and is not careful to preserve their beauty. In 
 other words, the books are greatly battered. There is one table 
 littered with papers : among them may be seen some in a girl's 
 handwriting. One of the book cases is filled altogether with 
 books not often found in a bachelor's room — children's books, 
 books a little more grown up, and books of education. In the 
 window-seat is a work-basket. On the mantelshelf stands a glass 
 fuU of violets. There are antimacassars on the worn old chairs 
 and sofas ; and amid the general air of bachelordom, pipes, and 
 lazy ease, there is, one feels, a suspicion of some younger ele- 
 ment, the handiwork of a girl — the breath of youth and grace- 
 in these rooms whose walls are so dingy, whose ceilings are so 
 black, whose furniture is so battered. 
 
 The tenant of this room is Mr. Hartley Venn ; who is now 
 standing on the hearth-rug in the act of receiving his visitors. 
 Of these, one is his old friend Lynn, of the Inner Temple — a 
 grave man who seldom speaks and never laughs. He is sitting 
 by the fire with a pipe in his hand, not yet lighted, stroking his 
 heavy moustache. The other is our old friend, Arthur Durnford 
 — a tall man now, of four or five and twenty, not long come up
 
 44 My LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 to town I'lom Oxford : a man of slight proportions, and Isiwaewhat 
 aLoopiug shoulders. Ho wears his fair hair rather longer than 
 most men, and a light fringe adorns his upi)er lip. A face 
 of more sweetness than power ; a face whi<;h may command love 
 and respect, but scarcely fear ; a face at which women glanco 
 twice iu the street, because there are in it such vast possibilities 
 of tenderness. He has not been a successful student — if yuu 
 measure success by the schools. A second class rewarded his 
 labours, it is true ; and Arthur retired content, if not greatly 
 pleased, at the result. Success ho did not greatly care for ; and 
 he was too rich and too lazy to descend into the arena and fight 
 with other men. Poverty has its rights as well as its duties ; and 
 among these is a prescriptive law — often enough violated — that 
 the rich should keep out of the battle. Remember this, if you 
 please, Messieurs the Archbisnops, Prime and other ministers, 
 Deans and dignitaries ; and next time you condescend to forward 
 your invaluable, if prosy, contributions to current literature, re- 
 flect that they are taken — and would be taken, if they were bad 
 enough to corrupt the taste of a whole generation — for the natno 
 that they bear. Then, be humble ; or, better still, don't send the 
 rubbish at all — I mean the words of wisdom — and let some poor 
 penny-a-liner get the guineas. But Arthur Durnfo^'d's disposition 
 led him rather to seclude himself, and to forget that, with all but 
 a chosen few, life is a conflict. He was born for but one object, 
 dilettante literature — the investigation of the useless, the recovery 
 of lost worthlessness, the archaeological investigation of forgotten 
 lumber. But of this, his high mission, he is yet all unaware, 
 and is at present starting quite unconsciously in that road which 
 will eventually lead him to distinction. For the rest, a heart as 
 innocent and a life as blameless as any girl's, and, like that of 
 most girls, a life as devoid of any active interest or any benefit to 
 other people. Some men arc born for this kind of passive life. 
 Their years float along in a kind of dream, or among occupations 
 which interest without exciting, and occupy without wearying. 
 "Well for them if, as with Arthur, accident has given them the 
 means to gratify their inclinations. 
 
 Venn is the son of his father's old tutor, and therefore, as he 
 explains, a kind of uncle to him. And to-night is the first time 
 that they have met. Venn found out Arihur himself, from some 
 Oxford friend and " information received." 
 
 " Durnford," he explains, introducing liim him to Lynn, " is 
 my educational nephew. I am his tutorial uncle. That is, his
 
 MY LITTLE GTRL, 45 
 
 father was a private pupil at the rectory when I was iiix years 
 old. Your father afterwards went to Palraiste Island, I believe ; 
 yes, and made a fortune there — by — by — doing those things and 
 practising those arts by which fortunes are made, did he not?" 
 Arthur laughed, and said such was the case. 
 " Palraiste Island is of a more simple nature than London, 
 Lynn ; that is the reason why you and I, in spite of our merit, 
 have not got money. !Now that you know Mr. Arthur Duruford, 
 we will proceed to elect him, if you please, an honorary mem- 
 ber of the Chorus." 
 
 The ceremony of election gone through, Arthur took an easy- 
 chair, and Venn proceeded to put bottles and glasses on the table. 
 Then he took up a position on the hearth-rug, and, with his coat 
 tails under his arm, turned to Lynn — 
 " The preliminary oration, Lynn % " 
 
 " You make it," said Lynn, who had by this time lighted his 
 pipe. 
 
 Venn bowed solemnly, and put on an air of great meditation, 
 stroking his moustache. Presently he began — 
 
 " It is customary, at the election of a new member into this 
 society, to instruct him in the nature of the duties and respon- 
 sibilities he is about to undertake. In the mysteries of the 
 Cabeiri— " 
 
 " Pass two thousand years," growled Lynn. 
 Venn bowed gravely. 
 
 " In deference to the opinion of my learned brother I pass to 
 modern times. In the mysteries of Freemasonry, it is popularly 
 supposed that the candidate for admission is put to bodily pain 
 before receiving the terms of an oath so tremendous that the se- 
 crets of the craft have remained undisclosed from the time of 
 Solomon and Hiram, King of Tyre, to the present moment. The 
 fraternity of the Chorus heats no poker, and administers no oath ; 
 and one penalty only awaits the ollender — we expel him." 
 " Was any one ever expelled T asked Darnford. 
 " One, sir, was only last week expelled for levity. His name 
 was Jones. Jones, at least, will never more be privileged to sit in 
 the Chorus." 
 
 Here a loud knock was heard, at the door. Lynn opened it. 
 It was Jones. 
 
 The orator, no way disconcerted, shook hands with the new 
 arrival with a greater show of delight than his words absolutely 
 warranted, -aying, as he pushed, bim into a chair —
 
 46 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Why do you come here, man, void of shame % Did you 
 not distinctly understand that you were never to appear again 
 on Chorus nights 1" 
 
 The new-comer, who was a smooth-faced, bright-eyed little mau 
 in glasses, sat down, and immediately began to twinkle, 
 
 " I come as a simple spectator," he said. " I cannot keep 
 away. 
 
 * From sport to sport concealment's guile 
 
 Preys on this heart of mine, 
 And when the worm provokes a smile, 
 I drown the grief in wine." 
 
 " Why," said Venn, " he is positively doing it again ! Miser- 
 able man ! was it not for this we expelled you T 
 
 " It was," said Jones with a groan. " It is chronic. I am 
 truly wretched," 
 
 " Silence, then ; and you, young candidate, listen. The 
 Chorus was established ten years ago as a refuge for the unsuc- 
 cessful. It was intended to answer the purposes, in a small 
 degree, of a literary and artistic club — admitting, however, only 
 those professional unfortunates who can achieve no success. It 
 is a club of the unfortunate. When fortune comes to one of us, 
 he shakes his wings and goes. We who remain wrap ourselves 
 in the cloak of poverty and neglect, and meet mischance with 
 smiles. Of the original twelve who formed the first brotherhood, 
 there remain but Lynn and myself. We do not care now greatly 
 to enlarge the circle. Jones, here, was admitted five years ago. 
 He is but a chicken in disappointment, and has only just 
 begun to wait. I have already told you that he was expelled 
 and why." 
 
 " Not," said Jones solemnly — 
 
 ** ♦ Not for a crime he did, nor 'cause 
 He broke their own or nature's laws ; 
 But for a simple trick he had 
 Of quoting what he learnt and read.' ^ 
 
 Arthur began to feel as if he were standing on his head. The 
 other two took no notice of the interruption. 
 
 " Society takes no heed of these unfortunates. They are legion. 
 They occupy that middle ground which is above a small success, 
 and cannot achieve a great one. Lynn, here, would scorn to be
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 47 
 
 an Old Bailey barrister. Yet he could do it admirably. He goes 
 in for Equity, sir, and gets no cases, nor ever will. Jones, I 
 am sorry that you must be excluded. Jones, among other 
 things, makes plays. No manager has yet put one on the 
 stage." 
 
 " The manager of the Lyceum is reading my last play now," 
 eaid Jones. 
 
 " He always is," said Venn. " I am, for my own part, a 
 writer. I write a great deal. Some evening, when Jones is not 
 here, I will read you a portion of my works." 
 
 " Pray," said Jones, " why not when I am here?" 
 
 " Because," said Venn, " the last time I read you an essay you 
 fell fast asleep." 
 
 " I did," said Jones ; so did everybody." 
 
 " I have, at times, offered my productions to editors. They 
 invariably refuse them. Under these circumstances, I retire into 
 myself, and put together the Opuscula which wiU one day be 
 eagerly bought by an admiring public. On that day Lynn wUl be 
 made Lord Chancellor, Jones will get a play acted which will run 
 for three hundred nights, and the Chorus will dissolve. 
 
 " You are to understand, then," — after a pause, during which 
 Jones pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes in grief at 
 the prospect of dissolution — " that we meet here weekly between 
 the tirst of October and the first of April. During the week and 
 in the summer vacation, we make observations which are after- 
 wards communicated to the Chorus. Thus we form a running 
 commentary on passing events which will contain when published 
 an admirable collection of maxims calculated both to inform and 
 instruct. They are chiefly of a moral tendency. Excluded by 
 our misfortunes from taking an active part in the drama of life, 
 we stand by and remark. We are mostly resigned to our position. 
 Some, however, aspii'e. Dolphin, for instance — you remember 
 Dolphin, Lynn?" 
 
 He grunted. 
 
 *' Observe the dissatisfied air with which Lynn receives that 
 name. Dolphin aspired. He now edits the JJcdly GazeMe, and 
 jDays a fabulous income tax. Dolphin was not a great man. Of 
 all the excellent remarks that have been made in this room 
 Dolphin's wore the poorest. "VVateiford, too, another instance. 
 He now leads a circuit. Jones, what are you pursing up your 
 lips about] If you have anything to say, get rid of it." 
 
 " I was thinking of Tonnyson's lines," said Joaes, "with great 
 softness of manner.
 
 48 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 * Prate not of chance— the name of luck 
 
 Is blown the windy ways about ; 
 
 And yet I hold, without a doubt, 
 He prospers most who has most pluck.' " 
 
 " Are those Tennyson's words?" asked Durnford, taken off hia 
 guard. 
 
 " You "will find them in the two hundred and fortieth page 
 of ' In Memoriam,' " said Jones, readily. " The stanza begins 
 with the well known lines — 
 
 ' Balloon, that through the fleecy ring 
 Of bosomed cloud and mottled sky, 
 Floatest athwart the wondering eye, 
 A winged eagle without wings.' '"' 
 
 " And this creature," said Venn, " aspires to be a dramaitist. 
 Let me finish. The one unfailing rule, which is alone incapable 
 of being rescinded, is the rule of success. Any man who suc- 
 ceeds is turned out. Ipso facto, he ceases to be a member of tho 
 association. Success is of all kinds, and we admit of no excuse 
 or palliation— the offender goes." 
 
 " How if he write a book which does not sell, but is yet 
 praised T 
 
 " He may, when his failure is quite established, remain with 
 us. More — we allow him to be damned any number of times. 
 Jones's works, for instance : his novel — " 
 
 Here Jones visibly blushed. 
 
 " It was really very bad, and no one took the least notice of it 
 — not even the reviewers. Did any one buy a copy, Jones ?" 
 
 " I believe," he said, "that there are still a few copies on the 
 publishers' shelves. These can be had now at a reduction. The 
 published price was thirty-one shillings and sixpence." 
 
 " Your poems, Jones T 
 
 " My poems," said the bard, " were not meant to be sold : I 
 give, them to my country." 
 
 " It is very liberal of you. I will presently detail my own 
 experiences of failure. Suffice it now to remark that 1 have never 
 succeeded in anything. You will tind in me, sir, as my friends 
 have already found in me, a very Tapper iu posse. I am the re- 
 presentative man of mediocrity — am I not, Lynn T 
 
 The grave Lynn nodded.
 
 MV UTTLE GIRL. 4$ 
 
 " You say su." 
 
 " I will now give you — as Jon^s is not wholly acquainted with 
 my fortunes, as Lynn is a good listener, as you ought to know 
 something about tiie, atid as it gives a sort of early Bulwer-Lytton 
 or even a Smollett-like air to the evening's talk — a brief sketch 
 of the career of an unsuccessful man. Jones, will you kindly 
 undertake the bottle and Jul' department ? Lynn, be so good as 
 to put the kettle on. Diinford, my dear boy, take tobacco, and 
 help yourself to drink. Claret is there, which I do not recom- 
 mend. That bottle of champagne is remarkable for its age. It 
 is coeval with the Chorus. Ten years have passed since it left 
 its native public. It is not to be opened, but stands there for 
 respectability's sake. Tliere is port, if you like — it is not good. 
 Sherry is in the middle bottle. You can open it, if you please ; 
 but I should not advise you to do so. The bottled beer I can 
 strongly recommend, and the Irish whisky is undeniable. Jones 
 you rhyming wretch, what wiiiyoa lake? Lynn, I have your 
 pemission to talk to-night." 
 
 " Stop !" said Jones. Have you got anything to say befov^ 
 he begins, Lynn? Have you, Durnford? This is your only 
 chance. For my own part, I can only say, with the poet 
 Wordsworth — 
 
 • Kot the whole warbling grove in concert heard, 
 So gladdens me as this loquacious bird.' " 
 
 "Proceed, Venn," said Lynn — "and quickly, for Jones ia 
 bubbling with another quotation." 
 
 " 1 will try not to be tedious. I began life rather well, for I 
 got into Eton as a colleger, and actually gained a considerable 
 quantity of prizes. I also learned to wear my hat at the back of 
 my head, to despise trade, to run bills, to make Latin verses, to 
 regard science and mathematics with a proper and reasonable 
 Contempt, and to consider Eton as the apex of civilization — 
 ancient and modern. So far, I resembled other boys. Occa- 
 sionally I was flogged. And I very early formed the germ of 
 that grand idea which I have since made the subject of an 
 admuaole essay." 
 
 Jones wagged his head solemnly ; whether from admiration, 
 envy, sympathy, approval, or some other emotion, was never 
 known. 
 
 " It is that all the mischiefs of the world are due to the insut 
 licient manner in which boys are flogged. Some, sir, I am 
 
 4
 
 so AfV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ashamed to say, aro never Hogged at all. Jones, you were nevet 
 flogged. 
 
 " I was not," said Jones. " If it is any extenuation of my 
 master's crime, I may merition that he often caned mo." 
 
 " I knew it," Venn returned, with an air of triumph. There 
 are subtle influences about the older and more classical instru- 
 ment. It produces an effect which in after-life is only to be 
 detected by those who have made an early acquaintance with it. 
 Caning is merely a brutal mode of inflicting fear and pain. The 
 poetry of punishment is in the birch. The actual performance, 
 I admit — the mere physical process, either active or passive — 
 afi"ords little food for reflection. But when I think of the effects 
 upon the suflTerer, I am carried away, gentlemen, efi'eror. There 
 is the Anticipation, so full of tumultuous fears and hopes, with 
 its certainties as to the future fact, and its uncertainties as to 
 vigour and duration ; its bracing influence on the Volition, its 
 stimulating eflect on the Fortitude, its cultivation of patieut 
 endurance. All this, my friends, is truly poetical. Consider, 
 next, the After-glow. The After-glow is, indeed, a magnificent 
 combination of sensations. Nothing that 1 can remember to 
 have experienced comes near it. It lingers like the twilight ; 
 and, like the summer twilight, it lasts all night. It warms like 
 the memory of a good action, or the blush of conscious virtue. 
 It is as soothing as the absolution of a bishop. It removes as 
 many cares as a confession, and it wipes off sins like a pilgrimage." 
 
 He paused for a moment and looked round. There was a 
 murmur of applause, Jones rubbing his leg with a painful air of 
 sympathetic abstraction. 
 
 ** Let us go back to Eton. I was in the sixth, and stood well 
 to get into King's. Unfortunately, the vacancy that should 
 have been mine came too late by half an hour. I had till twelve 
 on my last day, and a messenger bringii .■ news of a vacancy 
 arrived, having loitered on the way, at haif-past twelve. The 
 man, gentlemen, died young. I say nothing about Nemesis — I 
 merely ask you to observe that he died young. So I went to 
 St. Alphege's. You, Lynn, were at the same time at Trinity. At 
 St. Alphege's, which is not a large college ; we passed our time 
 in intellectual pursuits, which were not among those encouraged 
 by the Senate. This body, Durnford, which resembles a similar 
 institution at Oxford, having, after long consideration, found out 
 the most useless branch of science and the least useful method 
 of studying classical literature, has fixed upon these as the only
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 51 
 
 means of arriving at any of the University distinctions. I could 
 not do mathematics, as I have said ; and, as they would not let 
 me take classical honours without knowing how to graduate the 
 common steelyard, and such useful scraps of knowledge, I was 
 fain to go out in the Poll. Sir, if it had not been for the inven- 
 tion of that infernal steelyard — an instrument which I have 
 never seen, and never had the least necessity or desire to gradu- 
 ate — I should this day have been a Fellow of St. Alphege's. " 
 
 " Having failed here, I returned home. I found my family in 
 some little confusion. My brother Bob — you have met Eob, 
 Lynn?" 
 
 Lynn nodded. 
 
 " An excellent fellow, Lynn — most good-hearted man, though 
 he had his faults " — here Venn rubbed his nose meditatively. 
 " Bob had just taken a stand. He announced, resolutely and 
 ■without any chance of misunderstanding, that he was never 
 going to do any more work. The line he took was this. He 
 said : ' I am not clever enough to get money. I am clever 
 enough to look at other people getting money. Perhaps a life of 
 contemplation, for which I am evidently intended, will lead to 
 greater results than a life of work. I simply, therefore, say to 
 the world in general, and my family in particular — Keep me. 
 Give me a sufficiency to eat and drink.'" 
 
 "And how did the world receive this demand?" 
 
 ** That very small portion of the external world which ever 
 heard it, declined to interfere. But out of my father — who, 
 though quite unable to see Bob's logical position, could not let 
 him starve — he got a sufficiency to eat, and more than a suf- 
 ficiency to drink. However, Bob having taken this unexpected 
 line, I had to keep myself ; and did, after a fashion, till Bob and 
 my father died. Poor Bob ! You remember him, Lynn, coming 
 out of the Crown, with his elbows squared, quite drunk, and 
 arguing with the policeman] Admirable traits of character were 
 in that man. His wife allowed hira a shilling a day, and his 
 whole study latterly was how to make the most of the money. 
 It went in six drinks; and each drink involved a pipe and an 
 animated discus.sion in the tap-room. Bub, you see, miscalcu- 
 lated his forces. He had not the physique to stand up against a 
 long cour.se of leisure, and he succumbed. When he died, at 
 the early age of thirty-live, he sent for me, and made over to me, 
 with his usual kindness and thoughtfulucss of heart, all he had 
 to give me — the cure of his >vlfe aud boy.
 
 52 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 "At this time 1 was working for a liviiiL;- — never mind how,— 
 I got it, but only just got it. Every attempt that I made to do 
 anything better for myself failed. I had no energy, they said, 
 or else no perseverance, or no luck, or no determination, and so 
 on. You know the kind of talk. The fruits of life turned, 
 when I touched them, to Dead Sea apples. Tiieu I complicated 
 matters by falling in love." 
 
 " Did you V said Lynn. " I never knew that before." 
 
 " Yes, I was in love. Oh, yes ; for some mouths before I 
 ventured to speak, and for some months after." 
 
 " What did she say f 
 
 " She said, ' No,' in a very decided and resolute manner. I 
 jdid not much mind that, as I did the way in which she behaved 
 afterwards. I made then the discovery that there is nothing in 
 the world which more puffs out and inflates a woman with pride 
 than the fact that she has had the heroism to refuse a man. For 
 at least three months after my rejection, there was the mightiest 
 feminine clucking ever heard about it. Her strength was over- 
 tasked, they said ; and all the family went to Madeira with her. 
 No one asked after my strength ; and I stayed in London, and 
 was regarded as a sort of involuntary murderer." 
 
 " Did she die, then ?" asked Lynn. 
 
 " Oh, no — not at all. She came back, very fat. She is in 
 London now ; still unmarried, and likely to continue so. It may 
 sound uncharitable ; but, in the interests of husbands, I do hope 
 that such a model of womanly heroic virtue may never be 
 married." 
 
 " I also," said Jones, " have had my share of blighted affec- 
 tions." 
 
 " Have you, too, been in love?" asked Lynn. 
 
 " I have," .sighed Jones. " A most unfortunate attachment 
 — an impossible attachment. Yet the dream was pleasant while 
 it lasted." 
 
 He held his head down, blushing modestly, and went on in a 
 broken voice — 
 
 " As a boy — slopes — Windsor — one of the Princesses. Not my 
 fault originally — mine to nurse the passion." 
 
 "Which was it?" 
 
 " The prettiest, sir." 
 
 "Bui? how, when, where could you speak with the Prin' 
 cess f" 
 
 "W© never interchanged words; but the eye spoke — at
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 53 
 
 seventy yards. Poor thing ! she's married now. I hope she got 
 over it. I did, after a time." 
 
 Venn bearing the interruption with an air of sufferance, re- 
 sumed his histor^^ 
 
 "Getting over my love difficulties, I resolve to fall into love 
 no more, and went out of society. I have kept out ever since ; 
 and, on the whole, I prefer being out. Then I began to write : 
 and the real story of my failure begins. You see, I was not 
 absolutely obliged to do anything when my father died, but I 
 fondly hoped to make literature a staff. It has never been to me 
 even a reed. I had, of course, faint glimmerings of success, 
 gleams of hope. Every time Tantahis stoops to the water, he 
 fancies that this time, at least, he will reach it ; and T think that 
 every now and then he gets a few drops — not enough to quench 
 his thirst, but enough to revive hope. ]\Iy gleams of success were 
 like that poor convict's drops of water. They led to notliing more. 
 I fancy every editor in London knows me now. They say, * Oh, 
 here's Hartley Venn again ;' and I go into the rejected pigeon-holes. 
 So complete is my failure, that even my own people have ceased 
 to believe in me — so complete, that I have ceased to believe in 
 myself." 
 
 He paused ; and mixing a glass of whiskv and water, drank 
 half of it off. 
 
 " You will remark — proceeding on the inductive method — 
 those who God destines to fail, He endows with excellent spirits. 
 J ones is a case in point — " 
 
 " Why should sorrow o'er this forehead 
 Draw the veil of black despair ? 
 Let her, if she will, on your head ; 
 Mine, at least, she still will spare." 
 
 This was Jones's interruption. 
 
 " I am, also, myself a case in point. Lynn is not, whicli is 
 one reason why I fear he will some day desert me. My own 
 equable temper is not, however wholly due to birth — partly to 
 circumstances. You Avill understand me, Lynn, when I explain 
 that when q\ute a little boy 1 used to sleep in the same bed with 
 my brother J Job." 
 
 " Not the least in the world," observed Lynn, 
 
 " L)ear me ! The way was this. AVo had a wooden bed against 
 the v.-all. Bob gave me the inside, and insisted on my lying quito 
 straight ou the edge, while he rolled up in the uiiddle. By thig
 
 54 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 arrai5gement, I got the wood to sleep on and the wall to keep my 
 back Avarra, with such small corners of blanket as I could wrest 
 from Bob as soon as he went to sleep. If immediate effects led 
 open repining, I incurred punishment at once. I learned a 
 lesson from Bob, for which I have never ceased to thank him, in 
 resignation — cheerful, if possible — to the inevitable. Whenever, 
 as happened to me this morning, I get a j\lS. sent back, I say to 
 myself, ' For tliis were you prepared in early life by the Wood 
 and the Wall.' " 
 
 Quoth Jones readily — 
 
 "You remember, of course, those lines in Bunyan, quoted, I 
 think, by Lord Willbewill % Observe the peculiarly Bunyau- 
 esque turn of the second line, with its subtlety of thought :— 
 
 * He that is down may fear no fall ; 
 The monk may wear his hood : 
 Give me, for moral warmth the Wall, 
 For moral bed the Wood.' 
 
 It was the answer to a riddle asked by the Prince at the banquet 
 given when Mansoul was taken, and Diabolus evicted. It fol- 
 lows the conundrum of the Eed Cow, and is omitted in some 
 editions." 
 
 " Thank you very much," said Yenn, not smiling. " I have 
 only one or two more observations to make. The curious in 
 the matter of unsuccess may consult, if they think fit, my un- 
 published Opuscula. They will find there, clearly set forth, the 
 true symptoms of an unsuccessful man. Thus, he may be known 
 — not to be tedious — first, by his good spirits, as I have said ; 
 secondly, by his universal sympathies ; thirdly, by his extraor- 
 dinary flow of ideas ; fourthly, by a certain power of seeing 
 analogies ; and fifthly, by his constantly being in opposition. At 
 all times he is a heretic. The mere fact of a thing being con- 
 stituted by authority is sufficient to make him see, in more than 
 their true force, the argument on the opposite side." 
 
 " You remember," interrupted Jones, with a sweet smile, " the 
 lines of " 
 
 " Stop, Jones," cried Venn, " I will not endure it. Lynn, I 
 have finished. We will now, gentlemen talk of general 
 topics." 
 
 They talked, as usual, till late in the night. It was past three 
 o'clock when Venn said — 
 
 " This reminds me of a passage in my essay on * The Art of
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 55 
 
 Success.' I will read it you. The night is yet young. Where 
 are the Opuscula ?" 
 
 They looked at each other in dismay. Venn searched for the 
 essay everywhere ; not finding it, he remembered that he had 
 taken it to bed with him the night before, and "went into the 
 next room to get it. ^Yhen he returned, with his precious paper 
 in his hand, the room was emptj^ and there was sounds of 
 rapidly retreating footsteps on the stairs ; for all had fled. He 
 shook his head in sorrow rather than in anger, and looking at his 
 watch, murmured — 
 
 *' A general Exodus. They have left the Desert of the Exodus. 
 Past thr,ie o'clock ! An hour's sleep before daybreak is worth 
 three after it. Shall I have my beauty sleep? l^o. The 
 cultivation of the intellect before all. Hartley Venn, my dear 
 boy, had you always borne that in mind you would not now be 
 the Wreck you are." 
 
 He sat down and read, with an admiring air, the whole of bis 
 long paper from beginning to end. Then he gave a sigh of 
 contentment and weariness, and went to bed as the first gray of 
 the spring morning was lighting up the sky. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Hartley Vekx — whose account of himself to Arthur was, on 
 the whole, correct — is, at this time, a man of eight and thirty 
 In the course of his life he has tried a good many things, and 
 failed in ever}' one. He possesses a little income of between 
 three and four hundred a year, comfortably housed in Consols, 
 where he allows his cajntal to lie undisturbed, being as free as 
 as any man in the world from the desire to get rich. He is by 
 actual profession a barrister, having been called twelve years ago 
 at Lincolu's Inn. But as he has never opened a law book in his 
 life, or been inside a court of justice, it may safely be asserted 
 that he would have great difficulties to encounttr in the conduct 
 of any case with which a too credulous solicitor might entrust him. 
 l*"rlelJd^, anxious to see him " get on," once persuaded him to buy 
 a jiariijer.ship in an army coaching establishment, the previous 
 proprietor retirin<,' with a large fortune. All went well for a year 
 or two, when, owing to some of their pupils never passing, and 
 both himself and his partner being hopelessly bad men of busi-
 
 S6 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ness, they found themselves, at the besintiincf of one torm, with 
 two pupils to teach. Naturally, the affairs of the institution got 
 Avouud up after this. Hartley being the loser of the fifteen hundred 
 or so which he had invested for bis sh;)re. Then it was that be 
 retired to Gray's Inn, and took those chambers where we now find 
 him. He then became, as he was fond of calling himself, a literary 
 man — that is, he began that long series of Upuscula of which 
 mention has already been made. They were never published, 
 because editors invariably declined to accept them : no doubt 
 they were quite right. He was full of reading and scholarship — - 
 full of ideas ; but he never acquired that way of putting tilings 
 which the British public desir<'s. 
 
 He disliked revision, too, which bored him ; and he had a habit 
 of reading his own things over and over again till he got to know 
 them all by heart, and their very faults appeared beauties. To 
 some men a censor is absolutely necessary. I have often thought 
 of setting myself up as a professed literary adviser, ready to read, 
 correct, sugL^est, and cut down, at so niuch per page — say ten 
 pounds. He had a sort of uneasy consciousness that life would 
 pass away with him without bringing any sort of kudos to him ; 
 and though, from force of habit, he still kept note-books, and 
 covered acres of paper yearly, he had begun to look upon his 
 ■works as precious private property, written for his own recreation 
 and instruction — a treasure-house of wisdom for those j^ears of old 
 age when his ideas would begin to fail him. There are hundreds 
 of men like him. Eeader, thou who hast never looked over a 
 proof sheet, are there not within thy desk collections of verses, 
 sheets of essaj-s, bundles of tales, which it is thy secret pleasure 
 to read and read, and thy secret hope to publish ? Deny it not. 
 We, too, have had this time ; and there is no such delight in 
 reading the printed page — especially when the world has received 
 it coldly — as in gloating over the glorious possibilities of tho 
 manuscript. "What is the miser's joy, as he runs his fingers through 
 the gold, to the young writer's as he sits, door locked, pen in 
 hand, as modest over the tender fancies of his brain as any young 
 girl at her toilette over her charms ? 
 
 \^eun is a smooth-faced man, with a bright, fresh cheek — in spite 
 of late hours — anda light moustache. His hairisperfectlystraight, 
 and he shows no signs of getting gray like Lynn, or bald like Jones. 
 His face is long, with a somewhat retreating chin — sign of weak- 
 ness — and a long drooping nose, the melancholy and reflective 
 nose. He is not a tall mauj and bis shoulders stoop somewhat. Ha
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 57 
 
 has still an air of youth, whicli I think will never leave him, even 
 when his hair is silvery white. And his expression is one of very 
 great sweetness ; for he is one who has sympathies for all. They 
 talk of him still at the butteries of his old college, where, in his 
 hot youth, he played many a harmless frolic in his cups, and 
 where he endeared himself to all the servants. Indeed, it was 
 no other than Hartley Venn who bearded the great Master 
 of Trinity himself on that memorable night when, returning 
 unsteadily from a wine, he accosted the Doctor leaving the lodge, 
 and there and then challenged him to a discussion on the nature 
 of Jupiter's satellites. It was he, too — but why recall the old 
 stories ? Are they not chronicled at the freshmen's dinner table, 
 handed down to posterity like the Legends of King Arthur ? 
 The waiters at his favourite places of resort regard him as a 
 personal friend. They whisper secrets as to the best things up; 
 hide away papers for him ; tell him even of their family affairs ; 
 and sometimes consult him on matters of purely personal import- 
 ance. It was through Hartley, indeed, that I first conceived the 
 idea that waiters are human beings, with instincts, appetites, and 
 ambitions like the rest of us. It is really the case. And at the 
 Eritish Museum, such was the esteem with which the attendant 
 — he knew all their names, and would ask after their wifes and 
 families — regarded him, that he used never to have to wait more 
 than an hour to get his books. And this, as every one who uses 
 the reading-room knows, is the height of civility and attention. 
 
 An indolent, harmless, good-hearted man, who could not run 
 in harness ; who could do no work that was not self-imposed, 
 and who did no work well except the self-imposed task at which 
 he had been labouring for twelve years — the education of his 
 little girl. 
 
 Everybody in the Inn — that is, everybody connected with the 
 administration of the place — knew Laura Collingwood. Every 
 body, too, felt that the production of so admirable a specimen of 
 the English maiden reflected the greatest credit on all parties 
 concerned — on the benchers, the barristers, the students, the 
 porters, and the laundresses ; but especially on Mr. Venn. 
 
 It was about twelve years before this time, when Venn first 
 took his chambers, and in the very week when Mrs. Peck, his 
 laundress, began her long career of usefulness with him, that ho 
 found one morning, on returning from the INIuseura, a little child, 
 with long light hair and largo blue eyes, sitting on the steps in 
 the door-way of his staircase, crying with terror at an ovil-eyed,
 
 $i MY LITTLE CTRL. 
 
 solemn old Tom cat, wlio was gazing at her in a threatening man- 
 ner behind the railings. Unwashed, dirty, badly dressed, this 
 little rosy-cheeked damsel of six touched Venn's soft heart with 
 pit}"-, and he proposed at first to purchase apples, a proposition 
 whic)\ he carried into effect ; and leaving her with a handful of 
 good things, proceeded upstairs with a view to commit to paper 
 some of those invaluable thoughts which were seething in his 
 brain. Presently to his astonishment, the child followed him up 
 like a little terrier, and, sitting down gravely upon the lioarth 
 rug, began to talk to him with perfect confidence. Thereupon 
 he perceived that here was a new friend for him. 
 
 " What is your name, absurd little animal ?" he asked. 
 
 " Lollie CoUingwood." 
 
 "And who are your amiable parents. Miss Lollie CoUing- 
 wood, and what may be their rank in life ? "Where's your mother, 
 little one?" 
 
 " Mother's dead." 
 
 " Father, too T 
 
 " Got no father. Grandmother told me to sit stQl on the stepa. 
 Only the cat came. Here's grandmother." 
 
 Grandmother was no other than Mrs. Peck herself. Later on, 
 she explained to Venn that her daughter, who had left her to go 
 into service, and was a "likely sort o' gal" to look at, had come 
 back to her the year before with the child. 
 
 " Said her name was Mrs. CoUingwood. Said her husband 
 was dead. Oh ! dear-a-dear-a-me ! Said he was a gentleman. 
 And here was the baby — great girl already. And then she pined 
 away and died. And never a word about her husband's relations; 
 and the child for me to keep and all. And bread's rose awful." 
 
 Hartley took the child on his knees, and looked at it more 
 closely. As he looked thinking what a sad lot hers would be, 
 the little girl turned up her face to him, and laughed, putting up 
 her lips to be kissed with such a winning grace that Hartley's eyes 
 lau over. 
 
 " I'll help you with the child, Mrs. Peck," he said ; " don't be 
 afraid about it. Will you be my little girl, Lollie V 
 
 " I'se your little girl now," said the child. And they gave 
 each other the first of many thousand kisses. 
 
 " Now, wait here with grandmother, while I go to get some 
 things for you." 
 
 He set her down, and went to the establishment of a young 
 lad^, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, devoted to the
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 59 
 
 dressmaking mystery. The lady, by great good luck, had a 
 complete set of clothes for sale — property of somebody else's little 
 girl, deceased — and by invitation of Venn went round to his 
 chambers, where, first by the aid of warm water and soap, Dame 
 Nature's handiwork was made to look clean and white ; and then 
 with needle and thread and scissors, the child was arrayed in 
 what to her was unspeakable grandeur. 
 
 " That's my little girl, Miss Jj^^obbs," said Hartley, looking at 
 the result with beaming eyes. 
 
 " Well I'm sure, Mr. Venn ! You might have the good taste 
 not to throw your child in my teeth, I do think." 
 
 " My good soul, I didn't. Are your teeth broken. Let me 
 look at them." 
 
 Venn, j'ou see, was younger then. 
 
 " Ha' done now, Mr, Venn. You and your little girls, in- 
 deed !" 
 
 " My dear Miss Nobbs, you and I, I am sure, have the greatest 
 possible respect for each other. Do not let me be lowered in 
 your eyes. The child is the grand-daughter of my laundress, the 
 aged but still industrious Mrs. Peck." 
 
 " Snuffy old woman she is ! I can't think how you can have 
 her about you. And that is her grand-daughter T 
 
 " This is her grand-daughter — Miss Laura Collingwood. I 
 propose, Miss I^obbs, to devote a portion of my leisure moments 
 to the cultivation in this child of those mental accomplishments 
 and graces which have made you the admiration of the quarter." 
 
 " Good gracious, Mr. Venn ! — you'd talk a donkey's hind leg 
 off. Don't be ridiculous !" 
 
 " And secondly, Miss I^obbs, I propose to ask your assistance 
 in providing her with a set of suitable clothes." 
 
 "iXow you talk sense. Let's see — she'll want six pr' of 
 socks, two pr' of boots, three new pettikuts, four pr' of — yes four 
 pr' of " 
 
 "Let us not go into all the details," said Venn. "I need 
 hardly say, IMiss j!^obbs, that in selecting you out of the many 
 talented and tasteful costumieres in our aristocratic and select 
 neighbourhood, I rely entirely on that professional skill 
 which " 
 
 " Lord, lord !" said Miss Nobbs, "if all the gentlemen talked 
 like you, where should we all be, I wonder? You let the child 
 come to me to-morrow, and tlion I'll do all I can for her. You're 
 a good man, I do believe, Mr. Venn, though you are so full of 
 talk."
 
 6o AfV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Take a glass of "wine, Miss Nobbs, and drink the health of 
 Lollie." 
 
 This was the beginning of it all. Next day the child was brought 
 round, solemnly arrayed in her new splendour, to be looked 
 at. Hartley kept her with him all the afternoon, and gave her 
 the first glimpse of the alphabet. This he found so amusing, 
 that he repeated it every day until he had taught the child, who 
 was wonderfully quick and intelligent, to read. Then he laid in 
 an immense stock of picture books, and gave them to his little girl 
 as fast as she could read them ; and then he taught her to 
 write. 
 
 Three or four years papsed on in this way. The afternoon 
 lessons had never been interrupted, save when Venn went away 
 for a fortnight or so in the autumn. They had gradually 
 lengthened out, so as to take up nearly the Avhole day. Lollie 
 came now between eleven and twelve, and did not go home till 
 six, arrangements being made with a neighbouring purveyor to 
 send up luncheon to Mr. Venn every day at two, which was 
 Lollie's dinner. She was then ten or eleven years old — a child 
 Avith long fair curls hanging down her back, knuckly elbows, and 
 long legs, such as most young ladies of her age may show. Only 
 her face is much the same as when Venn picked her up on thn 
 doorstep, with a soft, confiding expression. She promises well 
 ■ — little Lollie — to grow up into a beautiful woman. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The most perfect love and confidence existed between Hartley 
 and the child. The}'^ were a strangelj' assorted pair. He told 
 Lollie, almost as soon as she could understand anything, all his 
 projects — all his disappointments. She learned to know him 
 with that perfect knowledge which comes of always reading one 
 mind. She knew what he would think, what he would sav_^ 
 what he liked. Her whole life v;as in him, and all her thouglits 
 borrowed from his. For him, the girl had become a necessary 
 part of his existence. Her education was his pleasure ; talking 
 to her the only society he had ; she the only person in the world 
 who seemed to care about what he did and how he did it. 
 
 When she was \zvl or eleven the child had a fever. Then 
 Hartley kept her in liis own chambers till she was well again*
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 6i 
 
 Her grandmother came, too — deeply resentful at being put out, 
 but afraid to murmur. When she hovered between life and 
 death, and prattled, when delirious, of green fields, it was Hartley 
 Avho sat up night after night, watching her with anxious eyes, 
 while the old woman slumbered in the easy-chair. And when 
 she got better — for it was bright spring weather — he took her 
 away up the river for a fortnight ; where they rowed, and walked 
 and talked, and the roses came back to little Lollie's cheeks. 
 
 There was no question of affection between them, because 
 there was no doubt. Do you think Adam was always bothering 
 to know whether Eve loved him % Rubbish ! He knew she did. 
 As for Hartley, what had he to think about but the girl % What 
 had the girl to think about but Hartley ? Whom had she to love 
 except him ? What grace of life, what sweetness, what joy, what 
 hope, but in him — her guardian, her teacher, her protector 1 
 
 The fortnight up the river was the first break Lollie had known 
 from her town life. Henceforth it was her dream, her ideal of 
 all that constitutes real and solid pleasure. She had before the 
 story begins, one more break in a month by the sea. But this 
 was not the same thing, because there was a third person with 
 them. This was how it came about. 
 
 It was autumn, and Hartley was meditating his usual brief 
 flight to the seaside. The girl was sitting in her usual place in 
 the window-seat, with her feet up, a book in her lap, and in her 
 hands some little work. 
 
 " Lollie," said Hartley, "how should you like to go to the sea- 
 side with me T 
 
 She jumped off the seat with a cry of delight. 
 
 " I am not quite certain whether I can manage it; but I am 
 going to try. I shall ask my sister to take you." 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " But that won't be going with you." 
 
 " I shall go too. Listen, Lollie. I want you, as you grow up, 
 to grow up a lady. I am teaching you the things that ladies are 
 supposed to learn at schools. But there are some things which 
 I cannot teach you. These you can only learn from a lady. I 
 refer, my child, not to those little dialectic peculiarities, if I may 
 call them so, of our neighbourhood — " 
 
 ■' Oh, Mr. Venn, don't say I talk like a little street girl." 
 
 " Not to those idioms," ho went on, as if obliged to get rid of 
 one sentence before he could frame another — " invaluable as they 
 Rie to the philologist, but to the minor detaile of deportment."
 
 62 Afy LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 She sat poutiug. 
 
 " I'm sure you always said I behaved very well." 
 
 " So you do, Lollie, my child ; aud you have always been the 
 best of little girls. That is the reason why you are going to be ou 
 your best behaviour now. Put on your hat, and walk part of 
 the Avay with me to Woburn-place, where Sukey lives." 
 
 Sukey was Miss Venn. Her real name was Lavinia ; but her 
 brothers — Hartley and the unfortunate Bob already mentioned — 
 agreed early in life that so ridiculous a name should be suppressed, 
 and changed it, without her consent, to the homely name by 
 which she was ever after known. She, too, inherited a little 
 money, with a house, from her father, on which she lived in 
 considerable comfort, with the old family servant Anne, and a 
 subordinate maid. She was a fat, comfortable sort of person 
 now approaching perilously near to forty. She had given up 
 all ideas of matrimony, and chiefly occupied herself with her 
 different curates — because she never could quite make up her 
 mind between Low and High Church — and with little things to 
 eat. Hartley used to go and see her once in three months or so, 
 every now and then asking her to come and breakfast Avith him. 
 On these occasions he would provide kidneys — " to keep up the 
 family tie," he used to say. 
 
 Sukey received him with her usual cordiality, and rang the 
 bell for Anne to come up and shake hands with him. 
 
 " I am going to the seaside for three weeks, Sukey," said he ; 
 " and I want you to come with me." 
 
 It was the very first time in his life that Hartley had expressed 
 any desire whatever for his sister's company, and she was for 
 the moment taken all aback. It took a considerable time to 
 get her to make up her mind that it would do her good, aud it 
 was not till Anne herself interfered despotically that she gave 
 way. 
 
 " Very well," said Hartley; "then that's settled. We'll go 
 the day after to-morrow. Oh, I forgot to say that I am taking 
 my little girl with me." 
 
 His sister changed colour. 
 
 " It is for your sake, my dear Sukey," he said, persuasively — ■ 
 " for your sake entirely. Far away from Anne, from your — 
 your pill-box and your little comforts, suppose you were taken 
 ill ] So Lollie is to go with us to look after you, and be your 
 companion in hours of solitude." 
 
 Sukey fairly burst out laughing.
 
 Aiy LITTLE GIRL, 63 
 
 " My hours of solitude, indeed ? Hartley, you are the greatest 
 humbug I ever knew. I am to go with you because you want the 
 child taught to be a lady. Oh, don't tell me. A lady, indeed 
 — the daughter of a laundress !" 
 
 " Pardon me, dear Sukey. Her grandmamma occupies that 
 position. Her father was a gentleman. Our grandfather, my 
 sister " 
 
 " "Was a bishop, Hartley. Don't forget that, if you please." 
 
 " We had two, dear. It may be uncommon ; but such is the 
 fact. In our family we had two grandfathers. One of them was, 
 if I may remind you, not wholly unconnected with the wholesale 
 glue and " 
 
 " Don't be provoking ! Well, Hartley, though I must say 
 your taking up with the child at all is the most ridiculous 
 thing, and what you are going to do with her I don't know ; 
 yet " 
 
 " Yet you'U go the day after to-morrow, my dear Sukey. Come 
 and breakfast to-morrow at ten. That will not be too late for you. 
 At this season, sister, kidneys attain to a size and flavour unknown 
 as the year advances." 
 
 And this was the way in which Lollie got her education. 
 
 Time passes on his way ; and, as is his wont, takes from one 
 to give to another. Little Lollie grew from a rosy-faced child to 
 a woman — not so rosy, not so brimful of mirth and glee ; but 
 bright, happy, intelligent, and beautiful. Do you know the time 
 — it may be a year, it may be a month, it may be a day or an 
 hour, according to circumstances — which separates the child from 
 the woman? It is a curious time. Watch the young maiden of 
 seventeen. You avlII find her fitful, fanciful, inclined to long 
 reveries ; sometimes impatient and petulant. The old habits of 
 thought are passing away from her, and the new ones are as yet 
 stiange and awkward. It is a time of transition. It lasts but a 
 little whde ; for soon the sweet spring breezes blow, the buds of 
 thought and fancy open into blossom, and your chOd is a maiden, 
 tempestiva viro — fit for love. 
 
 It is at this time that Venn's little girl has arrived. Hartley 
 is conscious— dimly conscious, of a change in her. At times an 
 uneasy feeling crosses him that the old childish customs must be, 
 some time or other, modified. Then he puts the thought from 
 him, glad to get rid of an unpl(j;isaut subject, and things go on 
 the same as before. Not that Lollio thinks ^y change will over
 
 64 MY LITTLE Gil? L. 
 
 come. To her, life means reading, playing, working, in the old 
 chambers ; and pleasure means going up the river in the summer, 
 or to the theatre in the winter, with her guardian. 
 
 It is a Sunday iu early spring, one of those which come in Aprils 
 as warm as a Jidy day, and make the foolish blossoms open out 
 wide in a credulous confidence — which no experience can shake 
 that the East wind is dead and has been comfortably buried. 
 " Courage," they say, like Charles Reade's Eurgundian soldier — 
 "courage, camarades, le diable est mort." Tcdcing advantage of 
 the weather, Mr. Venn has brought his little girl to Eichuioud, 
 and they are floating on the river, basking in the sun — Lolliu 
 holding the strings, Venn occasionally dipping his sculls in the 
 water to keep a little way on the boat. 
 
 " I've been thinking, Lollie," he begins, after half an hour's 
 silence. 
 
 " Don't let us think novr. Look at the flecks of sunlight on 
 the water," she replies, " and how the trees are green already. 
 Can you not write a poem on the river, Mr. Venn 1" 
 
 '* What we are to do with each other T he went on, without 
 noticing her interruption. " We can't go on for ever like this, 
 child." 
 
 " Don't, Mr. Venn. Let us be happy while we can. Listen. 
 There are the church bells — the church bells !" she went on. 
 " Why have you never taken me to church, Mr. Venn ? Why 
 do we not go, like other people ?" 
 
 " There are various reasons why they go, none of which seem 
 applicable to us, Lollie. They go because it is respectable : we 
 are not respectable. Poor we are, it is true, and scrupulously 
 clean ; but persons of no occupation, and certainly not respect- 
 able. Then, a good many worthy people go because it is the 
 custom : it is not our custom. Because they want to wear their 
 best clothes : we, my dear, have no best clothes at all. Because 
 they want a little variety and excitement : you and I take our 
 pleasure less sadly. And some go out of religion and devotion 
 — which we do not feel, at present." 
 
 She was silent. Somehow, perhaps, she felt that there was a 
 sort of separation between her and that respectable world of which 
 she could only know the outside. 
 
 *' But when we do feel religious, we shall go, shall we not?" 
 she asked. 
 
 Venn nodded. Ho was full of thought on this new question 
 of the girl's future.
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 65 
 
 " Here is a water-lily for you, Lollie — sit steady — the first of 
 
 the secison Let us number up your accomplishments 
 
 child. You can play the piano — that is something. Yon can, 
 sing a little — not much, it is tirue ; your voice being, as Sukey 
 would say, what Providence made it. Very odd that they put all 
 the failures on to Providence ! You can read, and talk and write 
 French. You know Latin ; though why I taught you Latin I 
 don't know." 
 
 " If it was only to read Horace with you," said the girl, half- 
 pouting, " I really think you might have taught me something 
 else. With his wine, and his lyre, and his eternal egotism," 
 
 " He should have been here to-day, lying at your feet, Lollie, 
 crowned with myrtle, playing on his lyre, and singing, as lie 
 floated down the sunny river, to the spring — 
 
 ' Diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis, 
 Arboribusque comae. ' " 
 
 "Which you translated, the other day, when we read it — 
 
 ' The year, for her reasons, keeps changing her seasons ; 
 
 Now the leaves to the Terrace return, and the crocus to Kew. 
 Earth puts off her seal skin, and, clad in her real skin, 
 
 Smiles bright through her blossoms at Spring with its sunshine and 
 dew.' " 
 
 Venn laughed. 
 
 " Yes, child ; that is, I believe, how Horace might have written 
 had he lived in these latter days. You know how to touch the 
 tender place in my heart. If we have any pride, it is in certain 
 portions — unpublished — of the Opuscula, where an imitation 
 touches — we only say touches — the original. But we were talk- 
 ing about Horace. I introduced you to him, you know. Surely 
 you would like him — the fat little man, melancholy because he 
 is getting older — to be with us now T 
 
 " Yes pretty well ; only I suppose he would have tired of us 
 very soon. AVe are not grand enough for him, you know. Ovid 
 would have been better. He 'would have told us stories like 
 th't'ie we read together in the ' Metamorphoses,' about Cephalu.s 
 and Procris, for instance. But, no. I think I don't care much 
 for your old poets. I tell you what we will do when the summer 
 comes, Mr. Venn : we will come here with Alfred do Mussot, and 
 read *La ^^uit de Decembre,' for contrast, while the sun is high 
 
 5
 
 66 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 over our heads, in the shade of a willow — shall wel I Bometime* 
 think — " here she stopped. 
 
 "What do you think, Lollie?" 
 
 A child, you see, can tell you all ; but in the transition state 
 the thoughts grow confused. For then the mind is like a gallery 
 of pictures lit up with cross lights, so that none can be properly 
 seen. She half blushed. 
 
 "Go on with my accomplishments, Mr. Venn." 
 
 " WeU, we left off at the Latin. As for Greek—" 
 
 " No, I will not learn Greek. You may translate things to 
 me if you like." 
 
 "At the new College for Ladies, I believe they make the 
 damsels learn Greek. That shows your prejudice to be un- 
 founded." 
 
 " Never mind, I won't learn Greek." 
 
 "Well, then, I fear you have come to the length of your 
 knowledge. Stay, it is not every girl of eighteen who has read 
 Hallam, or who knows the literature of her country half so well 
 as you. Upon my word, Lollie, I begin to think that our sys- 
 tem of education is a success. You are a very learned little 
 person, A few ologics, and we should be perfect. Unfortunately 
 I don't know any, not one — not even the ology of describing 
 nasty things in ponds. How long is it since the education 
 began? Twelve years. You are eighteen, child. We must 
 think about " — he stopped for a moment — " about sending you 
 to the new college, to carry off the prizes," he went on. 
 
 She shook her head, and he rowed on — Lolly thoughtfully 
 dipping her gloveless finger in the bright water, as the boat 
 floated along under the bank. 
 
 " Could we not come always and live in the country, Mr. 
 Venn ? Why do people choose to spend their lives in a great 
 town % See, now, we could have a cottage, my grandmother 
 and I, and you should have a house, like that one, only smaller, 
 with willows over the river, and a sloping lawn. We would 
 sit out in the air aU day, and read and talk." 
 
 " And never get tired — never want a change 1" 
 
 " No, never. Why should we ? I have such a lot of things, 
 sometimes, coming into my head — questions, thoughts. I 
 should like to put them all down as they come to me, and then 
 bring them to you." 
 
 "Why don't you put them down, my little girl?" said 
 Hartley, looking in her face with his kindly eye?^. " Why not
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 67 
 
 come to me ] And if I can't answer them, we will try to find 
 somebody who can. Tell me some of them." 
 
 " I hardly remember. Only the contrast of the quiet and 
 beauty out here with London makes me sad sometimes, when I 
 ought to be happy. Do you think I am grateful, Mr. Venn T 
 
 " It is I who am not grateful, LoUie. Do you know all you 
 have done for me?" 
 
 " No. I am selfish. I am always thinking of what you have 
 done for me. What have I done V 
 
 " I can hardly tell you all, Lollie. I will tell you something. 
 It is about twelve years now since I made out, quite clearly and 
 unmistakably, what fate haKi in store for me. The prophetic 
 voice said to me, ' Hartley Venn, you are no good. You are a 
 person without common sense, without energy, without courage. 
 You must therefore make up your mind to obscurity. You will 
 not be able to marry — you must not fall in love. You had 
 better resign yourself to live in your chambers until you require 
 a nurse.' I said, ' Very well, my venerable sisters of the fatal 
 spinning machine. I would have asked a few questions ; but 
 perhaps, as it is easier to ask than get an answer, I had better 
 hold my tongue. I accept the position, ladies, with a general 
 protest against the inequality of things. I accept the position. 
 Perhaps,' I went on to say, with withering irony, ' I may not 
 be so proud of your handiwork as to wish for a continuance of 
 my kind. You may break up my mould, if you please, and as 
 soon as you please. It won't be wanted again.' They hadn't a 
 word to say in reply." 
 
 " I don't understand," said Lollie — " that is, I only half un- 
 derstand. You mean that you had not enough money for mar- 
 riage V 
 
 "Exactly so ; and that I did not see my way to getting any. 
 The prospect was not alluring. But then, you see, that com- 
 pensating power in Nature, whom, I think, the Romans should 
 have made a goddess, one who would go about administering 
 compensatory gifts, gave me — you, child ; and I have been 
 happy ever since, watching you grow, and become Aviser and 
 better ; trying to show me what a lady ought to be, and getting 
 younger myself in catching the enthusiasm of your youth. My 
 little girl, you have been the sunshine of my life !" 
 
 The tears came into Lollie's eyes. 
 
 ** You are too good to me, Mr. Venn. I will try and remem- 
 
 5—2
 
 6S MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ber what you have said to-day. But don't say it again. Never 
 Bay it again, please." 
 
 "Why not, my child?" 
 
 " I don't know. When you said that T was your sunshine — 
 ah ! what, then, is my sunshine % A cloud crossed the river, 
 and it seemed as if your sunshine was suddenly taken away. It 
 is foolish — foolish — foolish !" she repeated, laughing ; " but 
 please don't say it again." 
 
 Venn was resting on his skulls, and looking in her eyes with 
 a vague sort of anxiety. Her cheek was flushed, and her lips 
 trembled. She held out her hand to him, and smiled. 
 
 " Forgive me. I am your little girl — your daughter — your 
 ward — and you are my — " 
 
 " Not your ftither, child," returned Venn, hastily. ''Here is 
 Teddington, Lollie. Let us have no more confessions. Tell 
 me some of your thoughts while we go back, and keep a look- 
 out. Eemember that day when you ran me into a tree at 
 Clieveden Woods." 
 
 " Oh, what fun it was !" she laughed ; *' and it took us half 
 an hour to get the boat out again. Now, then, we shall be hack 
 in a quarter of an hour. What shall I tell you — some of my 
 old thoughts ] I used to think that if I was rich — -very rich, 
 you know — what a difi'erent Avorld I would make it. Every 
 poor man's house should be clean, every poor man should be 
 taught not to drink, there should be no cruel want in the winter, 
 bread and coals should never ' go up,' and the world should not 
 know what was meant by the word hunger. Those were doll's 
 thoughts, you know. Then I used to think, when I got a little 
 older, how that one person — tolerably rich — might make a little 
 street his own, and by force of example, show people how they 
 ought to live. Then I got older still ; and now I think what 
 one person could do, if he had the strength and the will, with- 
 out any money at all." 
 
 "How would he do it, and what would he do?" 
 
 " He might live among poor people, and find out the way to 
 help them without making them dependent. A man could do 
 it, it he was not always trying to make people go to church. 
 A clergyman might do it, if he was not like those I see about. 
 Ent nobody will do it ; and the people are getting worse and 
 worse." 
 
 " J>on't think too much of the people, Lollie " 
 
 *• But I must think of them, Mr. Vemi . Do I not belong to
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 69 
 
 them ? Bo I not live among them 1 They are all good to me ; 
 and it goes to my heart that I have been taught so many things, 
 and can do so little. Well, then, you see, I think about other 
 things — myself and my lessons, and you, and the dear old 
 chambers, with the chairs dropping to pieces. If I were rich, I 
 should cover the chairs, and get a new carpet, and buy you a 
 new dressing-gown, and have the walls painted over again, and 
 make them so fine that we should hardly know each other 
 again." 
 
 " They do for us, Lollie." 
 
 "Ah, yes — they are delightful old chambers. Do you know, 
 Mr. Venn," she went on, with a sigh, " I should like to know 
 some \oung ladies. I don't mean like Miss Venn, but quite 
 young girls, like myself, I see them walking in the squares 
 with each other and their governesses. I wonder what they 
 talk about. Do you know]" 
 
 " I knew a young lady once," answered Venn, meditatively. 
 " She used to ask everybody if they liked ' In Memoriam,' and 
 she used to talk about dress a good deal." 
 
 " I suppose in those houses about Tavistock and Eussell 
 Squares they have everything they want. Plenty of amusement, 
 with all nice people — ladies and gentlemen. They make all 
 their interest in study, don't you think"? "With their opportu- 
 nities, you know, they ought to. They are always trying to do 
 good to each other. They never have bad tempers, or say 
 unkind words to each other, like poor people. They don't talk 
 scandal like poor people ; and they are not always thinking of 
 finery, like poor girls — not always craving for excitement, like 
 my class. It must be a delicious thing to be a young lady. 
 * Manners makyth ye man,' as I read the other day. Isn't it a 
 funny thing to say % But I should like to see how manners 
 makyth ye woman. I imagine the life of one of these young 
 ladies. When I see one walking along, looking so quiet, and 
 thoughtful, and proud, I say, ' My dear, you are very happy ; 
 you have no frivolous or foolish tastes, because you are so well 
 educated. You have read all the best books, you know how to 
 dress tastefully, you do not spend more than half an hour a day 
 over your things, you are full of schemes for doing good, you 
 are not always thinking about sweethearts, but some time or 
 other your lover will come to you and take you away.' Every 
 woman must tliink of love a little, you know. We are happy 
 80 — isn't that the reason, Mr. Venn ? Then, I see them going
 
 70 MY LITTLE CTRL. 
 
 to church. It must be a beautiful thing going to church — all 
 kneeling together, without a thought except of goodness and 
 religion. You can teach me, Mr. Venn, and educate me to all 
 sorts of things ; but you can never make me like one of the 
 young ladies I see as I walk about." 
 
 " I don't want to, Lollie. I like you best as you are. Let 
 me pull her in. Now then, child, take care how you step." 
 
 They went back by train, and dined together at seven ; then 
 up to Venn's chambers, where Lollie, who was very quiet and 
 thoughtful, made tea. After tea, she played for him one or two 
 of his favourite " Lieder ohne Worte," while he smoked a pip© 
 by the fire side, and looked at his little girl. 
 
 She was a tall girl now — not little at all. Her light hair had 
 darkened into brown, her blue eyes were of a deeper colour. 
 She had a perfectly oval face ; her mouth was small, and her 
 lips perhaps a little too thin, tremulous ; her nose straight and 
 clear cut, her chin slightly — very slightly — projecting — -just 
 enough to show possible strength of will. Her wealth of hair 
 wanted no artificial pads to set it up and throw it off as it lay, 
 like an Apocalyptic crown of virtue, upon her head. She was 
 dressed in a blue alpaca, simple and tasteful. She had thrown 
 off the jacket and hat she had worn all day, and her little fingers 
 rambled up and down the keys of the old piano as if they knew, 
 without any telling, where the music lay. As she played — by 
 the upturned eye, by the trembling lip, by the fixed gaze — you 
 knew that her soul was in the music, far away. 
 
 Venn looked at her long and earnestly. What was he to do 
 with this treasure — this pearl of maidens, that he had picked 
 out from the very gutter and made a princess ? Did you ever 
 mark, in some rough, squalid field, rank with coarse grass, foul 
 with potsherds and rubbish, some sweet wild flower, blossoming 
 all by itself — the one single pretty thing in the compound? 
 Nature is always providing such wild flowers. Over the ruinous 
 wall she trains the ivj', on the broken-down ramparts she plants 
 the wallflower \ she will not that anything should go on without 
 some touch of beauty to redeem the rest. On the seas are the 
 loveliest sunsets, in the Desert the Children of Israel had their 
 mirage. So you have seen, in some coarse, rough place in Lon- 
 don, in some reeking manufacturing town, among faces blotched, 
 faces smirched, faces besotted, faces sharp with the gold hunger, 
 faces heavy with the remembrance of crime, faces vulgarised by 
 common and stupid vices, faces low, bad, base, some one face in
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 7t 
 
 a crowd, so brigbt, so pure, so beautiful, so lofty, that it seemed 
 to redeem the ugliness of all the rest. And such was the face 
 of LoUie. 
 
 Venn put down his pipe, and stood behind her as she played 
 She looked up in his face without stopping. 
 
 " You are happy, child T he asked, taking her face in his 
 hands, and kissing her forehead in his paternal way. 
 
 "As if I am not always happy here !" 
 
 A cold chill passed through Venn's heart ; for he then, for the 
 tirst time, perceived that there was another side to this picture. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Another side to the picture ! Yes. For twelve long years the 
 girl had been growing at his feet, coming to him daily, sitting 
 beside him as he unfolded the treasures of knowledge to her, and 
 taught her, within the bounds of innocence, all he knew himself 
 She came in the morning — she left him about six ; for eight 
 hours or so she was his constant companion. Then she went 
 away, out of his thoughts — according to his habit ; and he went 
 to his club, to his restaurant, to his half-dozen friends, talked, 
 smoked, drank brandy-and-water, and came home again. 
 
 And what did she do % 
 
 She went home — what she called home — to Puddock's-row. 
 
 There was once, in the old times, an unfortunate young person 
 whose fate it was to be half her life an animal — I believe a cat, 
 if my memory, a treacherous one at best, does not play me false ; 
 the other half she might spend in the ordinary delightful figure 
 of the girl of the period. So, too, Mclusine, daughter of Pres- 
 sine of Avalon, and wife of the Knight Raimondin, who was 
 obliged to forbid her husband ever to look upon her on Satur- 
 days, when she put on, from waist downwards, the scales and 
 skin of a serpent. Little LoUie, very early in life, realised that 
 her life was to be something like one of these ladies — of whom, 
 however, .she had never heard. From ten to six, or tliereabouts 
 — Sundays as well as week days — civilisation, light, ease, clean- 
 liness, comfort, culture ; all the pleasures that can bo had in 
 talking, learning, Avriting, and music ; a life of affection, thought- 
 fulness, and care ; a time spent with a man sf> much older than 
 herself that even now, that she was grown up, she looked upon 
 him as almost her father, and loved him as much as anv fathei
 
 72 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 coTild be loved. From ten to six, a sweet innocence of trust, 
 the growth of twelve years' intercourse, of the outpouring of 
 coulicleuce which slic could give to no other person in the world, 
 from ten to six the modest pride that the girl had in being the 
 object of all this grace and tenderness in her Bohemian pro- 
 tector. 
 
 But from six to ten, Puddock'e-row. 
 
 To know Puddock's-row aright, you must visit it at least 
 every night in the week, at each successive season. As the pro- 
 gress of my stor}' might be hindered in the description of eight 
 and twenty nights, let us only give a few general details. Lol- 
 lie's grandmamma occupied a first floor — four and sixpence the 
 two rooms — in the Eow, and was considered a rich and fortunate 
 woman. She had only one set of rooms to attend, and Venn 
 only gave her six and sixpence a week for all her motherly care ; 
 and Lollie did not know that her own pension money, weekly 
 administered in addition to this, by Venn, was all they had to 
 live upon. The inhabitants of the Eow looked upon the girl 
 with respectful admiration. Of her virtue there could be but 
 one opinion, and but one of her beauty. She was the pattern 
 of the court ; and moralising mothers, when they were sober 
 enough to point the moral and improve the tale, were apt to fix 
 her success as a theme, and narrate her story to envying daugh- 
 ters as that of one who had risen by her own merits. 
 
 They were a kindly, dissolute, improvident race — always sin- 
 ning, always repentant, always sick and sorrJ^ There was the 
 old lady at the end of the court, who worked hard all the week 
 and got drunk every Saturdaj' niglit, and was wont to come out 
 at twelve, with her hand to her head, crying aloud unto the four 
 ^vinds, " Oh, Lord, how bad I be !" There were the family of 
 five brothers at No. 2, who fouglit most nights in pairs, the 
 other three looking on. There were two or three laundresses of 
 the Inn, who were even worse, as regards personal habits and 
 appearance than poor old Mrs. Peck, and envious of her superior 
 fortune. There was a swarming population all day and all night ; 
 there was no peace, no quietness, no chance for anything but 
 endurance. 
 
 And in the midst of all this the poor girl had to spend her 
 eveniugs and her nights. Sonietimes she would cry aloud for 
 shame and misery. Sometimes, when she was left alone, the 
 squalor of her surrounding circumstances would appear so dread- 
 ful, so intolerable, so miserable, that she would resolve to beg
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. ?3 
 
 and implore Mr. Venn to take her out of tliern. Sometimes 
 she would shut out the world around her by building castles in 
 the air, and so forget things. Only, as time went on and things 
 did not change but for the worse, she found it becoming daily 
 more difficult to keep up the illusions of hope, and persuade 
 herself that all this would have an end. 
 
 The poor grandmother was a trial. I am afraid the wicked 
 old woman purloined half the money that Venn gave her for his 
 Avard, and put it into a stocking. She was not a nice old woman 
 to look at. She had disagreeable habits. She was not reticent 
 of speech. She was interested mainly in the price of the commoner 
 kinds of provisions, such as the bloater of Leather-lane. And 
 when she was in a bad temper, which was often, she was a 
 JN'agster. From habit, Lollie always let Jier go on till it was 
 bed-time. Then, at least, she was free, for the little room at 
 the back belonged to her. She could have comparative quiet 
 there, at any rate. The old woman preferred sleeping among 
 her pots and pans, as she had been brought up to do, in the 
 front room. Besides, she was afraid of her grand-daughter, and 
 yet proud and fond of her. She felt more comfortable when 
 the child was gone to bed, and she could nag all to herself — 
 audibly, it is true, and with the assistance of a little bottle con- 
 taining some of Mr. Venn's brandy. On the whole, she Avas 
 well pleased that she had but little of the girl's society. For 
 like will to like ; and many were the cheerful little gatherings, 
 not unenlivened with gin, which took place on that first floor, 
 what time Lollie was gone to the theatre with ]Mr. Vena, with 
 ancient contemporaries of this dear old woman. 
 
 I think I see her now. " Tout ce qu'il y a du plus afifreux." An 
 antique " front " always twisted awry over a brow — marbled, in- 
 deed, bnt not with thought A countenance in which deep lines 
 were marked with a deeper black than covered the rest. Small, 
 cunning eyes : if you lead a small, cunning life, your eyes do 
 most inevitably become small and cunning of aspect. Fat lips, 
 such as might come from always eating roast pork — the greatest 
 luxury with which Mrs. Peck was acquainted. A bonnet never 
 removed day or night. A dress — but, no, let us stop. Is there 
 not a sort of sacrilege in describing, only to mock at her, a poor 
 old creature who was what the conditions of life made her % Let 
 us bring honour and reverence to old age. For Mrs. Peck no 
 more shall be said. To her virtues very kind, Hartley Venn wa.« 
 to all her faults very blind. She cribbed everything. She never
 
 74 ^^y LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 cleaned anything. She smashed every thing. She cheated. But 
 she was Lollie's grandmother. 
 
 LoUie's education we have sufficiently descrihed. It had, as 
 we have hinted, one capital defect. There was not one word of 
 religion about it. Venn — not because he was an infidel, which 
 he was not ; nor because he wished to make an experiment, 
 which was not the case ; but simply out of pure carelessness and 
 indifference, and because he never Avent to church himself — 
 taught his little girl no religion whatever. Slie knew, from 
 reading, something — the something being the most curious med- 
 ley possible, from a mixture of every kind of Latin, French, and 
 English authors. Venn respected maidenly innocence so far as 
 to keep harmful books, as he thought them — that is directly 
 harmfiil — out of her way ; but he gave the child first a literary 
 taste, and then access to writers whose ideas of religion were 
 more " mixed " than would have been good for the most mas- 
 culine intellect. The Bible she had never even seen ; for the 
 only copy in Venn's possession had, many years before, tumbled 
 behind the bookcase, and was thus lost to view. And of ladies 
 she knew but one. Miss Venn, who still asked her to tea once or 
 twice a year, treated her with exemplary politeness, and sent her 
 away with a frigid kiss. Miss Venn, you see, was suspicious. 
 She always fancied her brother was going to marry the girl ; and 
 therefore made it her business to try and make her understand 
 the great gulf Avhich comparative rank establishes between people 
 • — grandchildren of bishops, for instance, and grandchildren of 
 laundresses. 
 
 She had two lovers — past and rejected, bien entendu. One 
 was a gallant young lawyer's clerk in the Inn, about her own age, 
 who accosted her one morning with a letter, which she handed, 
 unopened, to Venn. It contained honourable proposals. Venn 
 descended to the court where the aspirant was waiting for an 
 answer, and there and then administered a light chastisement 
 with A walking cane ; the policeman — he of the big beard and 
 the twinkling eyes, not the thin one — looking on with a grim 
 but decided approval. 
 
 Then there was Sims the baker. A quite genteel young man 
 of a Sunday, if you see him got up in his best, blue tie, and flower 
 in his button hole, with a cane. He attacked the fortress through 
 the grandmother, and persuaded her to accept the first offerings 
 of love, in the shape of certain fancy ones, which greatly pleased 
 the old lady. To her astonishment, the child threw the gifts
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL 75 
 
 out of window ; and Mr. Venn went round the next day and 
 
 had a serious talk with the young man. He put on mourning 
 the next Sunday, and walked up and down the Gray's Inn-road 
 all day in the disguise of a mute. But Lollie never saw him ; 
 so his silent sorrow was thrown away, and he returned to his 
 Sally Lunns. 
 
 And this is all her story up to the point when we left her in 
 Venn's chamber playing to him. 
 
 It was between nine and ten o'clock that she left Gray's Inn 
 for home — not five minutes' walk, and one which she always 
 took alone. Here she had a little adventure. For as she was 
 striding fast along the pavement of Holborn, she became aware 
 of a " gentleman " walking beside her, and gazing into her face. 
 It was one of those moral cobras, common enough in London 
 streets — venomous but cowardly, and certain to recoil harmless 
 before a little exhibition of daring. He coughed twice. Lollie 
 looked straight before her. Then he took off his hat, and spoke 
 something to her. Then, finding she took no notice of him, he 
 took her hand and tried to pass it under his arm. 
 
 " We are old friends, my dear," he said, with an engaging 
 smile. 
 
 She shook him off with terror, crying out. 
 
 There were a few people passing at the time who were astonished 
 to see one gentleman take another gentleman by the coat collar, 
 and kick that gentleman into the gutter. 
 
 " Insulted a lady," said the champion to the bystanders, and 
 going back to Lollie. 
 
 " Yah !" cried the little mob, closing round him, for he was 
 down. And when Lothario emerged from that circle, his hat was 
 battered in, and probably a whole quarter's salary of mischief 
 done to his wardrobe. The moral of this shows how prudent it 
 is not to be taken at a disadvantage. Also that it is best to get 
 up at once if you are kicked into the gutter, and to cross the 
 road ; and, thirdly, that as the mob is sure to join the winning 
 side, it is best to be the victor in all street encounters. Some 
 historians give no moral at all to their incidents ; for my part, 
 my morals are my strong point. When I do not give one, it is 
 only because the moral may be read in so many ways that even 
 three volumes cannot stretch so far. 
 
 " Permit me to see you safely part of your way at least," said 
 Lollie's knight. 
 
 He was a gentleman, though apparently of a differe^it kind to
 
 ^(i MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Mr. Venn, being very carefully and elaborately dressed. His 
 face she hardly noticed, except that he had a small and very 
 black moustache. But she was so frightened that she was not 
 thinking of faces. 
 
 " I live close by," she said. " Permit me to thank you, sir, for 
 your brave interference. I have never been insulted before. 
 You have done me a great service. Good night." 
 
 She held out her hand with a pretty grace. He took it lightly, 
 raised his hat, saying — 
 
 " I am very happy. Perhaps we may meet again under more 
 fortunate circumstances. Au revoir, mademoiselle ; sans dire 
 adieu." 
 
 She smiled, and turned into Gray's Inn-road. She looked 
 round once. IS'o ; her champion was a gentleman — he was not 
 following her. Why did he speak in French'? — " Au revoir, 
 sans dire adieu." She found herself saying the words over and 
 over again. I^onsense ! — of course she would never see him 
 again ; and if she should, he was only a stranger to her. 
 
 She told Venn in the morning, who flew into a great rage, 
 and promised always to take her home himself when she left his 
 rooms later than six. In the course of tlie day he calmed down, 
 and delivered an oration — I am sorry I have no space for it here 
 — on the nature and properties of the common or street snob. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Pytoagokas once compared life to the letter Y. This letter, start- 
 Dga trunk, presently diverges into two branches, which represen 
 respectively the two lines of life : the good and consequently 
 happy — that is the thin line to the right ; and the bad and con- 
 sequently miserable — the thick black one to the left. It is an 
 elementary comparison, and hardly shows the sage at his best. 
 For as to happiness and misery, they seem to me somehow de- 
 pendent on public opinion and the length of a man's purse. 
 A man with a hundred thousand a year may really do anything 
 — not only without incurring ignominy, but even with a certain 
 amount of applause. He will not, of course, practise murder as 
 one of the Fine Arts, nor will he cheat at whist, and he will have 
 little difficulty in resisting the ordinary temptation to commit
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 77 
 
 burglary. But for tbe poor man public opinion is a mighty 
 en.Qine of repression. Virtue is his stern, and often bitter, portion. 
 Public opinion exacts from him a life strictly moral and rigidly 
 virtuous. In all places except London, it forces him to go to 
 church : in a manner, it drives him Heavenwards with a thick 
 stick. The rich man, in whose favour any good point — even 
 the most rudimentary — is scored, may be as bad as he pleases ; 
 the poor man against whom -we score all we can, is just as bad 
 as he dares to be. This is one objection to the Pythagorean 
 comparison. Another is, that young men never set off deliber- 
 ately down the thick line. It is, I admit a more crowded line 
 than the other ; but then there are constant passings and re- 
 passings to and fro, add I have seen many an honest fellow, once a 
 roysterer, trudging painfully, in after years, along the narrow 
 and prickly path, dragged on by wife and children — though cast- 
 ing, may be, longing looks at the gallant and careless men he has 
 left. 
 
 " I knew that fellow, Philip Durnford," an old friend of his 
 told me, " when first he joined. He was shy at first, and seemed 
 to be feeling his way. We found out after awhile that he could 
 do things rather better than most men, and more of them. If 
 you cared about music, Durnford had a piano, and could play 
 and sing, after a fashion. He could fence pretty well, too , 
 played billiards, and made a little pot at pool : altogether, an 
 accomplished man. He was free-handed with his money ; never 
 seemed to care what he spent, or how he spent it. Queer thing 
 about him, that he was a smart officer, and knew his drill, 1 
 think he liked the routine of the regimental work. Somehow, 
 though, he wasn't popular. Something grated. He was not 
 quite like other men ; and I don't suppose that, during the 
 whole six years he was in the regiment, he made a single good 
 friend in it. Perhaps lie was always trying to be better than 
 anybody else, and he used to flourish his confounded reading in 
 your face ; so that some of the fellows were afraid to open theii 
 lips. We didn't seem to care — eh? about John Stuart Mill, 
 Tlien, he wouldn't take a line. The fast man we can understand, 
 and the man who preaches on a tub and distributes tracts, and the 
 army prig we know, and the reading man ; but hang me if we 
 could make out a man who wanted to be everything all at once, and 
 the best man in every line, I can assure you we were all glad 
 when we heard that Durnford was sending in his papers." 
 
 That was the state of the case. Phil Durnford started heroiij.
 
 78 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ally down the thin line. When we meet him again, he is in 
 the thick, the left-handed one, with the mob. This is very sad ; 
 because we shall have to see more than enough of him. You see, he 
 wanted patience. He would gladly have won the Victoria Cross, 
 but there was nothing in that way going just then. He would 
 have liked to climb quickly up the tree of honour. But this is 
 a tree which can be only attempted under certain conditions. 
 Had he been a drummer in the French army, about the year 
 1790, he might have died Marshal of the French Empire. But 
 he fell not upon the piping times of war. So he went in for 
 being a dashing young officer : rode — only he did not ride so well 
 as some others ; gambled — only not with the recklessness that 
 brought glory to others ; and was a fast man, but without high 
 spirits. In personal appearance he was handsome, particularly 
 in uniform. His cheek showed — what is common enough in men 
 of the mixed breed — no signs of that black blood which always 
 filled his heart with rage whenever he thought of it. His hair 
 was black and curling, his features clear and regular. Perhaps he 
 might have been an inch or two taller with advantage ; while 
 his chin was weak, and his forehead too receding. 
 
 Always weak of will, his heroic element has now, though he 
 is only six and twenty, almost gone out of him. He looks for 
 little beyond physical enjoyment of life : he has no high aims, 
 no purposes, no hopes. Worse than all, he has no friends or 
 belongings. So his heart is covered with an incrustation, grow- 
 ing daily harder and deeper, of selfishness, cynicism, and un- 
 belief. AVhen the devil wanted to tempt him to do something 
 worse than usual, it was his wont to show him his finger-nails, 
 where lay that fatal spot of blue which never leaves the man of 
 African descent, though Ms blood be crossed with ours for a 
 dozen generations. Then he waxed fierce and reckless, and was 
 ready for anything. If the consciousness of descent from a long 
 line, which has sometimes done well and never done disgrace- 
 fully, be an incentive to a noble life, surely the descent from a 
 lower and inferior race must be a hindrance. 
 
 He thought nobody knew it, and trembled lest the secret 
 should be discovered. Everybody knew it. The colonel and 
 the major had been in Palmiste, and knew more. They knew 
 that George Durnford, late of the 10th Hussars, had only one 
 son by his marriage, and never had any brothers at all. Then 
 they put things together, and formed a conclusion and said 
 nothing about it, being gentlemen and good fellows.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 79 
 
 No brandishing of the sword in front of a wavering line of red ; 
 no leading of forlorn hopes — nothing but garrison life and camp 
 life : what should a young man do ? Here my former informant 
 comes again to my assistance. 
 
 " Durnford," he said, " used to be always trying to outpace 
 some other fellow. Don't you know that a hunchback always 
 makes himself out a devil of a lady-killer ; and a parvenu is 
 always the most exclusive ; and a fellow with a nose like a door- 
 knocker always thinks himself the handsomest dog in the regi- 
 ment % Well, you see, Durnford was a mulatto, an octoroon, 
 or a sixteenth-oroon, or something. He'd read in a book, I sup- 
 pose, that mulattoes were an inferior race ; so nothing would do 
 for him but showing himself an exception to the rule by proving 
 himself our superior — all the same as making himself out a bird 
 by trying to fly. He muddled away his money. But, bless you, 
 he couldn't really chuck. Chucking is a grand gift of nature, 
 cultivated by a course of public school, army coach, and garrison 
 life. Durnford did not understand the art. Now, young Blythe 
 of ours, when he heard of the step vacant, wrote to his governor 
 about it. Well, the governor actually sent him the money, in- 
 stead of paying it into Cox's. The young beggar screamed with 
 delight. ' O, Lord !' he said, ' look what the governor's done !' 
 And chucked it all in a fortnight, without purchasing the step at 
 all. Durnford could never come up to that, you know. He 
 didn't drink much ; but there was one thing men liked in him. 
 If loo was on, Durnford never played sober against men screwed. 
 Always reputed the soul of honour in that respect. But he 
 wanted too much. He would have liked to be popular among 
 all classes, and he was popular among none." 
 
 My friend, upon this, took to philosophising upon the nature 
 and basis of popularity. 
 
 " I believe," he said, with some plausibility, " that a fellow is 
 popular if he is believed to be better than he seems. One man, 
 A., is a frightful villain, but he loves and respects B., another 
 tremendous scoundrel and ruffian, because he thinks him pos- 
 sessed of some noble and elevating qualities wanting in himself. 
 He once saw B. toss a halfpenny to a beggar, and say, ' Poor 
 devil.' Now that showed a fine vein of native generosity. You 
 don't like a man you think to be worse than yourself, because he 
 must belong to such a devilish bad lot; and the formula of A., 
 the big rascal, is always that he ' may not be a religious man, by 
 gad,' but there are some things which, lie would not do. , . ,
 
 So MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 "Well, you see, that poor beggar Durnford was believed to be 
 v:orie, than he really was. He did it himself. Uaed to scolf at 
 religion : which is bad form, in my opinion — religion being the 
 business of the chaplain ; and I'd just as soon scoff at the adjutant 
 or the sergeant-major. That did him harm ; and in spite of his 
 riding and fencing, and all the rest, he really had very little 
 strength in his body. Fellows said ho padded." 
 
 When we pick up Philip, which is on the evening when he 
 — for it was he — gallantly came to the rescue, he has not yet sold 
 out, but is enjoying the beginning of a long furlough from Malta. 
 His affairs are not yet desperate, though he has got through a con- 
 siderable portion of his fortune ; having less than half of it left, 
 and a good pile of debts, whenever it shall suit him to pay thera. 
 I fear that the account his old brother officer gave of him was, on 
 the whole correct. Certainly, Philip Durnford, having had a 
 six years' run of " pleasure " and dissipation, knew most things 
 that are to be learned in that time, and was almost beginning to 
 think that the years had been purchased by too great an expendi- 
 ture of youth, health, and capital. 
 
 When the girl left him, he stayed for a moment looking after 
 her, as she tripped up the street with her light and buoyant step, 
 and turning on his heel with a sigh, strode off westward. He 
 went to Arthur's club. Not finding him there, he went to his 
 lodgings, and caught him reading in his usual purposeless, stu- 
 dious way. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Arthur," asked Philip, lighting a 
 cigar, and taking the best easy-chair, " with all your reading 1" 
 
 " Spare me," said Arthur. " I am one of the men who are 
 always going to do everything. Frankly, it is useless. I want 
 some one to pull me out of my own habits. But you, Phil, have 
 got energy for all the family." 
 
 " I've used .some of it to night," said Phil, laughing, and telling 
 his story. " Such a pretty girl, Arthur. Oh ! such a beautiful 
 girl — tall, .sir, and as straight as an arrow. I should like to meet 
 her again. I don't believe too much in the sex, but I do believe 
 in the possibility of my making a fool of myself over one, at 
 least ; and, by Jove ! it would be this one." 
 
 " Take care, Phil." 
 
 " Were you never in love, Arthur % Come now, gentle hermit, 
 confess?. Was there not some barmaid in Oxford % Was there 
 never a neat-handed Phillis — ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori — at 
 the college buttwy ?"
 
 M Y LITTLE GIRL, 8f 
 
 " I have not been in love, Phil," said Arthur, lifting his fair, 
 serious face, " since we left Palraiste ; and then I Avas in love 
 with Madeleine." 
 
 '' Poor little Madeleine ! So was I, I believe. And where is 
 she now ?" 
 
 " She was sent to Switzerland, after her father's death, to be 
 educated," 
 
 " The education ought to be finished by this time. Why don't 
 you go, old fellow, and search about the playground of Europe ? 
 You might meet on the summit of the Matterhorn. ' Amanda* 
 he, and ' Amandus ' she, and all would be gas and fireworks." 
 
 Then they began to talk about old times and boyish freaks, and 
 Philip's better nature came back to him, for a time at least. He 
 saw little of Arthur. They had not much in common. When 
 they did meet, it was in great friendship and kindliness. But 
 they were almost strangers ; and it was only now — Philip being 
 home on furlough and Arthur just come up to London — that 
 they had come together at all since the old days in Palmiste. 
 
 I forgot to mention one curious thing in Philip's life. On 
 the first day of the year, some unknown person always paid into 
 his account at Cox's the su'Ja of two hundred pounds. This 
 came with a recurrence so regular that Phil looked for it, and 
 counted on it. He put it down to a freak of Arthur's. Cer- 
 tainly, Arthur had a good deal more of his own than he at all 
 knew what to do with. But it was not Arthur — who, living so 
 simply himself, did not understand that his cousin might some- 
 times be in want of money. Philip took the money, spent it, 
 and wished it had been more ; and he said nothing about it to 
 Arthur. The fountain of benevolence, you see, is a source which 
 may possibly be muddled and spoiled by the uncalled-for tears 
 of gratitude. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 So about this time, Hartley Venn began to be seriously troubled 
 about the future of his protegee. He realised, for the first time, 
 that she was now a woman ; and yet he was loath to change 
 any of the little customs which had gone on so long. For instance, 
 that kiss at arrival and departure. A man of thirty-eight is 
 certainly old enough to be the papa of a girl of eighteen. On 
 the other hand, many men of thirty-eight are not too old to bo 
 
 6
 
 82 MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 the lovers of girls of eighteen. He could not put a stop to that 
 tender little caress. And yet, of late days, he caught himself 
 blushing, and his pulse quickened, when his lips touched her 
 forehead and her lips touched his cheek. Only quite lately 
 this feeling of constraint had sprung up. Not on her part : the 
 last thing the girl thought of -was love on the part of her guar- 
 dian. There was no constraint with her — only that hesitation 
 and doubt which came from the birth of new ideas within her. 
 The germ of many a thought and aspiration is sown in childhood, 
 lying concealed in the brain till the time of adolescence makes 
 it appear and brighten into life. 
 
 Then Hartley, putting the question of love out of sight, reso- 
 lutely refusing to admit it at all into his mind, set himself to 
 Avork out, as he called it, a practical problem. As he was the 
 most unpractical of men, the result did not appear likely to 
 " come out." 
 
 He appealed, in his distress, to his sister Sukey. 
 
 " You've educated that child," said his sister, " till she can 
 laugh at young ladies. You've put your notions into her head, 
 till she is as full of queer thoughts ^as you are yourself. She 
 talks about nothing but philanthropy, and history, and what 
 not. She is like no other girl under the sun. And then you 
 come and ask me what you are to do with her. Do you want 
 to get rid of her T 
 
 " Get rid of her ! Why, Sukey, you must be mad to think 
 of such a thing. No. I want to put her in some way — " 
 
 "Of earning a livelihood. Quite proper. And time she did 
 it. By rights she should be a kitchen-maid. Not that I am 
 unkind to her, dear Hartley," she added, as her brother flashed 
 a warning look at her — " not at all. And she is, as I believe, a 
 very good girl — spoiled, of course. What do you say, now, to 
 the bonnet-making T 
 
 Hartley shook his head. 
 
 " She shall not work for her bread, Sukey. I have taken a 
 decisive step. I've made my will, Sukey. You don't want any 
 more money. Bob's boy is looked after by his mother's people. 
 And, besides, you can leave him your money, you know." 
 
 ** I always intended to," said his sister. " You needn't go on. 
 You have left all yours to Laura. Well, of course, it's a shame, 
 and all that. But you can do as you like with your own. What 
 do you want my advice about T 
 
 " That is just the difficulty. I want, aomehow, to do some-
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 83 
 
 thing for her that will take her into a brighter atmosphere, out 
 of the dingy surroundings of her life," 
 
 " She lives with her grandmother, does she not ? At least, I 
 have always understood that this was the very proper arrange- 
 ment." 
 
 '' Yes ; where her grandmother lives I have never thought 
 about tUl the other day. Sukey, my dear, I am a selfish animal. 
 It was all to please myself that I made a toy of the child. To 
 please myself, I watched her intelligence grow under my hands ; 
 only to please myself, I put into her head ideas and knowledge. 
 In my own selfish gratification, I have made her ten times as 
 well taught as young ladyhood is apt to be. I have never 
 thought about what was to come of it — or of me. And now- — 
 now — she is a woman — and I — " 
 
 Sukey laughed. 
 
 " My poor dear Hartley, and you ? — you are in love with her ! 
 I knew it was coming, all along. Of course, it is a blow. After 
 all your brilliant prospects, and the grandson of a bishop, and a 
 Master of Arts, and a barrister-at-law, and a scholar, and all — 
 and — oh ! dear, dear ! But I always expected it, and always 
 said it. If you will kindly ring the bell and call Anne, she will 
 tell you that I have prophesied it any time this last six years." 
 
 AVhen a misfortune comes upon you, it is, at least, a consola- 
 tion to your friends to have foretold it. But Hartley was walk- 
 ing up and down the room, not listening. 
 
 "In love with herl I in love with Lollie? I have loved 
 her ever since she looked up in my face, the very first day I saw 
 her, and put up her lips to be kissed. In love with her % I 
 have never thought of it. Upon my word^ Sukey, I have never 
 thought of it till the last few days. It is nonsense — it is absurd. 
 I am twenty years older than Lollie. She looks on me as her 
 father : told me so last Sunday. Love ! Am I to think of love, 
 at my age ] I thought it was all put away and done with. 
 Sukey, forget what you have said. Don't raise up before me 
 the vision of a life with such love as that. Let me go on having 
 the child's childish affection and trust. It is all I am fit for. It 
 is more than I deserve." 
 
 Hartley was not a demonstrative man. It was rare, indeed, 
 that the outer crust of a good-natured cynicism was broken, and 
 the inner possibilities laid open. 
 
 " Ask her, Hartley, if she can love you." 
 
 " No. no ; and lose all that I have T
 
 84 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Shall I ask her, thnn V 
 
 " You, my dear sister 1" he replied, laughing. " He that can- 
 not ■woo for himself is not worth being wooed for. No. Let 
 things be as they are. Only I should like to see a way — " 
 
 " At any rate, there is no such great hurry." 
 
 " If she had any creative power, it might be worth while to 
 make her a novelist. But she hasn't. She only imitates, liko 
 most of her sex — imitative animals. Man, you see, originates;. 
 Woman receives, assimilates, and imparts. In a higher state of 
 civilisation, women will be teachers in all the schools from Eton 
 downwards. Flogging, I suppose, will then — " 
 
 " Hartley, do be consecutive." 
 
 " I've tried her at writing, and she really makes very credit- 
 able English verses. Her Latin verses are a failure, principally 
 because she will not study the accuracies of language." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you have taught her Latin ?" 
 
 " Why not % Of course I have. We read together portions 
 of Horace, Ovid, Virgil, and other poets. Lollie is a very fair 
 Latin scholar, I assure you. Well, I suggested that she should 
 write a novel ; and after a great deal of trouble, Ave concocted a 
 plot. That was last year. We went up the river, and elaborated 
 it all one summer's afternoon. It was a capital plot. Three 
 murders, which all turned out to be no murders, a bigamy, and 
 the discovery of a will in a bandbox, formed the main incidents. 
 Unfortunately we couldn't string it together. The result was 
 not satisfactory ; and we took it out one day, tied a great stone 
 to it, and buried it solemnly above Teddington Lock. It lies 
 there still, in a waterproof oilskin ; so that Avhen the river is 
 dredged for treasure in a thousand years' time it may be found, 
 and published as a rare and precious relic of antiquity. There 
 we are, you see. We can't be literary or musical ; our gifts and 
 graces are so Avholly receptive, that Ave cannot even become a 
 .strong-minded woman. What are we to do V 
 
 *' I'm sure I don't know. I only half understand Avhat it all 
 means." 
 
 " It means, Sukey, plainly, that the time is staring me in the 
 face when I must do something for the child which Avill bring 
 her into the world, and — and — aAvay from my old chambers, 
 Avhere the atmosphere, very good for children, may prove dele- 
 terious for a young Avonian." 
 
 " If she could be honourably married," said Sukey. 
 
 *' I suppose," murmured her brother, " that Avould be the best
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 85 
 
 thing." Then he shook himself together, and brightened up. 
 " jM)'^ docar sister, I never come here — it is wonderful to me why 
 I come so seldom — without getting the solution of some of those 
 problems which, as I am not a mathematical man, do sometimes 
 so S( irely worry me. Married^ of course ! She shall be married 
 next week." 
 
 " But to whom, Hartley % Do not laugh at everything." 
 
 " Eh T His face fell. " To be sure. I never thought of that 
 Tliere is Jones — but he has no money ; and, besides, I should 
 ccvtaiuly not let her marry Jones. And Lynn — but he is poorer 
 il)an Jones, and I should not let him have my little girl. Then 
 
 t])ere is Sukey, you have floored one problem only to raise 
 
 another and a worse one. To whom shall I marry her]" 
 
 He put on his hat, shook bis head mournfully, and went 
 away. Kext day he propounded some of his difficulties to 
 Lollie. 
 
 " And so, after a long talk with my sister, the most sensible 
 woman that at present adorns the earth, she gave me, Lollie, the 
 answer to the question I have been troubling myself with for 
 so long. She says, my child, that there is only one way : you 
 must be comfortably and honourably married. Her very words." 
 
 " I, Mr. Venn T The girl looked up and laughed in his face, 
 with those merry blue eyes of hers. "What have I done that 
 X must be married T 
 
 "Don't raise difficulties, Lollie," he said, in a feeble way. 
 " After all the trouble we had in getting Sukey to give us the 
 right answer, too." 
 
 She laughed again. 
 
 " I suppose I am not to be married unless I like?" 
 
 " Why, no — I suppose not. No. Oh, certainly not. But 
 you will like, won't you %" 
 
 " And who am I to marry T 
 
 "Why, you see, Lullie — " He grew confidential. "The 
 fact is, I don't know. Jones won't do." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. He is too — too — undignified." 
 
 " iAIr. Lynn T 
 
 " (Jcrtaialy not. Is there any one else?" 
 
 "Not at present, my child. But we shall see. Let us look 
 around us. London is a great place. If London won't do, 
 til ere is all England ; besides the rest of Great Britain, Berwick- 
 upon-Tweed, and the colonies." 
 
 "What docs it all moan. Mr, Vonn?" she asked, sitting at
 
 86 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 his feet on the footstool. " Last Sunday you were talking in 
 the same strain. You are not going away, or anything, are 
 your 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' ' I have not offended you, have I V 
 
 He patted her cheek, and shook his head again. 
 
 " And you love me as much as always, don't you T 
 
 " I\Iore, Lollie, more," he said, in a queer, constrained voice. 
 But she understood nothing. 
 
 " Then, what is it? Do you think I am not grateful to you]" 
 
 " Don't, child — don't talk of gratitude." 
 
 " Do you think I do not love you enough % Oh, Mr. Venn, 
 you know I do." 
 
 Perhaps it would have been well if he had spoken, then, the 
 words which rose to his lips — 
 
 " It is that I think you can never love me as I love you — no 
 longer as your guardian, but your lover ; no longer as a child, 
 but with the hungry passion of a man who has never known a 
 woman's love, and yearns for your love." 
 
 But he was silent, only patting her cheek in a grave and si- 
 lent way. 
 
 "Would you really like me to be married, Mr. Venn?" 
 
 He left her, and began walking about ; for the spectre which 
 he had deliberately refused to see stood before him now, face to 
 face — the spectre of another feeling, newer, sweeter, altogether 
 lovely. But he faced it still. 
 
 " Can there be a better thing for a girl than to be married, 
 Lollie % I wish what is best for you." 
 
 " Would it be best for me to give up coming here every day?" 
 
 " j^o, child, no," he replied, passionately. 
 
 " Then why want me to ?" 
 
 " It would break my heart not to see you here every day," he 
 went on, not daring to look her in the face. "But — but — 
 there are other things. Lollie, I want you to be happy during 
 those long hours when you are not with me." 
 
 She turned red, and the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " I have been, as usual, a selfish beast," he said. '' I have 
 only, since Sunday, realised in a small degree what a difference 
 there is, of my making, between you and the people in whose 
 midst you live. Lollie, you are a lady. Believe me, there is no 
 girl in all England better educated than yourself. I think, too, 
 there is no girl so beautiful."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 87 
 
 She looked at him with surprise. He had never before even 
 hinted at the possibility of her being beautiful. 
 
 " Am I pretty ] Oh, Mr. Venn, I am so glad." 
 
 " Mind," he went on, careful to guard against possible error, 
 " I only tlmik so. I've got no experience in these things, you 
 knew." 
 
 " Ah !" she replied, " And very likely you are mistaken. I 
 suppose all girls like to be beautiful, do they not % And you 
 are not in such a very great hurry to see me away, married, or 
 anything else, are you ?" 
 
 He smiled in his queer way. Hartley Venn's smile was pe- 
 culiar to himself — at least, I never met anybody else with it. 
 There was always a sort of sadness in the curve of his sensitive 
 lips. He smiled with his eyes first, too, like the damsel in 
 Chaucer. 
 
 " Hir eyen greye and glad also, 
 That laugheden ay in hire semblaunt, 
 First or the mouth by covenant." 
 
 " iNot in a hurry at all, Lollie — only I thought we would 
 talk things over some day. JS'ow, let us do something. It is 
 six o'clock. We will dine together, and go to the theatre. Shall 
 we ? Enough of sentiment, and of confidences enough. We 
 Avill rejoice. What does Horace say ? — 
 
 ' Hie dies vere mihi festus — ' " 
 
 " That is delightful," said Lollie, clapping her hands. " When 
 you begin to quote, I know you are happy again. Let us have 
 no more talk of marrying, Mr. Venn. One thing, you know," 
 she said, placing her hand on his arm — " I could never marry 
 anybody but a gentleman ; and, as no gentleman will ever love 
 me, why I shall never marry anybody at all ; and we shall go 
 on being happy together, you and I — 
 
 ' II n'y a que moi qui ai ses idees \k, 
 Gai la riette — gai, lira, lire.'" 
 
 And so, singing and dancing, she put on her hat and gloves, 
 and taking Hartley's arm, Avent out to the restaurant, which 
 knew them well. As she passed through the portals of the 
 dingy old inn, with her springing step and the laughing light of 
 h'jr happy face, the old porter rubbed his eyes, the policeman 
 assumed an attitude of respectful attention, and the cads who 
 loafed about for odd jobs became conscious of something in the 
 world superior to beer and a dry skittle-ground. Whenever I
 
 88 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 meet a maiden happy in her beauty, methinks, in my miud'a 
 eye, I see again Aphrodite springing np anew from the ocean. 
 Happy Aphrodite ! She reigns by no virtue of her own. She 
 is not wise, or strong, or prescient ; she does not hold the thread 
 of destiny; she is unconnected with the electric department ; 
 she has no control over the weather; she is not consulted in 
 the distribution of wealth or honours ; and yet she is Queen 
 among goddesses, Empress over gods — Eegina Caeli. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The days passed on, and Lollie thought no more of her cham- 
 pion. But PJiilip thought of her ; and, when he took his walks 
 abroad, more often than not bent his steps down Oxford Street 
 and Holborn, praying silently that he might chance upon her 
 again. He might have walked up and down Holborn for ever 
 on the chance of seeing her again, and yet missed her altogether. 
 But one day, thinking of something else, he was walking round 
 a square in Bloomsbury, when, raising his eyes from the ground 
 — I believe he was thinking of his bets — he saw the maiden of 
 his exploit tripping along a few yards before him. There was 
 no mistaking her. She came along, with a light, elastic step, 
 full of youth and health, with her frank, sweet face, her deep 
 blue eyes, and her tall, lithe figure : only by day she looked ten 
 times as well as by night. 
 
 She, too, saw him, and blushed. 
 
 Philip took off his hat. She hesitated a moment, and held 
 out her hand. 
 
 " I ought to thank you properly," she said. " I was very 
 much frightened." 
 
 Philip took her hand and turned. The girl went on, and he 
 with her. You see, it was one of the radical defects of her 
 education that she positively did not know the dreadful "wrong- 
 ness " of letting a man, not properly introduced, speak to hei', 
 and walk with her. 
 
 " I shall tell Mr. Venn I met you," she said. " He will bo' 
 glad. Come and see him yourself, for him to thank you." 
 
 " May I ask — excuse me, but I do not know Mr. Venn." 
 
 " He is my guardian. I am going to him now. He lives in 
 Ura^''s Inn,"
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 89 
 
 It seemed strange to the girl that all the world did not know 
 Mr. Venn. 
 
 Philip did not know what to say. As he walked along by 
 her side, he turned furtive glances at her, drinking in the lines 
 of beauty of her face and form. 
 
 " Do you live near here ?" 
 
 " Xo — I am here by accident. I am living in St. James's 
 Street, in lodgings. I am on leave from my regiment." 
 
 " I don't think," said Lollie, " that I should much like to be 
 an officer." She always took the male point of view, from 
 habit. " I should like best to be a writer, a dramatist, or per- 
 haps a barrister. But I should like to wear the uniform. Once 
 I saw a splendid review at Windsor, Avhen the Viceroy of Egypt 
 was here. Are you in the cavalry T 
 
 "■ JN'o. I am in the line." 
 
 " Why do you not go into the cavalry 1 It must be delight- 
 ful to charge, with all the horses thundering over the ground. 
 Do you like your profession V 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so — as well as anything." 
 
 "You know," said the girl, "it is absurd for a man to take 
 up with a thing, and then take no interest in it. I should like 
 something I could throw my whole heart into." 
 
 " I could only throw my whole heart away upon one thing," 
 Philip replied softly, and with a half-blush ; for he was afraid 
 he was making a foolish observation. 
 
 " What is that 1 If I were you, I should take it up at once." 
 
 " I could only throw my whole'heart away — upon a woman." 
 
 Laura received the remark as one of profound philosophical 
 importance. 
 
 " That is a very curious thing. . 'Not a right thing at all. I 
 should think it would be so much better to put your heart into 
 work." 
 
 " Tell me," said Philip, in a half- whisper, " do you not think 
 love a worthy object of a man's life V 
 
 "I really do not think anything about it," said the girl. 
 '•' And now I must leave you, because I am going down here, 
 and so to the Inn. Won't you come in and be thanked by Mr. 
 Venn?" 
 
 " Xo, it is enough to be thanked by you. May I — am I im- 
 pertinent in asking you — will you tell me your name?" 
 
 *' I am called Laura CoUiiigwood," slie answered, freely and 
 frankly. " What is youra?"
 
 90 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 " Philip Durnford." 
 
 " Philip Durnford — I like the name. Mr. Venn has a friend of 
 your name, but I have not met him yet. Good-bye, Mr. Durnford." 
 
 " One moment. Shall we never meet again T 
 
 He looked so sentimental that Laura burst out laughing. 
 
 " You look as if you were going to cry. I think we shall very 
 likely never meet again." 
 
 Phil grew desperate. His hot Southern blood rose at once. 
 
 " I must speak — laugh at me if you like. I have been hang- 
 ing about Oxford Street in hopes of meeting you, and for no other 
 reason. I think you are the sweetest-looking girl I ever saAV, 
 and— and — I am a fool to say it, when I have only spoken twice 
 — I love you." 
 
 She looked at him without a blush on her face— quite coldly, 
 quite openly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world 
 for a man to tell her this at the second meeting. 
 
 " Do you mean you want to marry me T 
 
 The question, so abruptly and boldly stated, took Philip by 
 surprise. 
 
 " Of course I do," he cried hastily — " of course I do." 
 
 " Oh," she replied slowly, " I don't know. You see, I've no 
 experience in marriage matters. I must ask Mr. Venn what he 
 thinks about it. He told me the other day he should like to see 
 me married. I shall see what he says about it, first. We must 
 never do serious things in a hurry, you know." 
 
 Surely, the quaintest answer that ever man had to a proposal. 
 Philip felt as if he were in a dream. 
 
 " Won't you come and see him yourself T she asked. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 '' I have been too hasty," he said. " Pardon me. I am rude 
 and uncouth. Miss Collingwood, I ask your forgiveness." 
 
 " I wonder what for T thought Lollie. Eut she said nothing. 
 
 " Let us wait," he said. " Marriage is a very serious thing, 
 as you say. I am worse than a fool. Believe only that I love 
 you, as I said. And meet me again. Let me learn to love you 
 more, and try and teach you to love me." 
 
 " I will ask j\Ir. Venn." 
 
 "No," said Philip, with a sharp pang of conscience, "do not 
 ask him. Wait. Meet me once more first, and let me speak to 
 you again. Then you shall tell him. Will you proniise me so 
 much] Meet me to-morrow." 
 
 " I promise," said Laura. " But ="
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 91 
 
 " Thanks — a thousand thanks. You will meet me to-morrow, 
 and you will keep the secret," 
 
 He took off his hat, lightly touched her fingers, and walked 
 away. 
 
 I-oUie went in to Mr. Venn. It was four in the afternoon, 
 and the sage was hard at work on his last essay. 
 
 "I thought you would never come, child. What did Sukey 
 say T 
 
 " Miss Venn is better, and much, obliged for the papers ; and, 
 oh, ]\Ir. Venn, I've had an adventure, and I've got a secret !" 
 
 "^Vhat is the adventure, LoUie?" 
 
 " That is the secret. I will tell it you as soon as I can. Tell 
 me, Mr. Venn, is it wrong to have a secret ? " 
 
 " That is a wide question, involving a profound study of all 
 casuistry and debated points from Thales to Mill. I would rather 
 refer you to their works generally." 
 
 '•' Well, then, may I have a secret T 
 
 " Fifty, my dear, if you will. You look a great deal better to- 
 day, Lollie ; and if this east wind would be good enough to go 
 away — where would it go to, and what becomes of all the other 
 winds when they are off duty V 
 
 " Eurus keeps them in a bag, you know." 
 
 " So he does, so he does. Well, in spite of the east wind, let 
 us go and look at the shops, Lollie." 
 
 They did ; and at ten, after a little music and talk, the girl 
 went home as usual, but feeling strangely excited. 
 
 Let us follow her newly-found lover, and tell how his evening 
 was spent. 
 
 Just now this part of the day was usually devoted to the 
 billiard-room of the very respectable club to which he had been 
 elected on liis arrival in England. He was an indifferently good 
 player — nowhere iu good company, but could hold his own in 
 bad. He had no scientific knowledge of the angles of the table ; 
 lie handled his cue clumsily ; and was not within thirty-five 
 points in a hundred of the best players at his club. Besides, he 
 was not really fond of the game : it was the money element that 
 n:ade hiin play at all; and he never cared to play without having 
 from hali'-a-crown to a sovereign on his game. Philip was that 
 very common animal, a born gambler. Now, pool always presented 
 the attraction of chance; so Mr. Phil played much more at this than 
 lie did at billiards. He generally got put out of the game amoner
 
 92 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the first. Still, there is always a large element of luck about it ; 
 and though you are knocked out, there is a chance of a bet or 
 two on the lives loft in. It was a mild enough affair — three- 
 shilling pool and shilling lives, just enough to keep the spark of 
 gambling alive. At tlie pool-table, as a matter of course, Philip 
 picked up a few friends — Captains Shairp and Smythe, late of 
 the — th, in which regiment they had lost all their money, and 
 perhaps a little of their honour ; living now, it is whispered, 
 largely on their wits. Gentlemen such as these play well at most 
 games, whether of chance or skill. They have a habit of making 
 friends with new members of the club \ though it is observed that 
 these friendships seldom last long. And yet, Smythe and Shairp 
 were two of the most agreeable, polite, open-hearted fellows it is 
 possible to conceive. No men corrected the marker's mistakes so 
 softly : no men called to the waiters for a drink in so jolly and 
 affable a tone. Yet nobody cared for their society. Perliaps the 
 captains were to blame for this. Who knows ? On the other 
 hand, people might be wrong in whispering away their fair fame. 
 The fact is indisputable — they had the misfortune to be disliked. 
 Philip Durnford knew nothing of all this when he joined hi.=< 
 club; and so, in two days' time he nodded to the captains as 
 they chalked their cues for business, chatted in a week, and was 
 a friend in a fortnight. Perhaps, if Smythe and Shairp had 
 known the exact amount of Mr. Philip's balance at his agents', 
 they might not have been so free and open-handed in the matter 
 of cigars. 
 
 It was on the evening of this, his second meeting with Laura, 
 that Philip dined at his club, and went quietly into the billiard- 
 room after dinner, intending to play till nine, and then go to the 
 French play, where he had a stall — centre of the second row. 
 The evening proved a sort of turning-point in his career ; for, 
 unluckil^^ he never Avent to the French play at all. His two 
 friends had also two friends with them — very young fellows, 
 with the air of wealth about them. In a word, pigeons being 
 plucked. Two or three other men were playing in the pool w'th 
 them ; among these was young INlylles, cornet in the Hussars, 
 the most amiable and the silUest young gander in the club ; a 
 little looked down upon, because his father had beeji connected 
 with the soap-boiling interest. Said Shairp, when Phil proposed 
 to put down his cue and go — 
 
 " If you would stay, we could make up two rubbers. Pray 
 don't go — that is, if you can stay."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL, 93 
 
 It poured in torrents. Phil looked out iuto the wet street, 
 hesitated, and was lost. 
 
 The card-room was cosy enough — bright and warm ; though 
 the rain pelted hard against the windows, and came spittiug 
 down the chimney into the fire. Over the fireplace hung the 
 usual rules against heavy bets and games of chance — a fact 
 which did not restrain the astute S]i-iirp. He said, after a 
 rubber — 
 
 " By Jove ! whist is a very fine game, aud a very noble game, 
 and all that ; but at the risk of being thought an ass, I must 
 say it is not exciting enough to please me." 
 
 Captain Sraythe concurred. 
 
 So did Phil. He hated whist with all his heart. He was a 
 bad player. 
 
 " I really think, now, if you will excuse me, I shall go to the 
 play. It is past ten already, and I want to see Mdlle. Dufont." 
 
 " But j'^ou can't go out in this rain, you know. It's absurd to 
 have a cab to cross the street in. Wait a bit." 
 
 Phil waited. Another rubber was played through. Smjthe 
 walked to the window, threw up his arms over his head, and 
 yawned loudly, 
 
 " Smythe's tired," said Shairp. 
 
 " So am I," said Phil. 
 
 " We might have a little something else for a change, eh ''{" 
 
 " Ah," said Smythe, " we might. Confound it, though, we 
 can't play here, and " — pulling out his watch — " I've get a most 
 particular appointment at eleven." 
 
 " I haven't had a hand at loo for — let me see — six months, I 
 know, if it's a day," said Shairp. 
 
 His friend had ten objections — overruled in ten seconds. 
 
 One of the party never played at loo, and left them. The 
 younger pigeon, who had just got into newly-furnished chambers, 
 said — 
 
 " It paws so with wain, or Ave might go to my diggings. What 
 a baw it is ! One's boots would be sopped thrwough before one 
 could get into a hansom." 
 
 So they played at the club. 
 
 "Just ten minutes, you know," said Shairp and Smythe. 
 
 The ten minutes grew iuto an hour and a half. The stakes 
 were doubled twice, and the game was " guinea unlimited," when 
 the pigeons were so thirsty that tliey risked rinjring the b«n, 
 
 '* Brandy and aoda, waiter,"
 
 94 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 The drinks arrived, aud with them a hiut that they werd 
 breaking the rules of the dub. 
 
 Phil was the heaviest loser, and with his money he lost what 
 is of much more value at games of chance — his temper. He 
 answered the polite message of the servant with an oath. Two 
 minutes afterwards the steward came. Civilly he pointed to the 
 rules hanging over the fireplace, and asked the gentlemen to 
 desist. 
 
 Shairp and Smythe said he was quite right, and mentally cal- 
 culated what they had won by handling the money in their 
 pockets. 
 
 But Philip acted differently. He said — 
 
 " It's an infernal silly rule, that's all I've got to say." 
 
 " It is the rule, sir," said the nettled servant. 
 
 *' Then d — n the rule, and you too." And he took the card- 
 board from the nail it hung on, and tore it into a dozen pieces. 
 Some feU in the fender, some in the fire. 
 
 "I say, Durnford," said Shairp, "I think that's rather 
 strong." 
 
 Phil laughed. The man said he must report the act to the 
 secretary, and left the room. 
 
 They played till there was a single. Then everybody but 
 Philip and one of the two pigeons had had enough. They were 
 either winners on the night, or had not lost. So the pigeon, 
 backed by Phil, insisted that they could not leave off yet ; and 
 the party of seven adjourned in two four-wheelers to the pigeon's 
 chambers. 
 
 Here, when the fire was lighted, and they had tried the quality 
 of their host's liquors, the game went on. A fresh place, new 
 cards. 
 
 " My luck will change, you'll see," said Phil. 
 
 But it did not, and as all his ready money was gone, he put 
 in I U's, written on scraps of paper, and signed P. D., with 
 an apology. 
 
 " A man can't carry the bank of England about with him," 
 he said. 
 
 *' I suppose he is good," whispered Shairp. 
 
 " Right as the mail," replied Smythe. 
 
 So they went on, and the two friends took Phil's paper as 
 readily as their young pigeon's notes. 
 
 The game waxed warm ; the stakes got high ; their host 
 emptied two gold-topped scent-bottles filled with sovereigns out
 
 AfY LITTLE GIRL. 95 
 
 of bis dressing-case on to the claret cloth of his card-table, and 
 they were gone in three rounds. The bottles held fifty apiece 
 too. 
 
 " My usual luck," growled Philip. " Looed again." 
 
 " I never saw anything like it," said Smythe. " It must turn, 
 though, and we need not hurry." 
 
 " Oh no — play for ever if you like he-ah," said their host. 
 He was getting rather tipsy. 
 
 But Shairp and Smythe, who had earned their money, got 
 fidgety, and began to feel very sleepy. 
 
 Shairp nodded in [his chair. Smythe looked at his watch 
 every few minutes, although there were three French clocks in 
 the rooms, chiming the quarters, and his own watch had stopped 
 at half-past three. 
 
 Phil's luck had not turned, and he was very much excited. 
 His head ached, his eyes ached, the brandy he had drunk had 
 made his legs feel queer, and his temper was what a gentleman's 
 is when luck has been against him all night. 
 
 There were frequent squabbles as to the amount of the pool, 
 the division of it into tricks, as to who was looed and who was 
 not ; but oftenest about who had not put his money in. 
 
 Little silly, honest My lies was now the soberest of the party — 
 always excepting the two confederates — and he was only kept 
 out of his bed in his father's house in Eaton Square by the feel- 
 ing that he ought not to be the first to run away, as he had not 
 lost much. 
 
 Phil was inaccurate, and Mylles corrected him more than once. 
 The others supported Mylles's view, and this riled Phil. At last, 
 when Phil exclaimed — 
 
 " Somebody has not put in again," he looked pointedly across 
 the table. 
 
 " I put in," said Shairp, wide awake. ** I know mine ; it was 
 two half sovs and a shilling." 
 
 " I saw you," said Smythe, quite careless whether the assertion 
 possessed the merit of truth or not. 
 
 " parcit 
 
 Oognatis maculis similis fera." 
 
 ** 1 know I put in," said Shairp and everybody. 
 " Then it's put on to me again," said Phil .snappishly. 
 " You did not put in, I know," said Mylles quietly. " I saw 
 who put in."
 
 96 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " That be d — d. !" said Philip, his features swelling aud hifi 
 lips twitching. 
 
 The cornet turned a little pale. 
 
 " If you mean those words, I must leave the room." 
 
 ** Consider them repeated," said Philip, in a fury. 
 
 " I must go," said Mylles, rising. 
 
 " Go, then, and be d — d to you !" 
 
 To two persons present it did not matter. Their end was 
 served — lor the night. The three gentlemen who heard it were 
 shocked, and ran after Mylles ; but ho could not be prevailed ou 
 to come back. 
 
 When they returned without him, Phil was laughing immode- 
 rately, Avith laughter half real, half affected. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'm laughing at," he said. " I was 
 thinking what a scene Thackeray would have made out of all 
 this." . 
 
 " Thackeray, at least, Avould never have behaved so to any- 
 body," said the soberest of the men. 
 
 Phil laughed, feeling a good deal ashamed, and the party 
 separated. Phil, with a note of the amount of the I U's — a 
 good deal heavier than he at all expected — and a promise to send 
 cheques the next morning, went home to bed. 
 
 It was broad dayliglit, and therefore tolerably late. 
 
 As he felt for the latch-key, ho found the ticket for the stall 
 in his pocket. 
 
 " Wish I'd gone there," he sighed. 
 
 Morning brought repentance. He sent his cheques ; he sent 
 in his resignation to the club ; he sought out Mylles and apolo- 
 gised ; and then — most fatal act — he met Smythe, and accepted 
 a proposal of that gallant officer's to put his name down at the 
 Burleigh Club. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Ii" you want to see Marguerite waiting for Faust, as likely a spot 
 as any to find her is the left-hand walk, below the bridge, in 
 St. James's Park — that part of the walk which is opposite to tlie 
 Foreign Office, and has an umbrageous protection of leaves and 
 branches. I am told that the British Museum is another likely 
 place. Certainly, it has never yet been satisfactorily explained 
 why so many pretty girls go there. South Kensington is greatly
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 97 
 
 frequented by youug ladies who delight in those innocent dally- 
 iugs with a serious passion which we call a flirtation. According 
 to some authorities, the Crystal Palace is the most likely place of 
 all. Bat my own experience leads me to select St. James's Park. 
 There, between the hours of ten and one, or between three and 
 five — because Marguerite dines with her family at one — you 
 may always see some pretty rosy-cheeked damsel strolling appa- 
 rently with no purpose except that of gentle exercise, up and 
 down the shady walks. Sometimes she stops at the water's edge, 
 and contemplates the ducks which adorn the lake, or impatiently 
 pushes the gravel into the water with the point of her parasol. 
 Sometimes she makes great play with her book. But always 
 she is there first ; for very fear, poor child, that she may miss 
 him. And he always comes late. 
 
 On this particular morning — a fresh, bright morning in ]\Iay 
 — the east winds having gone away earlier than usual, and the 
 leaves really beginning to feel tolerably safe in coming out, a 
 young girl of eighteen is loitering up and down, with an anxious 
 and rather careworn look. Big Ben chimes the quarters, and 
 people come and go. But she remains, twisting her glove, and 
 biting her lips with vexation. The appointed time was half- 
 past ten. She was there at a quarter before ten. It is noAV 
 eleven. 
 
 " And he said he would be there punctually," she murmurs. 
 
 Presently she leaves off tapping the ground impatiently. Her 
 cheek flushes ; her eyes begin to soften. She hesitates ; she 
 turns into the shadiest part of the walk, while a manly heel 
 comes cruncliing the gravel behind her. There is no one in the 
 walk but a policeman. He, good, easy man, as one used to the 
 Avays of young people, and as experienced as the moon herself, 
 turns away, and slowly leaves them alone. 
 
 " Laura," whispers the new-comer, taking both her hands. 
 
 She makes no pretence of being angry, 
 
 "Philip ! and 30U promised to be here at half-past ten." 
 
 " I could not help it, child, liegimental duties detained me." 
 
 " But your regiment is at Malta." 
 
 " That is it. Correspondence — letters which had to be an- 
 swered." 
 
 Lovelace himself never told a greater fib. 
 
 And presently they sit down and talk. 
 
 " See what I have brought for you, Laura," says the lover, 
 lugging out a pair of earrings, iu the chilli's eyes worthy to be 
 
 7
 
 98 MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 ■u'orn by a duchess. " Will you wear them, and will you think 
 of me every time you put them on ?" 
 
 Laura takes the earrings, and looks up at him in a grave and 
 serious way. She has none of the little coquettish ways of girls 
 who want to play and sport with their lovers, like an angler with 
 a fish. That W'as because she had never associated with girls of 
 her own age at all. Straightforward, and perfectly truthful, she 
 answered him now with another question. 
 
 " AVill you tell me again what you told me when we met last 
 — the second time we ever met?" 
 
 " I told you that I loved you, and I asked you to marry mo. 
 Tell me in return that you love me a very little. If you give 
 me back a tenth part of my love for you, Laura, I should be rich 
 indeed in love." 
 
 " I don't know," she answered, looking him full in the face. 
 " I like you. You are a gentleman, and— and handsome, and 
 you are pleasant. Then you fall in love with me, which, I am 
 sure, must be a silly thing to do. That's against you, you know. 
 But how am I to know that I love you T 
 
 " Do you want to see me V 
 
 " Yes," she answered frankly ; " else I should not be here now." 
 
 " Do you love anybody else ?" 
 
 « Oh no." 
 
 "Do you think of me?" 
 
 " Why, of course ; I've been thinking of nothing else. It is all 
 so strange. I've been dreaming of you, even," she added, laughing. 
 
 " And you have said nothing to Mr. — what is his name, your 
 guardian V 
 
 " Mr. Venn ? No — nothing. I only told him I had a secret, 
 and wanted to keep it for the present." 
 
 " Good child." 
 
 " Then I told him yesterday that I was coming here — all part of 
 my secret — at half-past ten." 
 
 •' You told him you were coming here?" said Philip, starting 
 up. " Then he is quite sure to come too." 
 
 " Mr. Venn is a gentleman, Mr. Duruford," said Laura, with 
 great dignity. *' He trusts people altogether, or not at all." 
 
 *' By Jove !" murmured Phil, " he must be a remarkable man." 
 
 " ]\Ir. Venn told me to keep my secret as long as ever I pleased. 
 So that is all right. And now I must tell you two or three 
 things about myself, and we will talk about love and nil tliat 
 afterwards, if you like."
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 9.5 
 
 " No ; let us talk about love now. Never mind the two or 
 three things." 
 
 " But we must, you know. Now, listen. Who do you think 
 I am? Tell me honestly, because I Avant to know. Quite 
 honestlj^ mind. Don't think you will offend me." 
 
 " Well — honestly, I do not know and cannot guess. You 
 dress like all young ladies, but you are somehow different." 
 
 "Ah," replied Laura, " I never shall be like them." 
 
 " But, child, you are a great deal better. You don't pretend 
 to blush, and put on all sorts of little affectations ; and you 
 haven't learned all their tricks." 
 
 " What affectations— what tricks T 
 
 " And I like you all the better for it. Now, tell me who you 
 are, and all about yourself." 
 
 " My mother was a poor girl. My father was a gentleman — 
 I am glad to know that. He died before I was born. My 
 grandmother is a poor old woman, who gets her living by being 
 a laundress in Gray's Inn. And if it had not been for Mr. 
 Venn, I should have been — I don't know — anything. He took 
 me when I was five years old, and has been educating me ever 
 since. I never spoke to any lady in my life, except Miss Venn, 
 his sister. I never go anywhere, except with ]\Ir. Venn ; and I 
 never spoke to any gentleman, except Mr. Venn's most intimate 
 friends, until I met you. I have no relations, no friends, no 
 connections. I belong to the very lowest stratum of London 
 life. Now, Mr. Durnford, you have all my story. What do 
 you think of it ?" 
 
 His face "wore a puzzled expression. 
 
 " Tell me more. Have you no brothers ?" 
 
 "No, none." 
 
 " That's a good thing. I mean, of coarse, it is always best to 
 be without brothers and cousins. Don't you think so T 
 
 " I don't know. It must be nice to have one brother all to 
 yourself, you know. There's a large family of brothers, grown- 
 up brotliers, living next door to ray grandmother's. They get 
 tipsy every Saturday evening, and tight. I should not like 
 brothers like them. To be sure, they are stonemasons." 
 
 "And now tell me more about your guardian, Mr. Venn. I 
 'iuppose he is a fidgety oW gentleman — likes to have you about 
 him to nurse him, and all that V 
 
 LoUie burst out laughing. 
 
 "Mr. Venn \r>, not an old gentleman at all. OMer than you 
 
 7—2
 
 loo MV LITTLE CTRL. 
 
 of course, ever so much. Ho must be thirty-seven, at 
 least." 
 
 " Oh !" Philip's face lengthened. " And does jNIr. Venn 
 uevoi' — never make love to you on his own account ?" 
 
 She laughed the louder. 
 
 " Oh, what nonsense !" she cried — "IMr. Venn making love to 
 me. He has told me twice that he wants me to marry a gentle- 
 man. That was why I agreed to meet you again." 
 
 " So there was no love for me at all," said Philip. 
 • " I wish you wouldn't talk like that," replied the girl. " I've 
 told you alread}'. What more can I say % You asked me if I 
 loved anybody else. Of course I do not. Tlien you asked me 
 if I liked you. Of course I do. And if I have been thinking 
 about you. Of course I have. Now, sir, what more do you 
 wantr 
 
 " Laura, if you loved me, you would long to see me again ; 
 your pulse would beat, and your face would tlush, when you met 
 me. But you are cold and passionless. You know " — his own 
 face flushing — " tliat I think of no one but you. You know that 
 — that there is nothing in the world I wouh] not give to win you. 
 And yet you play with me as if I were a statue of marble." 
 
 She looked at him in a kind of surprise. 
 
 "I don't understand you at all. What am I to say? You 
 tell me you love me. That makes me very proud, because it is 
 a great thing to be loved by a gentleman. I am grateful. AVhat 
 more do you want? jNIj'' pulse doesn't beat any faster when I 
 see you coming along the walk — not a bit. If it did I would 
 tell you. Tell me what it is you want me to do, and I will do 
 it. But of course you would not like me to tell you anything 
 but the truth." 
 
 She looked at him with her full, earnest eyes. His fell before 
 them. They were so reproachful in their innocence and purity. 
 
 "I want nothing, Laura," he said, in a husky voice — "no- 
 thing. Only I love you, child, and you must be mine." 
 
 " Oh !" she replied, clapping her hands. " Ihen I will tell Mr. 
 Venn at once. He will be glad. And you shall come up with 
 me to see him." 
 
 " I am afraid that will hardly do," said her lover, feebly. 
 " No. Listen, Laura dear. Mr. Venn knows you have a secret, 
 and has given you permission to keep it, hasn't lie T 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then we will keep it. We will keep it till the day we are
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. !oi 
 
 married, and then we will go together to his chambers, you and 
 I, and you shall say — 
 
 " * Mr. Venn, I have done what you wanted me to do. I have 
 married a man who loves me — who is a gentleman ; and I have 
 done it, first, because you will be pleased, and, secondly, because 
 I love him too.' " 
 
 Slie pondered a little. 
 
 " I wonder if that is right. Don't you think I ought to tell 
 him at once?" 
 
 " Oh no — certainly not yet. N'ot till we are actually married. 
 Think how gratified Mr. Venn will be." 
 
 She was not yet satisfied. 
 
 " 1 will think over it," she said. " Mr. Venn always says 
 that going to bed is the best thing for bringing your opinion 
 right. Whenever he is troubled with anything, he goes to bed 
 early, and in the morning he is always as happy as ever. I am 
 quite sure he would be very glad to be told all about it at orce. 
 Some day, how proud and happy we shall all be to have known 
 him." 
 
 " Very likely ; and meanwhile, Laura, nothing will be said to 
 him." 
 
 '* is^o — I will go on keeping the secret. But, Philip, it will 
 be so delightful when we can all three go together up the river. 
 Do you know the Bells of Ouseley % We often go there in the 
 summer, row down the river, you know, have dinner, and row 
 back again in the evening for the last train. There is nothing 
 in the world so delightful." 
 
 " Eut if we are married, you may not be able to be so much 
 with Mr. Venn." 
 
 Her face fell. 
 
 " Tell me," she said. " Marringe does not mean that I am to 
 be separated from Mr. Venn, does it % Because if it does, 1. 
 would never marry any one. No, not if he loved me — as much 
 as you say you do." 
 
 "Marriage, my little innocont pet," said Pliilip, laughin.^, 
 *■ means sometimes that two people are so fond of each other that 
 they never want anybofly else's society at all. But with you 
 and me, it will mean that we shall be so proud of each other, so 
 pleased with each other's society, that we shall be glad to get 
 jMr. Venn, whom you are so fond of, to share it with us. He 
 shall be with us all day if you like, as many hours in the day as 
 you spend with him now. But all the rest of the day you will
 
 I02 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 spend with me, and my lite Avill be given u}) to make you 
 happy." 
 
 She looked at him again with wondering eyes, softened in 
 expression. 
 
 " That sounds very pleasant and sweet. I think you must bo 
 a good man. Are you as good as Mr. Venn 1" 
 
 " I don't know how good Mr. Venn is." 
 
 " I could tell you lots of things about Mr. Venn's goodness. 
 There was poor Mary. That is four years ago n(jw, aud I was a 
 very little girl. I don't know what she did ; but her father 
 turned her away from his doors, and she was starving. I told 
 Mr. Venn, and he helped her to get a place in a theatre, where 
 she works now. Poor Mary ! I met her the other day ; and 
 Avhen she asked after Mr. Venn, she burst out crying. Then 
 once, when old i\Irs. "VY'.eks's son Joe fell off the ladder — it was 
 a terrible thing for them, you know, because he broke his leg, 
 aud was laid up for weeks, and nothing for his mother while he 
 was in the hospital — Mr. Venn heard of it, and kept the old 
 woman till Joe came out of the hospital again. I saw him, one 
 Sunday, carrying a leg of mutton himself, wrapped up in the 
 Observer, to Mrs. Weeks's lodging. And I think Joe would cut 
 off his head to do good to Mr. Venn." 
 
 Big Ben struck twelve. 
 
 "There's twelve o'clock. And he will be waiting for me. 
 Good-bye, Philip. I must make haste back." 
 
 " Keep our secret, Laura." 
 
 " Yes ; he said I might. Good-bye." 
 
 " Meet me here next Monday. To-day is Friday. I will be 
 here at ten. Will you %" 
 
 She took his hand in her frank and honest way, and tripped 
 away. Presently, she came running back. 
 
 " Please, Mr. Durnford," she said, " give me some money for 
 a cab. I cannot bear that he should wait for me." 
 
 " He." Always ]\Ir. Venn lirst in her thoughts. 
 
 She took a florin from the silver Philip held out to her, and 
 ran out of the park. 
 
 He lit a cigar, and strolling round the ornamental water, began 
 to think. 
 
 What did he mean to do about the girl ? 
 
 At this point he hardly knew himself, except that he was 
 madly in love with her. It was but the third time they had 
 met. He loved her. Tlie passion in his heart was born a full
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 103 
 
 flower, almost at first sight. He seemed now no longer master 
 of himself, so great and overwhelming was his desire to get this 
 girl for himself. But how % He knew very well that there was 
 little enough left of the original five thousand. How could he marry 
 on a subaltern's pay % How could he take this young lady, with 
 her very remarkable education and history, her quaint and un- 
 conventional ideas, and her ignorance of the world, into his regi- 
 ment % And lastl}"-, how about Mr. Venn % There was another 
 thing. When she accepted him — which she did, as Ave know, 
 after a fashion quite unknown to fiction and little practised in 
 real life — when she listened to his tale of love, it was all in 
 reference to Mr. Venn. The very frankness with which the 
 iunoceut girl had received his suit was galling to a man's pride, 
 especially if it happen to be a man with a strong sense of per- 
 sonal superiority. Had he been a hunchback, had his legs been 
 bowed and his back double, had he been an idiot and a cretin, she 
 could not well have been colder or less encouraging. She did 
 not love him, that was clear \ but was he sure that all this inno- 
 cence was real % Could a London girl be so brought up as to 
 have no sense of the realities of life % "Would it be possible that 
 a girl would accept a man, promise to marry him, on the very 
 first offer, solely because her guardian wanted her to marry a gen- 
 tleman % 
 
 Some men's passions are like a furnace, not only because they 
 are so hot and burning, but also because they are only fanned by 
 cold air. Had Laura met her lover's fond vows by any cor- 
 responding affection, he would have tired of her in a week. But 
 she did not, as we have seen. Met him with a cold look of 
 astonishment. " Love you ? Oh dear, no. I cannot even tell 
 what you mean by love. Yes, I love Mr. Venn." Amaryllis, 
 pursued by Corydon, laughs in his face, and tells him that she 
 will marry him because she loves Alexis, and Alexis wants her 
 to marry somebody. And yet poor Corydon loves her still. 
 
 Corydon, meditating these things, and trying — to do him 
 justice — to repel and silence certain wicked voices of suspicion 
 and evil prompting which were buzzing in his ears, slowly 
 walked round the ornamental water, and emerged into Pall Mall, 
 On either shoulder was seated a little devil, one of tlio kind 
 chiefiy employed for West-end work — young, but highly pro- 
 mising and well-informed. 
 
 " You love her," said one. " She is j'oung nnd innofient, 
 iinsu.Hp«( tiny and credulous."
 
 104 ^^^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " She does not love you," said the other ; "she only wants to 
 please the man she really loves." 
 
 And so on, amusing themselves as such, little imps are wont,\vbile 
 he sauntered along the " sweet shady side," a prey to all kinds 
 of imaginings and doubts. Perhaps, after all, the imaginings 
 came from the depths of his own brain, and not from any little 
 imps at all ; and certainly, the existence of these animals does 
 present enormous difficulties to the speculative philosopher, and 
 since the times of the Ilev. Mr. IJarham they have not been 
 prominently before the public. If they have any functions to 
 perform in this generation, I should think they are used chiefly 
 to influence men like our poor Philip, whoso strength of will has 
 been corrupted by evil habit, by vanity, by false shame — to draw 
 a veil over what is good, to represent the bad as fatal, inevitable, 
 and not really so bad as has been made out. 
 
 Now, as he turned tlie corner of Waterloo Place, a thing befell 
 him which must really have been the special work of the Chief 
 of the Metropolitan Secret Iniquity Force. I may seem harsh iu 
 my judgment, but the event will perhaps justify me. 
 
 There came beating across the street, from the corner of Cock- 
 spur Street to the far corner of Waterloo Place, with intent to go 
 down Pall Mall, a team of animated sandwiches. With that 
 keen sense of the fitness of things which always distinguishes 
 the profession, they had selected this as the fittest place to ad- 
 vertise a spectacle at the Victoria Theatre. The ways of this 
 curious and little-studied folk afford, sometimes, food for profound 
 reflection. I have seen the bearer of a sandwich, on one side of 
 which Avas inscribed the legend, " Silence, tremble !" and on the 
 other words more sacred than may here be lightly Avritteu, heavily 
 drunk outside a public, while a friend engaged in making known 
 the Coal Hole and the Poses Plastiques was expostulating with 
 him on his immorality. The perfunctory preacher had not 
 taken his own text to heart. The principle is exactly the same 
 as that bv which the Cambridge undergraduate from far Cathay, 
 who confesses that there is but one God and Mohammed is his 
 prophet, passes that barrier to distinction called the Little Go, 
 wherein he has to master Paley's " Evidences of Christianity," 
 and goes back to his native land and to Islam. 
 
 This particular procession consisted of thirteen men. On the 
 proud shield which each bore in front and behind was blazoned 
 a scene of almost impossible splendour and magnificence, while a 
 eingle letter on each enabled the whole to be read by the curl-
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. io$ 
 
 ous, as the pageant streamed past, as "Titania's Haunt." 
 *' Stieauiiug past " is poetical, but scarcely correct. It rather 
 t-hufHed past. ]\[ost of the knights, or esquires — scutiieri — were 
 n^.en well stricken in years, their faces lined with thought, or it 
 n)ay have been expevieuce. After some hve or six had passed 
 cdoDg, one experienced a feeling as of red noses. Their dress was 
 shabby and dirty ; their looks were hopeless and blank ; some of 
 them seemed to have once been gentlemen ; and the spectator, 
 looking at the men who carried rather than the thing they bore, 
 was touched with a sense of pity and fear. 
 
 Poor Helots of our great London. You are paraded, I suspect, 
 by the philanthropists — perhaps it is the great secret unsuspected 
 work of the Society for the Suppression of Vice — Avho make you 
 carry a shield to hide their intentions and spare you unnecessary 
 shame. They spend their money upon you — not too much, it 
 is true — that we may have before our eyes a constant example 
 of the eflects of drink. March ! Bands of Hope, with colours 
 dying aud music playing; sing '•' Sursura, corda," and strengthen 
 resolution by speeches and hymns. Eaton your way home, look 
 at this poor creature of sixty, who Avas once delicately nurtui'ed 
 and carefully brought up — a scholar and a gentleman — and 
 tremble lest you give way. For the sandwich men mean drink, 
 drink, drink. Better to have these woebegone faces before us as 
 we walk down the street than the Lacedaemonian Helot stag- 
 gering foolishly in front. 
 
 Phil stood and watched them dodging the cabs. One by one 
 they got across that difficult and dangerous corner where there 
 ought to be an island every three yards to protect us. Presently, 
 the bearer of the letter I arrived on the kirb and fell into line. 
 Philip dropped his cigar and started. The man was lookin" 
 straight before him. His face was perfectly white and pale, and 
 without hair. His locks were of a silvery white, although he 
 could hardly have been much more than liftJ^ His nose — a fiit, 
 prominent organ — was deeply tinged with red; his mouth was 
 tivmulous ; crow's-feet lay under his eyes, which Avere smaU, 
 blight, and cunning, set beneath light-brown or reddish eyebrows. 
 The aspect of the man, with his white hair, smooth face, red 
 nose, and bushy eyebrows, was so remarkable, that many people 
 turned to look at him as they passed. 
 
 Philip walked with the procession, keeping behind him. 
 
 A tall hat, well battered by the storms of life, a thick pea-jacket, 
 and a thin pair of Tweed trouser.s, seemctl to make all Jiis dress.
 
 io6 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Presently, Philip touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 The man turned upou him ■with a glare of terror which to a 
 policeman would have spoken volumes. 
 
 Philip looked at him still, but said nothing. He shuttled 
 along Avith the rest, trembling in every limb. Then Philip 
 Lunched him on the shoulder again, and said, in a low voice — 
 
 " Obsairve, Mr. Alexander Maclntyre." 
 
 The ex-tutor looked at him in a stupid Avay. 
 
 " I know you, man," said Philip. " Come out of this, and 
 talk." 
 
 They were at the corner of Jermyn Street. To the surprise of 
 his fellows, letter I suddenly left the line, and dived down 
 Jermyn Street. They waited a little. He Avas joined by a 
 gentleman ; and after a few moments, he slipped his head 
 through the boards, and leaving them on the pavement, hurried 
 away. 
 
 This was Avhat passed. 
 
 " You Avill remember me presently," said Philip. " I am 
 Philip Durnford. There is my card. Get food, clothes, not too 
 much drink, and come to my lodgings at eight o'clock this even- 
 ing. Here is a sovereign for you." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre spoke not a word, but took the coin and 
 watched his patron go striding away. Then he bit the sovereign 
 to see if it was good — a dreadful proof of his late misfortunes. 
 Then he laughed in a queer waj^ and looked back at his boards. 
 After that, of course, he Avent round the corner. Gentlemen 
 doAvn in the world always do. There Avas a public-house round 
 the corner. He felt in his jpocket, where jingled threepence, his 
 little all, and dived into the hostelry. A moment after, he came 
 out, his eyes bright, his mouth firm, his head erect, and Avalked 
 briskly away. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 In the evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Maclntyre presented 
 himself at Philip's lodgings. He Avas greatly changed for the 
 better. With much prudence he had spent the Avhole of the 
 sovereign in effecting an alteration in his outAvard appearance, 
 calculating that his old pupil Avould be at least good for tAVO or 
 three more golden tokens of esteem. He was now, looked at
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. \Gj 
 
 from betind, a gentleman of reduced means ; everything, from 
 his black coat to his boots, having a secondhand and " reach me 
 down " look, and nothing attaining to what might be called a 
 perfect lit. The coat was obtained by exchange or barter, the 
 old pea-jacket having been accepted in lieu of payment ; while 
 the other articles were the result of long haggling and beating 
 down. He looked, however, complacently on his new garb, as 
 indicating a partial return to respectability. 
 
 Philip greeted him with a friendly shake of the hand. 
 
 " Why, man, do you mean to say that a sovereign has done 
 all that r' 
 
 " All," said his tutor. " I'll just tell you how I did it. First, 
 the trousers. Saxpence the nvin allowed for the old ones, Avhich 
 I left with him. They're just dropping to pieces with fatigue. 
 Eh, they've had a hard time of it for many years. Then I got a 
 secondhand flannel shirt. He wouldn't give me anything for 
 the old one. Then I got the coat for my pea-jacket — which, 
 though a most comfortable garment, was hardly, you'll obsairve, 
 the coat for a Master of Arts of an old and respectable Univair- 
 sity." 
 
 "Well — well. Did you get anything to eat?" 
 
 *' Dinner. Tenpenco. I'm no saying that I'm not hungry. 
 
 Philip rang the bell, and ordered some supper, which his 
 guest devoured ravenously. 
 
 " Short commons of late, I am afraid T 
 
 " Vera short, vera short ! I'll trouble you for two — three 
 more slices of that beef. Ah, Phil, what an animal is the common 
 ox ! You feel it when you come to be a stranger to him. And 
 bottled stout. When — eh, man T 
 
 He took a pull which finished the bottle, and proceeded to 
 eat ; talking, at intervals, quite in his old style. 
 
 " Obsairve. The development of the grateful feeling, commonly 
 supposed to be wanting — thank ye, Phil, one more slice, with 
 some of the fat and a bit of the brown — wanting to the savage 
 races, must be mainly due to the practice of a higher order of 
 eating. My supper has lately been the penny bloater, with a 
 baked potato. No, I really cannot eat any more. The spirit is 
 Avilling — for I am still hungry, Phil — but tlie capacity of the 
 stomach is limited. I fear I have already injudiciously crowded 
 the space. Is that brandy, Phil, on the sideboard ]" 
 
 Philip rose and brought the bottle, with a tumbler nnd cold 
 water, and placed it befort; liini.
 
 io8 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Brandy," he murmured. " It has been my dream for four 
 long months, I have managed, sometimes, a glass of gin. Bui 
 brandy ! — oh, blessed consoler of human sult'ering ! Brandy !" 
 He was clutching the bottle and standing over it with greedy 
 eyes. " Brandy ! — water of life !— no, water that droons the 
 sense of life — that brings us forgetful ne.<s of everything, and re- 
 stores the fire of youth — stays the gnawings of hunger. Brandy \ 
 And they say we mustn't drink ! Oh, Phil, my favourite pupil, 
 for those who have memories, brandy is your only medicine." 
 
 He filled a tumbler half full of spirit, added a little water, 
 and drank it off at a draught. Then he looked round, sighed, 
 sat down, and, to Philip's astonishment, burst into violent sob- 
 bing. This phenomenon was quite unprecedented in the history, 
 so far as Philip knew, of his late tutor. 
 
 " Nay," he said, kindly, " we shall manage to mend matters 
 somehow. Cheer up, man. Have another glass." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre gave a profound sniff, and looked up through 
 his tears. 
 
 " Give me a pocket-handkerchief hrst, Phil. I want to blow 
 my nose. I pawned my last — it was a silk one — for tenpencu 
 ha'penny." 
 
 Philip brought him one from his bed-room, and he began to 
 mop up. 
 
 Then he took another glass of brandy and water. 
 
 "Tears — it is indeed a relief to have an old friend to talk to 
 — tears are produced from many causes. There are tears of grati- 
 tude, of joj'', of sorrow, even of repentance, if you think you are 
 going to be found out. Mine arc none of these. They rise from 
 that revulsion o' feeling projuiced by a sudden and strong con- 
 trast. Obsairve. The man unexpectedly or violently removed 
 from a state of hopeless destitution to the prospect of affluence 
 must either cry or laugh — and not even a philosopher can alwa^'s 
 choose which. I have got decent clothes, an old friend ; and my 
 brains — a little damaged by a hard life, perhaps — are still greatlj' 
 superior to the avcrag<^." 
 
 " And you have been really destitute T 
 
 " For four months I have been a walking advertisement. 
 Part of the time I was getting eighteenpence a day as one of the 
 Associated Boardmen. Eh, Philip Durnford. think of your old 
 tutor becoming an Associated Boardman ! Then I got dru — I 
 mean I took too much one day, and they turned me out in the 
 cold. I starved a day or two, and thon got employment at one-
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 109 
 
 and-threepence, which I have had, oft' and ou, ever since. It is 
 not a difficult employment. There is little responsibility. No 
 sense of dignity or self-respect is required. On the Sunday, 
 there is no work to be done ; consequently, for four months I 
 have cursed the Sawbath — the Lord forgive me ! Don't ask me 
 too much, Philip : it has been a sad time — a terrible time. I am 
 half-starved. I have had to associate with men of no education 
 and disagreeable habits. A bad time — a bad time." He passed 
 his hand across his forehead, and paused a moment. '• A time 
 of bad dreams. I shall never forget it, never. It will haunt me 
 to my grave — poison my nights, and take the pleasure out of my 
 days. Don't ask me about it. Let me forget it," 
 
 " Tell me only what you like," said Philip. 
 
 " The passions, I have discovered, the follies, and the ambitions 
 of man depend a'together on the stomach. The hungry man, 
 who has been hungry for three months, can only hope for a good 
 meal. That is the boundary of his thoughts. He envies none 
 but the fat. He has no eyes for beauty. Helen would pass un- 
 noticed by a sandwich man, only for plumpness. He has no 
 perception of the beauties of nature, save in the streakiness of 
 beef; none for those of art, save in the cookshops. He has no 
 hatred in his heart, nor any love. And of course he has no con- 
 science. Obsairve, my pupil, that religion is a matter for those 
 who are assured of this world's goods. It vanishes at the first 
 appearance of want. Hence a clause in the Lord's Prayer." 
 
 " You — I mean your companions between the boards — are 
 honest, I suppose T 
 
 " Ah, well — that's as it may be. It is one of the advantages 
 of the profession that you must be honest, because you can't run 
 if you do steal anything. Iso line of life presents fewer oppor- 
 tunities for turning a dishonest penny. Otherwise — you see — ■ 
 stomach is king at all times ; and if not sf^tisfied, my young 
 friend, stomach becomes God." 
 
 "Tell me, if you can, how you came to fall into these 
 straits." 
 
 " Infandum jubes renovare dolorem. Eh ! — tlie Latin tags and 
 commonplaces, how they stick. It is a kind of consolation to 
 quote them. When you saw me last was on that unfortunate 
 occasion when you treated your old tutor with unwarrantable 
 harshness. I have long lamented the misconception which led 
 you to that line of conduct. Verbal reproach alone would have 
 been ill-fitting to your lips ; but actual personal violence I Ah,
 
 no MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Phil ! But all is forgiven and forgotten. You went away. I 
 applied to M. de Villeroy for a testimonial. I still preserve the 
 document he was good enough to send me. It is here." 
 
 He produced a papej from a bundle which he carried in an old 
 battered pocket-book. 
 
 " There are papers here, Phil, that will interest you some day, 
 when you have learned to trust me. Kow listen. This is what 
 your poor father's old friend said of your old tutor." 
 
 He shook his head in sorrow, and read — 
 
 " I have been asked to speak of Mr. Maclntyre's fitness for the 
 post of an instructor of youth. I can assert with truth that J 
 have on several occasions seen him sober ; that Mr. Durnford, his 
 late employer, never detected him in any dishonesty ; that his 
 morality, in this neighbourhood, has been believed in by no one ; 
 and that, in his temperate intervals, he is sometimes industrious." 
 
 " There, Philip. Think of that." 
 
 " You do not shoAv that testimonial much, I suppose ?" said 
 Philip. 
 
 " 1^0," replied the philosopher. '* I keep it as a proof of the 
 judeecial blindness which sometimes afflicts men of good sense. 
 M. de Villeroy is dead, and so it matters little now. Do you 
 know where Miss Madeleine is T 
 
 " No. In Palmiste, I suppose." 
 
 " There ye're wrong. She's in London. I saw her yesterday 
 with an old lady in Eegent Street, and followed her home. She's 
 bonny, vera bonny, with her black hair and big eyes. Oh, she's 
 bonny. But uplifted with pride, I misdoubt. Why don't you 
 marry her, Philip % She's got plenty of money. Arthur will 
 marry her if you don't. Give me Arthur's address." 
 
 " You want to borrow money of him, I suppose?" 
 
 " No. I want just to ask him to give, me money. You're not 
 over-rich, I'm afraid, Philip, yourself, my laddie." 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 " My father gave me five thousand pounds. All that is left of 
 it is in our old agent's hands in Palmiste. I get ten per cent, 
 for it. As I only got a hundred and fifty last February, a good 
 lot of it must be gone. And I've had another little dig into the 
 pile since then." 
 
 " A)--, ay? — that's bad ; that's vera bad. But perhaps a time 
 will come for you as well as the rest of the world."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. in 
 
 " Arthur can help you, and I daresay will. But you must 
 not tell him too much." 
 
 " I do not intend to tell him anything," said the man of ex- 
 perience, loftily, " Except lies." 
 
 " Tell me something, however," said Philip. " Tell me how 
 you got into such a hole." 
 
 " I went to Australia from Palmiste. Spent all my money 
 in IMelbourne, trying to get something to do, and at last I got 
 put into the school of a little township up country, where my 
 chief work was to cane the brats. Such an awfu' set of devils ! 
 That lasted a year. Then there came a terrible day." 
 
 He stopped and sighed. 
 
 " I shall never forget that day. It was a Saturday, I remem- 
 ber. The boj's were more mutinous than usual, and I caned them 
 all — there were thirty-five. And when one was caned, the others 
 all shouted and laughed. At twelve, I read the prayers pre- 
 scribed by the authorities, with my usual warmth and unction. 
 Then I dismissed the boys. ISTobocly moved. There was a dead 
 silence, and I confess I felt alarmed. Presently, the five biggest 
 boys got up, and approached my desk with determined faces. I 
 had a presentiment of what would happen, and I turned to flee. 
 It was too late." 
 
 "What did they do to youf 
 
 " They tied me up, sir. They tied me up to my own desk, 
 and then they laid on. They gave their reverend dominie the 
 most awful flogging that ever schoolboy had. None too small, 
 sir, to have a cut in. None so forgiving as to shirk his turn. 
 Not one, Philip, relented at the last moment, and spared some of 
 his biceps. Pairfect silence reigned ; and when it was over, they 
 placed me back in my chair, with my cane in my hand ; and 
 then the school dispersed. What I felt, Philip, more than the 
 ignominy, was the intense pain. A red-hot iron might projuice a 
 similar but not a greater agony, if applied repeatedly on every 
 square inch over a certain area of the body. A thirty-handed 
 Briareus, if he turned schoolmaster, could alone rival the magni- 
 tude of that prodeejious cowhiding. 
 
 " Next day I left the town. It Avas during church time ; but 
 the boys were waiting for me, and as I stole out with my bundle 
 in my hand, they ran me down the street on a rail, singing 
 ' Drucken Sawnie !' That was a very bad time I had then. 
 
 " I tried Sydney after that, and got on pretty well in business 
 — till 1 I'ailod ; and then the judge "wanted to refuse my certili-
 
 ira MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 cate, because, he said, the books were Iraduleutly kept. That 
 wasn't true, for they were not kept at aU. So I came away, and 
 got to the Cape. A poor place, I'liil — very poor, and dull ; but 
 the drink is good, and the food is cheap. I learned to speak 
 Dutch, and was very near marrying the daughter of a Dutch 
 farmer, well to do, only for an unlucky accident. Just before 
 the wedding, my cruel fate caused me to be arrested on a ridicu- 
 lous charge of embezzlement. Of course, I was acquitted ; but 
 the judge — who ought to be prosecuted for defamation of 
 character — ruined me by stating that I only got olF by the skin 
 of my teeth, because the jury understood English imperfectly. 
 I came back to England, and went down to see my relations. 
 My cousin, only four times removed — the baillie of Auchnatoddy 
 — ordered me out of his house, and wadna give me bite nor sup. 
 Then I came up to town, and here I am, ever since. Ye won't 
 do me an ill turn by telling Arthur my story, will you, Philip ;" 
 " !N'ot I ; particularly as you have only told me half of it." 
 " May be — may be. The other half I keep to myself." 
 It was as well he did, for among the second half were one or 
 two experiences of prison life, which might not have added to 
 his old pupil's respect for him. These other adventures he 
 omitted, partly perhaps out of modesty, and partly out of a fear 
 that their importance might be exaggerated. 
 
 The astonishing thing was, the way in which he emerged from 
 all his troubles. They seemed to be without any effect upon 
 his energies or spirits. Utterly careless about loss of character, 
 perfectly devoid of moral principle, he came up, after each 
 disaster, seemingly refreshed by the fall. Mother Earth revived 
 him ; and he started anew, generally with a few pounds in his 
 pocket, and always some new scheme in his head, to prey upon the 
 credulity of good and simple men. That he had not yet suc- 
 ceeded, argued, he considered, want of rather luck than absence of 
 merit. 
 
 His projects were not of very extraordinary cleverness. But 
 he was unscrupulous enough to succeed. Cleverness and freedom 
 from scruples do somehow seem the two main requisites to produce 
 the success of wealth. The cleverest rogue becomes the richest 
 man, often the most revered. He has been known, for instance, 
 to get into the House of liOrds. Mr. Gladstone will always, if 
 he spends £20,000 on the cause, make him a baronet. But 
 quite lately a new feeling had come over Mr. Maclntyre. He 
 was beginning to doubt himself. For four months he bad lived
 
 M y LITTLE GIRL. 1 1 3 
 
 on about three liall-crowns a week, and as the days went on, and 
 he saw no chance of escape, he grew more and more despondent. 
 It was a new sensation, this of privation. He suffered for the 
 tirst time in his L'fe. And also, for the first time, he saw no way 
 to better things — no single spot of blue in all the horizon. Eheu- 
 matic twinges pinched him in the shoulders. He was fifty-three 
 years of age. He had not a penny saved, nor a friend to give 
 him one. In the evening he crept back to his miserable lodging, 
 brooding over his fate ; and in the morning he crept out again to 
 his miserable work, brooding still. 
 
 But now a change, unexpected and sudden. Hinc illse lachrymye. 
 Hence those tears of the tutor, wrung from a heart whose power 
 of philosophy was undermined by a long-continued emptiness of 
 stomach. That night he slept on Philip's sofa ; and the next 
 day, after taking a few necessaries — such as a shirt, a Avaistcoat, 
 collar, and so on — from his benefactor's wardrobe, making philo- 
 sophical retiections all the while, he devoured a breakfast of 
 enormous dimensions, and proceeded to call upon Arthur. 
 
 " Ye'll remember, Mr. Philip Durnford," he said, putting on 
 his hat — " by the way, lend me two or three pounds, which I 
 shall repay from what I get from Arthur : I must have a better 
 hat — ye'll remember to forg'it the little confidential narrative I 
 imparted to you last night. It is not always possible to pre- 
 serve the prudence of a philosopher, and to know what things 
 should be said and what concealed — quae dicenda, que celanda 
 sint. I told you more than I should. Eut I trust to your pro- 
 mise." 
 
 He found Arthur at woik in his usual purposeless way. That 
 is, he was surrounded by a great pile of books, and had a pen iu 
 his hand, Arthur was not happy unless ho was luLowing up 
 some theory or investigating some "point," and had a Sybaritish 
 Avay of study which led to no results, and seemed to promise 
 nothing : a kind of work which very often laiids the student 
 among the antiquarians and archoeologists. But there was a tone 
 about Arthur which impressed Mr. Maclntyre with a sense of 
 constraint and awkwardness. Philip ha somehow felt to belong 
 to his own stratum of humanity. With PhiHp he was at ease, 
 and could talk familiarly. Arthur belonged to that higher and 
 colder level where self-respect was essential, and any confidences 
 of the criminal Christian would be out of place. Philip, for in- 
 stance, had insisted upon his fortifying his stomach against the 
 rawness of the morning air with a glass of brandy before goin" 
 
 8
 
 114 ^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 out. Arthur, on the other hand, offered him nothing ; but, 
 giving him a chair, stood leaning against the mantelshelf, and 
 contemplating his visitor from his height of six feet. 
 
 " I hope you are doing "well, Mr. Maclntyre," he l^egau. 
 
 " I am not doing Avell," replied the Scotchman ; " I'm doing 
 very badly." 
 
 " I do not ask your history since I saw you last." 
 
 "Mr. Arthur "Durnford, you are my old pupil — I may add, 
 my favourite pupil — and you are privileged to say what you 
 please. My life is open to any question you may like to aslc. 
 The failure of a school in Australia, through my — my firmness in 
 maintaining discipline ; that of a prosperous place of business iu 
 Sydney, through an unexpected rise in the Bank rate ; and the 
 breakdown of my plans in Cape Town, brought me home in a 
 condition of extreme penury. From this I was rescued by the 
 generosity of Lieutenant Philip Durnford, who has most liberally 
 assisted me out of liis very slender means — his very .slender 
 means. Ask me any questions you like, Mr. Durnford ; but 
 do not, if you please, insinuate that I have anything to con- 
 ceal." 
 
 He smote his chest, and assumed an air of Spartan virtue. 
 
 " Well, well. Only, the fact is, Mr. Maclntyre, I remember 
 that the last time I saw you, you were receiving punishment from 
 Philip's hands for some disgraceful proposals." 
 
 " Pardon me — Mr. Philip was under a mistake. This, I be- 
 lieve, he wiJl now acknowledge. I have forgiven him." 
 
 "I hope he was mistaken. Anyhow, my opinion of you, 
 formed as a boy, could not possibly be favourable." 
 
 "At the time you speak of, I Avas suffering from deepsomania, 
 I am now recovered, thanks to having taken the pledge for a 
 term of years. Now expired." 
 
 " What are you doing now T 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " What have you been doing ?'* 
 
 " Starving." 
 
 " What do you want to do ?' 
 
 " I want you to find me some money. I cannot promise to 
 pay it back, because I am too poor to promise anything. Eut 
 if you will advance me fifty pounds, I think I can do something 
 with it." 
 
 Arthur took his cheque-book, and sat down, thoughtfully. 
 
 *' I will do this for you, I will lend you fifty pounds, which,
 
 M Y LITTLE GIRL. 1 1 5 
 
 as yon are a thrifty man, ought to last you six months. You 
 Avill spend that time in looking about you, and trying to get 
 work. At the end of six mouths, if you want it, I will lend you 
 another fifty. But that is all I will do for you. And I shall 
 specially ask Philip not to give you money." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre was not profuse in his thanks. He took the 
 cheque, examined it carefully, folded it, and put it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " I knew you'd help me," he said. " I told Philip so this 
 morning. Can I forward you in your studies now 1 The pheelo- 
 sophical system of Hamilton, for instance." 
 
 "Yes; never mind my studies, if you please. Is there any- 
 thing else I can do for you T 
 
 " I do not ca' to mind that there is. L'll look in again, when 
 there is. Have you seen Miss Madeleine, Mr. Durnford, since 
 she came to London 1" 
 
 " Madeleine 1 No. Is she in London ? What is her address ? 
 — how long has she been here ?" 
 
 " I dare say I could fijid out her address. But it might cost 
 money." 
 
 He looked so cunning as he said this, that Arthur burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 " You are a cool hand, Mr. Maclntyre. How much would it 
 cost ?— five pounds ]" 
 
 " ]N'ow, really, Mr. Arthur, to suppose that a mau can run all 
 over London for five pounds ! And that to find the address of 
 your oldest friend." 
 
 " Well, twenty pounds 1 — thirty pounds 1 Hang it, man, I 
 must know." 
 
 " I should think," said the philosopher, meditating, "it might 
 be found for forty pounds, if the money was paid at once." 
 
 Arthur wrote another cheque, which Maclntyre put into his 
 pocket-book as before. 
 
 " This does not prejudice the fifty pounds in .six months' time ?" 
 he said. " Very well. I remember now that I have her address 
 in my pocket. I followed her home and asked a servant. Here 
 it is — No. 31, Hatherley Street, Eaton Square." 
 
 " Did you speak to her T 
 
 " Is it likely V replied Mr. Maclntyre, thinking of his boards. 
 
 " Confess that you have done a good stroke of business this 
 morning," said Arthur. " Ninety pounds is not bad. You can't 
 always sell an addrnss for forty pounds." 
 
 8—2
 
 n6 Afy LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Sell au address? My dear sir, you mi-staku me altogether. 
 Do not, if you please, imagine that I am cue of those who 
 f<ell such little information as I possess, llemember, if you 
 please, that you are addressing a Master of Arts of an an- 
 cient " 
 
 "You are quite yourself again, Mr. Maclntyre," said Arthur. 
 " Good movniijg, now. Keep away from drink, and " 
 
 " Sir, I have already reminded you that " 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Maclntyre." 
 
 He went away, cashed both his cheques, and, taking lodgings, 
 proceeded to buy such small belongingsas the simplest civilisation 
 demands — such as a hair-brush, linen, and a two-gallon cask of 
 whisky. Then he ordered tlie servant to keep a kettle always 
 on the hob ; sat down, rubbed his hands, lit a pipe, and began to 
 meditate. 
 
 CHAPTER X.' 
 
 It was quite true. Madeleine was in England. 
 
 Eight years since, Madeleine, before leaving her native island, 
 had ridden over to Eontainebleau to take farewell of a place 
 where she had spent so many happy days. The house was un- 
 inhabited and shut up, but the manager of the estates was care- 
 ful to keep it in repair. It all looked as it used to. The canes, 
 clean and well kept, waving in the sunlight, in green and yellow 
 and gray ; the mill busier than ever, with its whirr of grinding 
 wheels ; the sweet, rich smell of the sugar ; the huge vats of 
 secithing, foaming juice, and the whirling turbines. Eut the old 
 verandah was no longer strewn with its cane mats and chairs ; 
 and when the doors were opened for her, the house felt chill and 
 damp. She lifted the piano-lid and touched the keys, shrinking 
 back with a cry of fright. It was like a voice from the dead — 
 so cracked, and thin, and strident was the sound. In the boys' 
 study were their old school-books lying about, just as they had 
 left them ; in a drawer which she opened, some papers scribbled 
 with boyish sketches. One of these represented a gentleman, 
 whose features were of au exaggerated Scotch type, endeavouring 
 to mount his pony. The animal was turning upon him with an
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, 117 
 
 air of reproach, as one saying, " Sir, you are drunk again." This 
 ■c\'as inscribed at the back, " Philippus fecit." Then there was 
 another and more finished effort, signed Arthur, of a girl's head 
 in chalk. Perhaps the merit of this picture was slender ; but 
 Madeleine blushed when she looked at it, and took both pictures 
 away Avith her. 
 
 There was no other souvenir that she cared to have ; and leaving 
 the house, she paid a visit to the garden. Oh, the garden ! 
 Where once had been pineapples were pumpkins ; where had 
 been strawberries were pumpkins ; where there had once 
 been flower-beds, vegetables, or shrubs, were pumpkins. 
 Pumpkin was king. He lay there — green, black, or golden — 
 basking in the sun. He had devoured all, and spread himself 
 over all. 
 
 So Madeleine came away ; and under the maternal wing of the 
 Eishopess — whose right reverend husband, as happens once in 
 two years to all colonial bishops, had business connected with 
 his diocese which brougiit him to England — was duly shipped to 
 Southampton, and presently forwarded to Switzerland, 
 
 Education. Her guardian was a Frenchman by descent, a 
 Swiss by choice. He had enlarged vieAvs, and brought up the 
 girl as a liberal Protestant. He had her taught the proper 
 amount of accomplishments. He made her talk English, though 
 with a slight foreign accent, as well as French ; and, what was 
 much more important, gave her ideas as to independence and un- 
 couventionality which sank deep, and moulded her whole 
 character. Insomuch that one day she announced her intention 
 of going away and setting up for herself 
 
 " I am of age," she said. " I want to see the world a little. I 
 want to make up my mind what to do with myself" 
 
 Old !M. Lajardie chuckled. 
 
 " See what it is," he observed, " to bring up a girl as she 
 ought to be brought up. My dear, if it had not been for me, you 
 would at this moment be wanting to go into a convent." 
 
 She shook her head, 
 
 "I know the sex, child. You belong to the class which takes to 
 religion like a duck to water. This being denied you, yoa will take 
 to philanthropy, usefulness, all sorts of thiugs. That is why I 
 taught you English, because England is the only country pos- 
 sible for a full exercise of these virtues. Then you are of a 
 tf^mperament which would have induced blind submission in a 
 wan, and mak^s a delightful obstinacy in a free woman."
 
 1 1 8 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear guardian — " 
 
 " And then, my child, there is another quality in yon, "which 
 would have made you the most rapturous of sisters, which will 
 make you the best and most devoted of wives. You will marry, 
 Madeleine." 
 
 " It is possible," she said. " It may come in my way, as it 
 does in most people's lives. But I do not count upon marriage 
 as a part of my life." 
 
 " You are rich, Madeleine. You have — well, more than your 
 fair share of beauty. Black hair and black eyes are common ; 
 but not such splendid hair as yours, or eyes as bright. There 
 are girls as tall as you, but few with so good a figure." 
 
 "Don't, guardian," said Madeleine, with a little moue and a 
 half-blush. " I would rather you told me of ray faults." 
 
 " I know the sex, I tell you," repeated the old man. " When 
 I was young — ah, what a thing it is to be young ! — I made a 
 profound study of the sex. It is quite true, Madeleine, though I 
 am only an old man that says it, that even Madame Eecamier her- 
 self, in her best days, had not a more finished style than yours. 
 You will succeed, my child. You will be able to marry any one 
 — any one you please." 
 
 " You do not imagine, I suppose, that I am to fall in love 
 with the first rich young man who tells me that he loves me % As 
 if there was nothing in the world for Avoman to think of but 
 love." 
 
 " Most women," went on her critic, " like to be married to a 
 lord and master. I prophesy for you, Madeleine, that your 
 husband will be content to obey rather than to command. So, 
 child, you shall see the world. Let me only just write to our 
 friend, Mrs. Longworthy, who will act as your chaperone. You 
 will find yourself richer than you think, perhaps. All your 
 money is in the English funds, and the interest has been used 
 to buy fresh stock. Go now, my ward — I will think over what 
 is best to be done." 
 
 The old man attended her to the door, and, shutting it after 
 lier, went through a little pantomime of satisfaction. That done, 
 he took down a volume of Voltaire's " Philosophical Dictionary," 
 and Avagged his head over the wisdom that he found therein. 
 
 " Independent," he murmured. " Eich, self-reliant, able to 
 think, not superstitions, not infected with insular prejudices, 
 philanthropic, beautiful. She will do. Elle ira loin, mon ami," 
 he said, tapping his own forehead. "You have done well.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 119 
 
 When revolutions come, and lines of thought are changed, it is 
 good to have such women at hand, to steady the men. France 
 rules the world, and the women rule France. Hein ? it sounds 
 epigrammatic. Has it been said before T 
 
 So to England Madeleine came. A chaperone was found for 
 her in the widow of an old friend of M. Lajardie — a certain Mrs. 
 Long worthy, who was willing — and, more than that, able — to 
 take her into society. They took one of those extremely com- 
 fortable little houses — the rent of which is so absurdly out of 
 proportion to their size — close to Eaton-square : a house with its 
 two little drawing-rooms and greenhouse at the back — a little 
 narrow as regards diniugroom accommodation, but broad enough, 
 as Mrs. LongM'orthy put it, for tAvo lone women. 
 
 Madeleine's chaperone was only remarkable for her extraordi- 
 nary coziness and love of comfort. A cushiony old lady — one 
 who sat by the fireside and purred ; and, when things went 
 badly with her, went to bed and stayed there till they came 
 round again. An old lady who went to church every Sunday, 
 and, like the late lamented Duke of Sussex, murmured after 
 each commandment, " Never did that : never did that." So 
 lliat the rules of prohibition did not affect her own conscience. 
 For all the rest, she entirely trusted and admired Madeleine, and 
 never even ventured on a remonstrance with her. 
 
 Madeleine was what her guardian described her. In her pre- 
 sence most men felt themselves above their own stratum. There 
 Avas a sort of gulf ; and yet, with all the men's experience, the 
 clear light of her eyes seemed to read so far beyond their actual 
 ken. If she liked you, and talked to you, you came away from 
 her strengthened and braced up. Beautiful, she certainly was, 
 in a way of her own : striking, the women called her — a word 
 which the sex generally employ when they feel envious of poAver 
 and physique beyond their OAvn. EoUs of black hair; a pale 
 and colourless cheek ; a small and firm mouth; clear and sharply 
 defined nostrils ; eyes that were habitually limpid and soft, 
 Avhich yet might flash to sudden outbreaks of storm ; and a 
 figure beyond all expression gracieuse. A Avoman who could 
 talk ; one AA'hom young warriors, having to take her in to din- 
 ner, speedily felt beyond them altogether; one Avho lifted a man 
 up, and made him breathe a purer air. This is, I take it, the 
 highest function of Avoman. We cannot, as a rule, run comfort- 
 ably in single h;irne.«s, but are bound by the law« of our being 
 to have a mate of some kind. It is surely best for us to find one
 
 120 A/Y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ■whose sense of duty is stronger than our own, and whose standard 
 is hi<iher. "We may have to do all the work ; but we want a fellow 
 in the harness to show us that the work is good, and that it be- 
 hoves us to do it well. 
 
 Madeleine was not, it is certain, one of the girls whom a cer- 
 tain class of small poets love to style "darling," "pet Amoret," 
 " sweet little lily." ^^ot for any man's toy ; no animated doll 
 to please for a while, and then drop out of life ; nor yet that 
 dreadful creature, a "woman's rights" woman. Perhaps she 
 was not clever enough. 
 
 Arthur Durnford called upon her the same day on which he got 
 the address. He was a little prepared to gush, remembering the 
 little sylph with whom he used to play twelve years ago. Bat 
 there was no opportunity for gushing. The stately damsel who 
 rose and greeted him with almost as much coldness as if they 
 had parted the day before, silenced, if she did not disconcert 
 him, 
 
 " I knew that we should meet again some time," she said ; 
 " and T. had already written to Palmiste for your address. j\Irs. 
 Longworthy, this is my old friend, Arthur Durnford, of whom 
 I have so often told you." 
 
 He saw a little, fat old lady, with a face like a winter apple, 
 crinkled and ruddy, sitting mufHed up by the fireside. 
 
 " Come and shake hands ^ith me, Arthur Durnford," she 
 cried, in the pleasantest voice he had ever heard. " I knew 
 your father when he was a wild young fellow in the Hussars. 
 Let me look at you. Yes, you are like him. Eut he had black 
 hair, and yours is brown. And you stoop — I suppose because 
 you read books all day. Fie upon the young men of the present ! 
 They all read. In my time there was not so much reading, I 
 can tell you, but a great deal more love-making and merriment. 
 ^Now, sit down and talk to Madeleine." 
 
 She lay back on her cushions, and presently fell fast asleep, 
 while the two talked. 
 
 They talked of Palmiste and the old days. And then a sort 
 of constraint came upon them, because the new days of either 
 were unknown. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself, Arthur," said Madeleine. " I am 
 going to call you Arthur, and you shall call me ]\Iadeleine, just 
 as we used to. Mrs. Longworthy — oh, she is asleep." 
 
 " Ko, my dear — only dozing. Wake me up by telling mo 
 something pleasant "
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 121 
 
 "I was going to tell Arthur that I am sure you would like 
 him to come here a great deal — I should." 
 
 " That ought to be enough, Mr. Durnford. But I should, too. 
 We are a pair of women, and we sometimes sit and nag at each 
 other. Don't look at me so, Maddy — if we don't actually do it, 
 we sometimes want to. Come a great deal, Mr. Durnfonl. 
 Come as nearly every day as you can manage. It is very good 
 for young men to have ladies' society. We shall civilise you." 
 
 " You are very kind," Arthur began. 
 
 " But I must say one thing. Do not come early in the morn- 
 ing. I consider that the day ought to be a grand processional 
 triumph of temper. That is why I always take my breakfast in 
 bed. Handle me delicately in the morning, and a child may 
 lead me all day. Come, if you want to see me, in time for 
 luncheon, at two ; if you want to see Madeleine, at any time she 
 tells you." 
 
 "And how is Philip?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 " Who is Philip V said Mrs. Longworthy. 
 
 " My cousin, the son of my fither's brother." 
 
 " Your father, ray dear boy, never had any brothers." 
 
 '•' Pardon me, Mrs. Longworthy." 
 
 She shook her head, and lay back again. 
 
 "And what is your profession, Arthur?" 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 " What do you do with yourself 1" 
 
 " I waste time in the best way I can. I read, write a little, 
 make plans, and the days slip by." 
 
 '■' That seems very bad. Come and help me in my pro- 
 fession." 
 
 " What is your profession T 
 
 " Come some morning at ten, and I will tell you. Send Pliilip 
 to call upon me." 
 
 As Arthur went out of the room, he heard Mrs. Longworthy 
 saying— 
 
 " I am not wrong. I am cpiite right. George Durnford was 
 an only son. And so was his father. The De Melhuyns, quite 
 now people, told mo all about it." 
 
 A sudden light Hashed upon Arthur's mind. He hiew, in that 
 way in which knowledge of this sort sometimes comes, that 
 I'hilip was his half-brother. He was certain of it. He reasoned 
 with himself; set up all the objections; proved to himself that 
 the preponderance of chances was ajjainst it; marshalled all the
 
 122 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 opposite eviflence ; and remained absolutely certain of the truth 
 of liis conviction. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 EuT Arthur went round, the same evening, to Philip's lodgings. 
 
 " How much did j\TacTntyre charge you for Madoloine's ad- 
 dross?" asked the man of larger experience. 
 
 Arthur coloured — 
 
 " Well, we did drive a bargain. Why did you not send it 
 to me?" 
 
 " First, because I did not possess it ; secondly, because, if I 
 had, IMacIntyre was so entirely frank with me as to Avhat he in- 
 tended, that it would have gone to my heart to spoil his little 
 game. Tell me how INIadeleine is looking." 
 
 " Here is the address. Go aud see her yourself." 
 
 " Is she milk and water ? But of course — " 
 
 " Go and see her yourself." 
 
 " I don't know that I shall, Arthur. We are different, you 
 and I. You are an eligible parti — I am only a detrimental." 
 
 " Lut, my dear fellow, there is no question of that sort of 
 thing, Madeleine is not like the ordinary girls you meet." 
 
 " Oh," said Philip, " is she not % I don't go into society 
 much myself, because I feel out of my element in that rank of 
 life in which my fortunes allow me to circulate. The domestic 
 Inisiness, with the conventional young woman, lacquered with 
 accomplishments which get rubbed off when the babies come ; 
 the piano for the last new piece, and the song for the dear crea- 
 ture who breathes hard and thinks she sings \ the mind without 
 an idea outside the narrow circle in which it has been trained — 
 I do not think, Arthur, that my idea of happiness is quite 
 this." 
 
 " Well, well ; but all women are not so. Madeleine is not." 
 
 " Give me," he went on — " give me some girl brought up out 
 of ladies' circles and women's ways : brought up by a man : full 
 of ideas, thoughts, and quaint fancies ; prettj'', in a way that the 
 Tyburnian misses are not pretty ; able to talk, able to amuse 
 you. able to please you, when the little stock of apfoinnbshmp.nt.s 
 is all run through." 
 
 He was thinking of I-olli«,
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 123 
 
 " A lady, and not brought iip by ladies T said Arthur. 
 
 "I was in 'society' the other day: five and twenty young 
 ladies, whispering bitter things of each other, bursting with 
 envy and malice. I want a girl who does not look on all other 
 girls as rivals and enemies. I talked to one of them." 
 
 " You did not expect the poor girl to pour out her soul at the 
 first interview." 
 
 "She had very little to pour. That little was poured. I 
 came away early." 
 
 " That is not society. Come with me to see Madeleine." 
 
 The other, who was in his bitterest mood, sneered in reply. 
 
 " They are all alike. Every woman wants to be admired more 
 than any other women in the room. That is the first thing. 
 Without that there is no real happiness. Then they want to 
 l)e rich : not because they may live well, for they do not under- 
 stand eating and drinking : not for the sake of art, because they 
 only know the art chatter. If they felt art, do you think they 
 would dress as they do % JN'o, sir ; they want money in order 
 to make their acquaintance envious. For themselves, what a 
 woman desires and likes most in the world is to be kept warm. 
 Give the squaw her blanket, or the lady her cushion, and she is 
 happy. Warmth, wealth, admiration : those are the three things 
 she desires. What can we expect ? Eead the literature about 
 women, from Anacreon to the comic papers. We have coaipired 
 together against the sex. We have agreed to keep them foolish 
 and vain — to limit their aspirations to dress ; and deuced well 
 we have succeeded." 
 
 Arthur laughed. 
 
 " Take the iN'ewgate Calendar, Phil, to represent manhood, 
 if you like. Just as well exaggerate the faults of women and 
 make them represent womanhood. Women love admiration 
 because it is an instinct. Their influence is through their beauty. 
 It is a net spread by nature to entrap and catch them, in order that 
 tliey may bo led heavenwards. Wild beasts, like you, Avho 
 prefer the woods, full of pitfalls and snares, to the soft green 
 glades—" 
 
 " Eubbish," said Philip. 
 
 " Not rubbish at all. Don't despise women — don't cry tliem 
 down. Go in for marrying, and try the domestic happiness you 
 deckim against." 
 
 '• All which means that you arecpris with Madeleine yourself, 
 T suppose. It is, perhaps, the best thing you can do. I'ut look 
 at the other side of the picture. Sui)posf^ ihat what we call th©
 
 124 ^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 highest kind of life — by wliicli you menu, I take it, the calm 
 cultiviition of all that is artistic, unbiassed by passion and undis- 
 turbed by regrets — is out of your reach, because you can't allbrd 
 it, don't you think it jnudent to say, * Young man, you are not 
 intended to many. l)o not be an accomplice in the production 
 of a generation of paupers. On the other hand, get as much as 
 you can out of life with the resources at your disposal.' " 
 
 " Every man may lead the higher life." 
 
 " Perhaps, if he remains unmarried. What kind of higher 
 life is that in which one trembles at the butcher's bill, and eats 
 out his heart thinking of the children's future % And, besides, 
 your higher life — wdiat is it? Eah ! Wine, love, song! Get 
 what you can, and leave the gods the rest. It is their care, I 
 suppose — this ' rest,' wdiatever it is." 
 
 But he did call on Madeleine. Went to see her the very next 
 day. Madeleine was alone, as it was one of ]Mrs. Longworthy's 
 sick days — or, as she put it, one of those days Avhen temper got 
 the better of her. 
 
 Madeleine was not so unconstrained with him as with Arthur. 
 Perhaps it was something in his look — perhaps the memory of old 
 childish quarrels. People very seldom take kindly in aiicr-lifo 
 to those who have teased them as children. She was colder than 
 to Arthur — asked but few questions of him, and turned the con- 
 versation on things general. Philip, in his unhappy way, 
 chafed at his reception, because he knew how Arthur had been 
 welcomed — putting it down as due to that fatal taint of blood. 
 
 " Do you like the army as a profession?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 " There is not much to like or dislike in it," he replied, care- 
 lessly. " It does to carry one along." 
 
 " To carry one along — yes, but not as the highest object of 
 one's life, I suppose you mean 1" 
 
 " I certainly did not mean that," replied Philip. " I know 
 nothing about highest objects in life. My life consists in getting 
 as much enjoyment as my income will admit. Very low aims, 
 indeed, are they not ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 '•' At the same time, suppose I was to go in for the higher kind 
 — very odd thing, Arthur is always talking about the higher life 
 —I suppose I should do it because I enjoyed it best. Do you 
 not think so T 
 
 " Yes. But one ought not to be thinking about enjoyment." 
 
 "Pardon me — I only said that ono doQ^ think about enjoyment,"
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 115 
 
 " There is duty, at least," said Madeleine. 
 
 " Yes — my duties are light and easily fulfilled. When I havu 
 got through those, there is nothing left but to fill up the time, 
 as I said, -with as much amusement, enjoyment, frivolity, what- 
 ever you like, as my money will cover. As we are old acquaint- 
 ances, Madeleine, it is just as well that I should not pretend to 
 anything but what I am. ISTow, tell me, if I may be impertinent, 
 what you think T ought to do T 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " Life is so terrible a thing at best, 
 so full of responsibilities, of evils that must bo faced, and 
 dreadful things that cannot be suppressed, that I don't knov/ 
 Avhat to say. It seems to me as if the Avhole duty of the rich 
 man — " 
 
 '•' I am not a rich man." 
 
 " The man of leisure — the man of culture, were to throw him- 
 self among the people, and try to raise them — " 
 
 " You would make us all philanthropists, then T 
 
 " I hardly know. If only — without societies and organisa- 
 tion — people would go among the poor and teach them : help, 
 without money, you know. But one can only do oneself what 
 one feels right." 
 
 Here, at least, was a woman different from the type he had set 
 up the preceding night — different, too, from Laura. 
 
 " You are talking to a mere man of the world," said Philip, 
 rising. " We have no idea of duty, you know — only a few 
 elementary rules of right or wrong, which we call the laws of 
 honour. My friends, for instance, always pay up after each 
 event. On the other hand, it is dangerous to have to do Avith 
 them in the matter of horses — and they Avill take any advantage 
 that fairly offers in the way of a bet. We like gathering in club 
 smokiug-roouis, drinking good wine, smoking good cigars. We 
 like to be well dressed, to do certain things well, such as riding, 
 billiard playing, and so forth " 
 
 " But, Philip, does not this life tire you 1" 
 
 " I assure you not in the least. Greatly as I must fall in youf 
 eyes by the coniession, I declare that I do not care one straw for 
 my fellowman. You tell me the people are starving. I say 
 there are poor-rates, rich men, and our luxurious staff of parsons, 
 beadles, and relieving otlicers to help them. You say they are 
 badly taught. Where, then, are the schools % I meet with the 
 poor man in the street, and read of him in the paper. He has, 
 it appears to me, two phases in his character. Ho either fawns
 
 126 A/V LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 or bullies. He begs or tries to rob. I am told that ho gets large 
 wages iu the summer, which he spends iu driuk, and has 
 nothing left for the winter. If I were a poor man, and knew that 
 I should be pitied by charitable people directly I was hard up, I 
 should do just the same thing. What is the pool" man to me ? 
 I owe him nothing. I do not employ him. I do not get rich 
 by his labour. Therefore, you see, I am quite indiiierent to his 
 suiierings, quite awake to his vices, and quite careless about his 
 virtues." 
 
 Madeleine looked at him with astonishment. 
 
 " You are frank, indeed," she said. " But believe me, you 
 are quite wrong. I must teach you that the poor, whom you 
 despise, are not worse than ourselves — better than your friends 
 if I may say so, because they help each other, and have sympathy. 
 "Why are you so frank ? Why have you told me so much about 
 yourself ?" 
 
 " Because I am anxious that you should know me as I am," 
 replied Philip. 
 
 " But I am sorry you told me what you are. After all, you 
 have exaggerated. I shall wait for a woman's love to soften you." 
 
 A Avondrously softened look did pass over Philip's eyes. Ho 
 ■ was thinking of the girl whom he was to meet the next day. 
 
 " Love," he said, " the old story. If I am to be reformed, I 
 would rather meet my fate that way than any other. Forgive my 
 bluntness, Madeleine. You see I do not belong to your world." 
 
 " But do belong to my Avorld. It is really a better one than 
 yours. Of course, we have our little faults ; and we may be 
 slow for you, and sometimes — what is it, that quality for which 
 the French have no Avord, because they never understand it? — 
 what is it that people are when they not only do their duty, but 
 overdo it T 
 
 " You mean your world is sometimes priggish." 
 
 " That is the AVord — not a lady's word, I know ; but Mrs. 
 Longworthy tells me when I make mistakes. And this word 
 does so beautifully fit its meaning. Yes, priggish. Only 
 English and Germans are that, I cannot tell why. But come 
 into my world." 
 
 Philip shook his head. 
 
 " You are on one side of the stream, and I am on the other, 
 and the stream is widening. Arthur is on yom' side, too. We 
 can still talk. The time may come when the river will be so 
 wide that we cannot even do that."
 
 Afy LITTLE GIRL. ft? 
 
 " 1 tliink I know what you meau," slie replied. ** Cross at 
 ouce, and stay with us — with those who — who love you, in 
 memory of old days." 
 
 " You cannot cross a river," he said smiling, '• without a bridge 
 or a boat. Just at present I see none. The bridges are ail 
 higher up, behind me ; and so are the boats. And the two paths 
 are getting farther and farther apart. Good-bye, Madeleine." 
 
 Ho left her Avith these words. Very oddly, they recall my 
 illustration from the works of Pythagoras a few chapters back. 
 That must be because " les esprits forts so rencontrent." 
 
 "Tell me," said Mrs. Longworthy, at diuner, "what kind of 
 man is this Mi: Philip Durnford." 
 
 " He is not so tall as Arthur, has black hair, a black moustache, 
 and large, soft eyes — almond-shaped eyes." 
 
 " Oh ! Did you ever see eyes like his anywhere else f 
 
 "Yes, they are like the eyes of the mulattoes in Palmiste." 
 
 " Humph !" said Mrs. Longworthy. 
 
 " He dresses very well, and he talks very well. Only, my 
 dear Mrs. Longworthy, you know what I told yon about the 
 garden at Fontainebleau, when I saw it last." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, Philip Durnford's mind is like that garden — all over- 
 grown with pumpkins." 
 
 CHAPTEE XIL 
 
 " Let us have," said Venn, trimming the lamp on Chorus night, 
 " a cheerful evening. What fresh disajjpointment has any one 
 to communicate V 
 
 " A lawyer," said Lynn, " who Avould have sent me some 
 cases has absconded with other people's money. That is all that 
 has happened to me." 
 
 " He may pos.sibly come back," said Jones. " My manager, 
 who had accepted my play, is a bankrupt. Perhaps Setebos, 
 who troubles everything, ruined him to prevent the play coming 
 out. I mourn for him. 
 
 " • He was not fair to outward view ; 
 lie was not nice to see : 
 HiH loveliness I never knew 
 Until he Rmiled on me.' "
 
 128 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Aa uu honoiary member of the Chorus," said Arthur, " 1 can 
 hardly be expected to have any misfortunes — consequently, 1 
 have none." 
 
 " This," said Venn, with a beaming face, " is quite like old 
 times. I, too, have had my disappointment. I had spent the 
 last twelve months in revising and polishing the Opuscula. 
 They are now as complete as a Greek statue. I proposed them 
 to a publisher. He kept my letter for a month, and then sent 
 me a refusal. It is his loss pecuniarily, the world's loss intel- 
 lectually." 
 
 " It is very sad," sympathized Jones. " And yet, I dare say, 
 you would not exchange your literary fo.me for my dramatic 
 glory?" 
 
 " One great compensation of affliction," Venn observed, " is 
 the law of self-esteem. JN'o man, whatever his drawbacks, would 
 change with any other man. We admire ourselves for our very 
 afflictions. We lie on our bed of torture till even the red-hot 
 gridiron becomes a sort of spring mattress ; and then wo pity 
 the poor devils grilling next to us. Following out this idea, as 
 I intend to do, I shall write a life of that Jew whose teeth King 
 John pulled out day by day. I shall show that ho rather 
 enjoyed it as he got on, and looked for it every morning till the 
 teeth were all gone. Then he talked about it for the rest of his 
 life. So, too, the old woman, who hugs her rheumatism to her 
 heart." 
 
 "Ourselves are too much with us ; hate and soon, 
 Still at the mirror do we waste our powers ; 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours. 
 AVe give ourselves our jH-aise — a sordid boon.'' 
 
 Jones made the above remark, which fell unnoticed. 
 
 " Another compensation," said Lynn, " may be got from the 
 magnitude of misfortunes. To have had more funerals than 
 anybody else confers a distinction on any woman. To have had 
 more MSS. rejected than anybody eke confers a distinction upon 
 you, my dear Venn." 
 
 '* Let us change the subject," Venn replied, with a blush, 
 showing that he felt the delicacy of the compliment. " I have 
 now to submit to tlie Chorus a scheme by which all our fortunes 
 may be made." 
 
 He drew forth a bulky manuscript, tied with tape. They all 
 rose, and began to look for their hats, with one accord.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 129 
 
 Venn loplaced the roll in the drawer with a sigh. 
 
 " You may sit down again," he said. " You will be sorr}'-, 
 some time, not to have heard the prolegomena to the scheme. 
 But I will only read the prospectus. You are aware, perhaps, 
 that a million a year is collected for the Conversion of the 
 Blacks." 
 
 " It is a fact over which, in penniless moments, I have often 
 brooded," said Jones. 
 
 " Then," said Venn, triumphantly, " let us raise the same sum 
 for converting the Whites." 
 
 " What are we to convert them to T 
 
 " I shall give nothing for converting anybody," Lynn growled. 
 
 " Don't talk like an atheist, Lynn ; because this is a philan- 
 thropic scheme, and, besides, one out of which money may be 
 made. We shall christianize the world. We shall teach the 
 people that their religion needs not consist in going to church 
 every Sunday, and sometimes reading a ' chapter.' We shall 
 begin with the House of Lords. There is a great field open 
 among the peers and their families. The House of Commons 
 — which comes next upon my list — will, after a few years' labour 
 among them, be so changed that the constituents won't know 
 their own members again. !N'o more putting into office because 
 a man makes himself disagreeable out of it ; no more bolstering 
 a measure because it is brought forward by a minister ; no more 
 legislating for class interests ; no more putting off for a better day. 
 And, above all, a stern sense of Christian duty which will limit 
 every speaker to ten minutes, like a Wesleyan preacher at a field 
 meeting. Xext to the House of Commons, we shall take the 
 Inns of Court. Oh, my readers " 
 
 " You are quite sure that you are not quoting from the pro- 
 legomena?" said Jones. 
 
 " Pardon me — I was about to delight you with perhaps as 
 fine a piece of declamation as you have ever heard. !Now you 
 shall not have it. The Inns of Court will be taken by a series 
 of door-to-door visitations ; and the missionaries, who will not 
 be highly paid, will receive sjDccial allowances for repairs to that 
 part of their dress most likely to be injured. If one converts a 
 barrister, he shall be promoted to the conversion of the bench. 
 If one converts a judge, he shall be still further promoted to the 
 conversion of certain ex-Lord Chancellors. In the army, after 
 a few months of our work, you will find so great a change that 
 the officer will actually work at his profession ; the same rules
 
 I30 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ■will be maintained for officers as for men — those about getting 
 drunk, and so forth. And in the navy, similar good effects will 
 be produced. The best results will be obtained in the trading 
 classes. For then the grocer will no more sand his sugar and 
 mix his tea ; the publican will sell honest drink ; and all shall 
 be contented -with a modest profit." 
 
 "Of course," said Lynn, "the missionaries will behave in 
 exactly the same way as if they were at Jubbulpore or Tim- 
 bnctoo — go in and out, uninvited ; and, like district visitors, they 
 will make any impertinent observations they please T 
 
 " Of course ; and the consequences will be part of the day's 
 work." 
 
 " I quite approve of the scheme," said Jones. " Only, I don't 
 see my own share in it." 
 
 " You are to be secretary, Jones. It is your name that avo 
 shall put forAfard." 
 
 " Then I retire." 
 
 " Do not, Jones, let a promising scheme be ruined at the very 
 outset b}'^ an obstinate selfishness. "What matters if the world 
 does scoff r 
 
 But Jones was obdurate. 
 
 " Then, Jones, you shall have nothing, while Lynn and I will 
 divide all the profits. I go on to a second scheme. This will 
 not be so lucrative, but still safe. It is nothing less, gentlemen, 
 than the establishment of a Eoyal Literary College — a college, 
 devoted to the art and mystery of writing — not, understand, for 
 the old and worn-out purposes of conveying thought, but for the 
 modern purpose of conveying amusement." 
 
 " It sounds well," said Jones. " Of course, as it is the pro- 
 ject of the Chorus, it will fail." 
 
 " Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 Why do ye fall so fast ?" 
 
 " And now listen to the prospectus, which you will find to be 
 drawn up with great care. 
 
 " ' ROYAL LITERARY COLLEGE.' 
 
 " * The promoters of this institution, bearing in mind the 
 enormous increase in the population, the consequent increase in 
 the number of readers, and the necessity of providing for their 
 daily, weekly, and monthly requirements, propose to establish a 
 college expressly for the training of popular mediocrity. They
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 131 
 
 have observed with pain that, in spite of the efforts of able 
 editors, a great deal of time is still spent in providing papers 
 containing thought. And though a large number of these leaders 
 of popular amusement care nothing for the merits of a paper, 
 provided it be written by a well-known man, there are yet a 
 few who study to present their readers with what they require 
 least — food for reflection. Among other objects, it is proposed 
 to prevent this lamentable waste of time and energy ; and, in 
 doing so, to anticipate the tastes of the age and the wants of 
 the reading public. Literature, in fact, is to be reduced to a 
 science. The increased demand for literary men by no means 
 represents an increased supply of genius. On the contrary, the 
 promoters are of serious opinion that genius was never at so low 
 an ebb as at present, and the art of writing upon nothing, 
 although ithas not yet been systematically taught, never at so high 
 a pitch. In order to convince themselves of this, the promoters, 
 bj^ means of a sub-committee, have carefully studied the whole 
 popular literature of the last twelve months. They are happy 
 in being able to report that there has not been, so far as their 
 labours have permitted them to discover, a single new truth 
 introduced to the British public, not a single good thing said, 
 nothing old newly set, and not one good poem by a new man. 
 This they consider highly satisfactory and gratifying. And it is 
 in the hope of perpetuating, improving, and extending this 
 state of things, that they desire to found the Eoyal Literary 
 College, 
 
 " ' In the ordinary course of events, it cannot be but that 
 an occasional genius will arise. Should such appear by any 
 accident among the students of the college, he will be promptly 
 and firmly expelled. But the college will gladly welcome any 
 one, of either sex, who, having a quick memory and a facile pen, 
 is quite justified in considering himself a genius ; and every 
 allowance will be made for the weaknesses of humanity, should 
 any student give himself, or herself, the airs of genius. 
 
 " * As students of both sexes will be admitted within the 
 college, the promoters, considering how great a stimulus poverty 
 is to work, will encourage, by every means in their power, early 
 marriages. In case of husband and wife being both students, 
 arrangements will be made to enable them to starve together, 
 with their innocent progeny, outside the college walls. No 
 chaplain will be appointed, as tlio promoters desire to consider 
 the college quite undenominational. In deference, however, to 
 
 9—2
 
 132 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ]ioiiular opinion, a cliapcl will bo built, in which service will bo 
 lu'ld on Sundays, in as many Christian denominations as tirao 
 permits, the hall will be set apart for the more advanced thinkers, 
 who will not, however, be allowed to smoke during the delivery 
 of orations. 
 
 " ' The great festivals of the College will be Commemoration 
 Day, Old Dramatist Day, Old Chronicle Day, Scandalous 
 Chronicle and Memoirs Day, Horace Walpole Day, Bx)swell 
 Day, and French Play Day. On these days will be celebrated 
 the names of those great men who, by their writings, have 
 furnished models for copying, or provided storehouses for pla- 
 giarists. Every student will be expected to produce a panegyric 
 in his own line. Those which, in the opinion of the examiners, 
 bave most merit — from the Literary College point of view — Avill 
 bo printed and kept for one month. The successful students 
 will read them out in the college hall ; but no one will be com- 
 pelled to listen. 
 
 " ' There will be no holidays or vacations. Every student 
 will absent himself as often as he pleases. On Sundays con- 
 veyances will be provided for intending excursionists. 
 
 " ' The college library wall not, on any account, receive the 
 Avorks of the college students. 
 
 " * In the examinations for scholarships and degrees, if any 
 composition, in the eyes of the examiners, should be found to 
 partake of the nature of philosophy, research or erudition ; or 
 should the reading of any composition demand the exercise of 
 thought ; or should any reflect on the glory and dignity of light 
 literature, the offender shall be publicly reprimanded, and, on a 
 repetition of the offence, shall be disgracefully expelled. I^o 
 objection will be made to the offering up of prayers for any 
 erring student. 
 
 " ' The college will be divided into several sections. These, 
 whicli are not yet quite settled, will be somewhat as follows : — • 
 
 '''I. Poetry. — Students will be recommended to take a 
 year's course at this, after the regular three years at any of the 
 other branches. Several gentlemen will be invited to lecture 
 from time to time. Mr. Browning on the Art of Obscurity and 
 Apparent Depth ; also on the Art of Coing on for Ever. Mr. 
 Swinburne on the Attractiveness of the Forbidden, and on the 
 ^Melody of the English Language. Mr. Tnpper on Catching a 
 Weasel Asleep, applied to the British public. Mr. Buchanan on
 
 AIV LITTLE GIRL. 133 
 
 the Art of Self-laudation. Mr. Eossetti on the Mystery of 
 Mediceval INEummeries ; also on the Fleshly School and on the 
 Art of Poetical Pretension. Mr. Tennyson on quite a new 
 subject : The Yawning of Arthur ; or, Guinevere Played Out. 
 
 " ' The students will be required to read the mortal and 
 perishable works of some of these poets. They will also be 
 examined in the poems of Southey, Cowper, the imitations of 
 Pope, and the magazine poetry of the day, particularly that 
 which decorates the monthlies. 
 
 " ' II. The second 'branch will be the writing of essays. It is, 
 of course, superfluous to say that A.K.H.B. will be invited to 
 undertake the department of Commonplace and Glorified Twaddle. 
 He will be assisted, provided their services can be secured, by 
 the authors of the monthly magazine essays. A large number of 
 clergymen, including the ]\Iaster of the Temple and several of 
 the bench of bishops, will be asked to instruct in reeling off 
 
 * goody' talk by the foot or yard, as required, for religious papers. 
 
 " ' Certain essay writers will be excluded altogether — among 
 them will be Emerson and Oliver Wendell Holmes ; while but 
 a sparing use will be allowed of Sir Arthur Helps. 
 
 " ' The authors from whom cribbing will be recommended are 
 Steele, Addison, Goldsmith, and Johnson. Montaigne will also 
 be largely used. 
 
 " ' III. Historical Articles. — This department is exceed- 
 ingly difiicult to arrange. It is hoped that Canon Kingsley may 
 be induced to give a lecture on the Historical Forgiveness of 
 Sins, based on that celebrated essay of his where he has shown 
 that Ealeigh's sins were forgiven because a baby was born unto 
 him. He may also be asked to give over again his Cambridge 
 course. The gentleman wlio writes the weekly articles in the 
 Saturday abusing i\[r. Froude will be invited to illustrate the 
 method of establishing a raw, and always pegging at it. Ho 
 will also be asked to give a lecture on Mr. Freeman, called 
 
 * Moi et Moiraemo.' But the arrangements for the historical 
 course are not yet completed, and the promoters beg for further 
 time. 
 
 " ' IV. We come next to the leading articles. On this head 
 it will only bo observed here that the paper which has the 
 largest circulation, whatever that may be, will be chosen as the 
 model. The Saturday, the Spectator, the Examiner, and a few
 
 134 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 other papers which occasionally address the intellect, will be 
 excluded from consideration, 
 
 " * V. The department of novels will receive the most careful 
 attention, and the most profouud study. All the students, with- 
 out any exception, will be required to pass through it ; and no 
 student shall receive a degree, a diploma, or any certificate of 
 honoiir, until he has produced a three-volume novel, complete, 
 linished, and ready for the publisher. The professor of the 
 branch should be, if he will undertake the duties, Mr. Anthony 
 Trollope. There will be lecturers to point out the secrets of 
 manufacture in all the sub-divisions ; the principal of these will 
 be the religious novel, in which the works of Miss Yonge and 
 Miss Wetherell Avill, of course, form the most useful guides to 
 the student. Lord Lytton will serve for the student of the 
 sentimental, the political, and the highly coloured unreal. There 
 will be several forms of the muscular novel, including the rollick- 
 iug, the Christian hero, the sentimental, the pint-pewter crushing, 
 and the remorseful. Ouida, Miss Broughton, Charles and 
 Henry Kingsley, and Mr, Lawrence, will be the chosen models 
 for this sub-division. 
 
 " ' For the sensational, there can be but one model. 
 
 " ' For the plain work of the department, the mere story-tell- 
 ing, with puppets for characters, of course Mr. Wilkie Collins 
 will be the guide. 
 
 " ' If there should be any student who would rashly propose 
 to make a picture of real life, he will be set to study Charles 
 lieade ; but not in the college, from which Mr. Eeade's Avorks 
 will be excluded. 
 
 '' ' The promoters will have great pleasure in receiving tenders 
 and designs for a building. ]N"ame3 of candidates will be re- 
 ceived at once by the secretary, Mr. Hartley Venn, M.A.' 
 
 " There !" said Venn, " what do you think of that V' He sat 
 down and wiped his forehead. " I have thought of you both. 
 You, Lynn, shall be the standing counsel, with a large retaining 
 fee. You, Jones, shall be professor of the dramatic art. You 
 will observe that, out of regard to your feelings, I abstained 
 from mentioning this department. I myself shall be the lirst 
 warden with a salary of £2,000 a year.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 135 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Madeleine's world and the two worlds of the " boys," as she 
 called them, were all three wide enough apart. Woman-like, 
 she tried to bring them into her own groove, and began by 
 asking them to dinner. Arthur went with a sort of enthusiasm. 
 The queenly beauty and the imperiousness of the young lady — 
 so great a contrast to his own shrinking indecision — hred his 
 imagination. In her he saw something of what he himself 
 might have been but for his fatal shyness. Philip went too, at 
 first unwillingly, but presently with a pleasure which astonished 
 him. His pastime seemed to be to rouse the spirit of antago- 
 nism in Madeleine ; and he delighted to rouse her to wrath by 
 opposing to her enthusiasm the cold barrier of cynical selfishness. 
 
 " If it were not," she said one night — " if it were not that I 
 know you exaggerate your opinions, I should hate you." 
 
 " Do not hate me," Philip answered; "because hatred is an 
 active passion. I dislike a lot of people, but I never take the 
 trouble to hate anybody — not even a bore." 
 
 " Then do not talk as if self was the only thing in the 
 world." 
 
 " I must, Madeleine, if I talk at all. You would not have 
 silence at your table, would you? And Arthur never says 
 anything. Arthur has made a wonderful discovery, which is 
 going to cover him with glory. Has he told you T 
 
 " Ko. What is it, Arthur V 
 
 Arthur blushed vividly. 
 
 '* It is only a point of archaeological interest," he said. "There 
 has been a dispute in the Archaeological Institute for years about 
 the number of buttons that went to the shirt of mail, and I have 
 at last been enabled to settle the question." 
 
 "There," said Philip, triumphantly, " what did I tell you?" 
 
 Madeleine sighed. It seemed to her so sad that one of the 
 boys should openly worship self, and the other should fritter 
 away his time in the pursuit of useless knowledge. 
 
 In the course of the evening she delivered an animated oration 
 on the subject, while J\lrs. Lougworthy slumbered by the fire. 
 The boys stood before her, each in his turn receiving punisli- 
 ment : Philip enjoying it above all things, and Arthur because 
 he saw that she was in earnest, with blushes and shame, 
 
 " It is all true, Madeleine, every word," ho said.
 
 136 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 "So it is," said Philip. " We are a disgraceful pair." 
 
 " Yoii are the worse, Philip, by far," went on the fair preacher ; 
 "when I look at you, and tliink what you might be doing " 
 
 "See, now, Madeleine," Philip said ; "tell us exactly wh'\t 
 we can do, and wc Avill have a try at it. The care of otlxM' 
 people may possibly have a charm in it which is unknown to us 
 at present % Who knows ? I may yet be preaching on a tub, 
 while Arthur collects halfpence in his hat. I fancy I see him 
 now." 
 
 " You turn everything serious into ridicule," said ]\radcleino. 
 
 " Seriously," Arthur said, " my life is wasted. I suppose 
 antiquarian research w useless to the world. I am afraid, how- 
 ever, I shall never quite give it up. What can I do ? Do you 
 want any money for your objects, Madeleine?" 
 
 <']Sro — no — no," she replied, impatiently. "How often am T 
 to tell you that the real work of charity is done without money ? 
 Kow, listen, and I will tell you what a man of leisure should 
 do. It is the interest of everybody that the condition of the 
 poor should be raised ; by schools, by giving them instruction in 
 the arts of life, by giving them sufficient wages for good work, 
 by maintaining their self-respect." 
 
 Philip began to groan softly. 
 
 "I will come to what I mean most." She blushed a little, 
 and went on : — " I have got a friend, a middle-aged woman, Avho 
 gives all her life to the care of a certain house, where she resides 
 and finds work for women. We give them as much work as 
 they can do, at a fair price. We ask no questions — we form no 
 society. Some of them live in the house, others in the neigli- 
 bourhood. We do not let them work all day, and we give tliem 
 instruction in housework, in medicine, and all sorts of things 
 that may be useful to them when they marry, as most of 
 them do." 
 
 " I suppose," said Philip, the irrepressible, "they are driven 
 to church three times every Sunday." 
 
 " Not at all. We never interfere with their religion. Some 
 of them are pious ; some, I suppose, are not. We have one 
 broad principle — that our work shall not be mixed up with re- 
 ligion in any way." 
 
 " Good." 
 
 " And what do you do with their work ?" 
 
 *' It goes to a shop which belongs to us. We can sell aa
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 1 37 
 
 cheaply as any otlier, in spite of our higli -wages ; because, you 
 see, there is no middle-man." 
 
 " Madeleine, you are a Eadical." 
 
 " I know nothing about that. lam determined to do wliat 
 I can to have women properly paid. All that come to me shall 
 get work, even if we lose ; though I think we shall not lose by 
 it, so long as I have any money left. Xow, you two can help 
 me." 
 
 " I never learned to sew," said Philip, looking at his fingers. 
 
 " The girls and women have got brothers and sons. "We can- 
 not find work for them too, but we want to get up a night school. 
 Will you come down and teach?" 
 
 They looked at each other with alarm. 
 
 " Of course we will," said Arthur, " if you wish it." 
 
 " Then come to-morrow." 
 
 They went. 
 
 It was in "Westminster that Madeleine's " house " stood : pro- 
 perly speaking, three or four small houses knocked into one. 
 They went with her at seven o'clock, both feeling horribly ill at 
 ease. 
 
 She took them upstairs into a room made out of two by 
 taking down the wall between, where a dozen boys were as- 
 sembled, under the care of a young man whose pale cheeks and 
 thin figure concealed a vast amount of courage and enthusiasm. 
 With him — a young martyr to the cause which nearly kills its 
 soldiers — we have here nothing to do. 
 
 " This is our school," said Madeleine. " Mr. Hughes, these 
 two gentlemen will try to do something for us — if you will put 
 them in the way." 
 
 Mr. Hughes bowed — but looked suspiciously at his two new 
 assistants. 
 
 " Come, gentlemen," he said, " there arc your pupils — the 
 more advanced boys. ^line are down below." 
 
 He divided the boys into two sets, one at either end ; giving 
 Philip care of one and Arthur that of the other. 
 
 " You will be firm, gentlemen," he whispered. " Don't let 
 any single step be taken to destroy discipline. We have to bo 
 very careful here. Here are books for you." 
 
 He gave Philip a geography, and Arthur a little book con- 
 taining hints or lectures on all sorts of elementary subjects, 
 chiefly connected with laws of health, rules of life, and of 
 eiinple chemical laws. Arlhur sat down mechanically, and
 
 138 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 turned pale when he opened the book ; for of science he was 
 as ignorant as the Pope himself. In a few moments Philip 
 came over to him. 
 
 " What have you got, Arthur V 
 
 " Here's science — what am I to do witli it ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I've got geography. What am I to do with 
 Ihatr 
 
 " Draw a map on a board, and tell them something about a 
 country. Anything will do." 
 
 Philip went back and faced his class. They were a sturdy, 
 dirty-faced lot of young gamins, all whispering together, and 
 cviclently intent on as much mischief as could be got out of the 
 new teacher. Behind him was a black-board and a piece of 
 chalk. 
 
 " What country shall we take, boys T he asked, with an air 
 of confidence, as if all were alike to him. 
 
 " Please, sir, yesterday we had Central Africa, and Mr. 
 Hughes told us a lot about travellers there. Let's have some 
 more about Livingstone." 
 
 Philip was not posted up in Livingstone. He shook his 
 liead, and tried to think of a country he knew something about. 
 .Suddenly a bright thought struck him. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of Palmiste Island, boys?" 
 
 They never had. 
 
 *' By Jove," thought Philip, "I shall get on splendidly now." 
 
 As he was drawing his map of the island, he heard Arthur, in 
 a hesitating voice, beginning to describe the glory of the heavens ; 
 and nearly choked, because he was certain that five minutes 
 would bring him to grief. 
 
 He began to talk as he drew his map, describing the dis- 
 covery of the island, the first settlers, and their hardships ; and 
 then, warming to his subject, he told all about sugar-making and 
 cofi"ee-planting. Prom time to time, Arthur's voice fell upon his 
 ear ; but he was too busy drawing his map, and decorating the 
 corners of the board with fancy sketches, illustrating the ap- 
 pearance of the people, niggers' heads, Chinese carrying pigs — 
 for Phil sketched very fairly — and he did not look up. Pre- 
 sently he turned round. All Arthur's boys had deserted their 
 instructor and come over to him, Avhile their unhappy lecturer, 
 in silence, sat helpless in his chair, book in hand. As for his 
 own boys, they were all on the broad grin, enjoying the lesson 
 higliJy.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 139 
 
 Philip stopped — 
 
 " I say," he said, " this won't do, you know. Go back, you 
 boys, to your own end." 
 
 " He ain't no good, that teacher," said one of the boys, with 4. 
 derisive grin. 
 
 Arthur shook his head mournfully. There Avas something 
 touching in his attitude, sitting all alone, with his book in his 
 hand. Perhaps Arthur had never felt so humiliated in his life 
 before. It was perfectly true : he was no good. In the brief 
 live minutes during which he lectured, he made more mistakes 
 in astronomical science than generally falls to the lot of man to 
 make in a lifetime. Some of the boys, who had been to national 
 schools, found him out in a moment,' and openly expressed their 
 contempt before seceding to the other end of the room. 
 
 " He ain't no good, that teacher," said the boy. " You go on 
 with your patter. We're a-listenin' to you. Draw us some 
 more pictures. Make a white man latherin' a nigger." 
 
 " Obsairve," as a friend of ours would say, the instinctive 
 superiority of race. 
 
 " Boys," said another rising solemnly, " this one ain't no good 
 neither. He's a-gammonin' of us. There ain't no such a place. 
 I shan't stay here to be gammoned on." 
 
 He was about four feet nothing in his boots, this young 
 Hampden. Phil, cut to the heart by the ignominy of the thing, 
 caught him a box of the ears that laid him sprawling. The 
 urchin raised a howl, and falling back from his friends, pulled 
 the form over with him, so that the whole row of a dozen fell 
 together. The yells Avere terrific for a moment ; and then, seized 
 by a common impulse, the boys grasped their caps and tied 
 down the stairs like one boy. 
 
 " Artlmr !" said Philip. 
 
 " Philip !" said Arthur. 
 
 " You never experienced anything like this before, I suppose T 
 
 " Never." 
 
 Just then Madeleine herself appeared, followed by ]Mr 
 Hughes. All the forms lay on the floor ; for in the brief 
 moment of tumult every boy had seized the opportunity of con- 
 tributing something to the noise. And at either end of the 
 room stood one of her new allies. Arthur, with his arms lielp- 
 lessly dangling, holding the unlucky book of science, Philip try- 
 ing with his pocket-handkerchief to rub out some of the picture^ 
 
 Madeleine looked from ono to the other.
 
 140 A/V LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Take this wretched booh, sonichody," said Arthur, as if tlia 
 vohime chained hiin to the spot. " Do take the book." 
 
 Mw Hughes took the book, and Arthur turned to Madeleine. 
 
 " It's n faikire, jMadeleine," ho said, with a sad sigh. " They 
 only laughed at nie." 
 
 " And what have you been doing, Philip T 
 
 ** I've been getting on capitally," he said, trying to efface the 
 pig and the Chinaman. " I've been giving a lesson on geo- 
 graphy." 
 
 "Illustrated," said Mr. Hughes, quietly pointing to the 
 pig. 
 
 " Yes, illustrated. I've been telling the boys about Palmiste, 
 IMadeleine ; and they actually refused to believe there is any 
 such place." 
 
 " Is much mischief done, Mr. Hughes T asked INIadeleine. 
 
 The question was like a box on the ear to both. They 
 looked at each other, and Philip began to laugh. 
 
 " Honestly, Madeleine," he said, " I am very sorry. We 
 have done our best. I thought avc should have to hear a lesson, 
 and was not prepared to give a lecture." 
 
 " Never mind, sir," said Mr. Hughes. " I dare say we shall 
 soon mend matters ; and perhaps your pictures amused the 
 children," 
 
 " You may take me home, both of you," said Madeleine. 
 
 She said no more, though she was greatly disappointed at the 
 failure of her scheme. 
 
 " Madeleine," said Philip, in the carriage, " I am inclined to 
 think that, on the whole, I can serve my fellow-creatures best by 
 not teaching them." 
 
 *' Try me again, ]\Iadeleine," Arthur whispered. 
 
 CHAPTEli XIV. 
 
 Settling down in most respectable lodgings, in Keppel Street, 
 Hussell Square, with a clear six mouths before him of no 
 anxiety for the next day's dinner, Mr. Maclntyre felt at first 
 more elation than becomes a philosopher. We must excuse 
 him. When a man has had seven years of shifts, hardly know- 
 ing one day what the next Avould be like, racking his brain for 
 contrivances to keep the wolf from the door, busy with never- 
 ending combinations for the transference of cash from other
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 141 
 
 people's pockets to his own, a clear holiday of six months seems 
 almost like an eternity. 
 
 After a few days of seclusion and whisky toddy, Mr. 
 ]\laclntyre awoke to the conclusion that something Avould have 
 to be done. Eeason once more asserted her sway. His first 
 idea was to take pupils ; and accordingly he invested a small 
 sum in second-hand books, another in reports and examinations, 
 and anotlier sum .in advertisements. No pupils came at all. 
 Another thing he did was to go to a lawyer, and instruct him to 
 write a certain letter to a firm of lawyers in Palmiste. They 
 were directed to search the register of marriages at the church 
 of St. Joseph for that of George Durnford with Marie ; to 
 make a formal and attested copy of it, and to send it to London 
 — the whole being strictly secret and confidential. 
 
 And then, this being fairly put into hand, as he found he had 
 a good deal of time upon his hands, he began to spend it chiefly 
 in the society of Philip, watching him closely, getting his 
 secrets out of him, communicating his opinions, trying to get a 
 real influence over him. 
 
 " Obsairve," said the philosopher one night to Philip himself, 
 " there are some kinds of men who go uphill or downhill, ac- 
 cording as they are shoved. They have no deliberate choice in 
 the matter ; because, if they had, they would prefer the better 
 path. While they are hesitating, some one comes and gives 
 them a gentle shove downwards." 
 
 "What is the meaning of all this, Maclntyre 1" asked Philip, 
 ignorant of the application. 
 
 " Ay, ay — the wise man talks in parables, and is understood 
 not. Ye've heard of Mr. Baxter, and his ' Shove to heavy 
 Christians,' Phil ? He was a sagacious man. There may as 
 well be shovers up as shovers down. I do what I can, but it's 
 vera little — vera little indeed. In me, my pupil, you behold an 
 up-.shover; in yourself, — one who is shoved upwards." 
 
 In his easy way, having very few friends and long leave, 
 Philip fell back a good deal on IMacIntyre. Pir.st, the man 
 amused him ; then ho took pleasure in his company, because he 
 flattered him ; thirdly, he fell into the snares of a will stronger 
 than his own, and confided everything to him. Maclntyre, not 
 by any means a deep designing villain, had yet a game of his 
 own to play. He read the character of his cx-pupil, and began 
 to consider his own plan almost as good as cairiod out. 
 
 " See," he seemed to say, while ho and Philip sat opposita
 
 142 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 eacli other in the evening, smoking and talking — "see how 
 goodly are the fruits in the neighbourhood of the Dead Sea. 
 Let me give you a frieudly shove in that direction. Obsairve, 
 how sickly is the perfume — how faint the odour of the Jericho 
 rose. Truly, the apples of the plain are better than the grapes 
 of Eshcol. I have been myself, all my life, in search of these 
 fruits ; unsuccessfully, I admit, through no fault of mine. For 
 I had no scruples. 1 fought for my own hand. I was a beggai 
 born ; and, because circumstances were too strong for me, I am 
 a beggar now, at fifty-three. But mine is the true road, and 
 your philosopher knows no scruples." 
 
 Phil's secrets were simple. The young fellow was in debt, ol 
 course, but not badly. More than half of his little fortune 
 was gone. He always had a heavy balance against him in his 
 speculative transactions. "Worse than this, he was in love. 
 
 All these things considered together, i\Ir. Maclntyre was per- 
 liaps justified in rubbing his hands at night. "What did he do, 
 though, with those two or three bits of yellow paper which he 
 ■was always reading, holding to the light and examining, before 
 he put them up again in the dirty old pocket-book which he 
 carried inside his waistcoat ? 
 
 " I think," he murmurs, " that in three months, or six at 
 most, it may be done. It shall be done. The pear -will be ripe. 
 Eah ! it must drop into my hands." 
 
 He talked over the love matter. That was the most pressing 
 business. 
 
 " Ye cannot do it, Phil," he said — " it's beneath yourself." 
 
 " ^Nonsense," said Philip, colouring. " I can make no 
 mesalliance." 
 
 " Pardon me, you can. And if you knew all ... . 
 Obsairve, young man, he who — " 
 
 "I know, I know. Do not philosophize. I suppose you 
 cannot imagine suck a thing as love, Maclntyre T 
 
 " 1^0, I think not. Pve been married, though ; so I know 
 very well what is not love." 
 
 " I believe you have been everything," said Philip. 
 
 " Most things I certainly have. And most things I have 
 made notes of. As, for instance, that the British oHicer does 
 not, as a rule, marry the girl of inferior position whom — " 
 
 " Maclntyre, stop !" cried Philip. " Do not try me too far. 
 I have been a gambler, if you like — a profligate — anything you 
 like to call me ; but I swear that I have never had that sin laid 
 to my conscience."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL, 143 
 
 "Aweel, aweel," said Maclntyre. "Was I tempting you? 
 You apply a general proposition to a particular case. A most 
 illogical race the English always were." 
 
 He changed the subject ; but kept on recurring to it, night 
 after night ; while Philip, meeting Laura but once a week or so, 
 was daily growing more and more passionately in love with the 
 girl. 
 
 " A marriage beneath your station, Philip," he said one night, 
 enigmatically, " would be madness to you, just now." 
 
 " And why just now T 
 
 " Because you will have to take your proper place ; give up 
 the soldiering and become a county gentleman — that is, as soon 
 as you like to hold out your hand and ask." 
 
 " What is the man talking about 1" 
 
 " Xever mind — we can wait. Mind, I say nothing about the 
 young leddy." 
 
 " She is too good for me." 
 
 " Na doot — na doot. They always are. She's all that you 
 imagine, of course, and more behind it. Eut, after a month, 
 ye'd -wish ye hadn't done it. Eh, what a pity that there is 
 nothing short of marriage ! Hand-fasting would be something." 
 
 It was the second time he had thrown out this hint. This 
 time Philip did not spring from his chair. He only looked at 
 him thoughtfully, and shook his head. 
 
 "I must have her, Maclntyre — I must have her. Only this 
 morning I saw her. See, here is a lock of her pretty hair. 
 How soft it is, the dear little lock that I cut off with her own 
 scissors ! And here is her face in my locket. Look at it — you, 
 with your fifty years of cold philosophy — and warm your blood 
 for a moment. Think of what you Avould have been, if you had 
 met her when you were j'oung, when you were five and twenty ? 
 Eh, !Mephistopheles % Did you ever have any youth T 
 
 " I'll tell you about my youth some other day," returned the 
 preceptor — "not now. Well, it's a bonny face, a bonny face; 
 and a good face, too." 
 
 "By heaven, sir," Philip went on, "there's no woman like 
 her — not one. 
 
 " ' Thorc is none like hei", none, 
 
 Nor shall be till our summers have deceasci' 
 
 You know, you know —
 
 144 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " ' Her sweet voice ringing up to the sunny sky, 
 
 Till I well could weep for myself, so wretched and mean, 
 And a lover so sordid and base.' 
 
 It isn't quite riglit : but never mind. I feel the touch of hei 
 iiugers in mine this moment, man of the icy veins. I tell you 
 that I feel the warm blush on her check ■when I kissed her; I 
 hear the sweet tones of lier voice — the loveliest and sweetest you 
 ever heard. And she trusts me," he went on, with a sort of 
 sob — " she trusts me, and thinks I am good. Good ! She is 
 not happy with the secret, poor child. She longs to tell this 
 Mr. Venn, Avho is a friend of Arthur's, all about it." 
 
 " And has she told Mr. Venn 1" cried Maclntyre, greatly 
 excited. 
 
 " Why, no, I tell her not to." 
 
 " Don't let her, Phil. Keep it secret. Whatever you do, 
 don't let Mr. Venn know." 
 
 Phil was in a hot lit that night, and Maclntyre let him 
 down with his simple remonstrance. 
 
 Xext day he Avas despondent, because things looked badly 
 for a horse he had backed. He began again. Philip answered, 
 surlily. 
 
 " I am going to marry her, pillar of Presbyterian scrupulosity. 
 My mind is made up." 
 
 " I knew a man once," said ]\laclntyre, filling his tumbler 
 Avith brandy and water, " much in your predicament. He was 
 in love with a girl beneath him." 
 
 " N'ow you are going to invent some lies of your own," said 
 Philip. 
 
 ]\faclntyre half rose. 
 
 " Sir, do not insult your own guest. If it was not for — for 
 this full glass of grog, I'd go at once." 
 
 "Xo, no — I beg your pardon. Go on with your parable." 
 
 " It is no parable. Truth, sir — plain, unvarnished truth, Avill 
 always be found better than parable. This, sir," tapping his 
 breast, "is a wholesale depot of truth. I knew the man of 
 whom I am telling you well. A friend of his had been once an 
 ordained Presbyterian minister. He said to him: 'I will marry 
 you privately. The marriage is pairfectly good north of the 
 Tweed. What it is south, I do not know. It will be time to 
 raise the question after the ceremony is completed.' Well, 
 Philip, they were married. My friend performed the service in 
 his own house. The question has never been raised, and never
 
 J/K LITTLE GIRL. 145 
 
 •will be raised, because the marriage turned out happily — iu con- 
 ecqueuce of the demise of the leddy." 
 
 " Is that true ?" Philip asked. 
 
 " Quite true. I was the man who married them." 
 
 Mr. jNIacIntyre's powers of fiction are already too well known 
 for me to waste any time in comment upon this speech. Ko 
 tear, I have reason to believe, blotted that falsehood from the 
 paper where it was taken down. 
 
 "I was the man," said Alexander the Great without a blush. 
 
 " Were you ever in orders — you T asked Phil. 
 
 "I — why noti I was ordained, called, set aside, whatever 
 you call it. It is true that I was young and inexperienced." 
 
 " Good Lord, what a man it is !" 
 I began by preaching in Edinburgh ; but I failed in my very 
 first appearance. They said I wanted unction. I don't know 
 what I wanted. I had learned my discourse by heart the day 
 before. Unfortunately, I took too much on the Saturday night ; 
 and in the morning, what with the whisky and what with the 
 position, and the sermon half forgotten, I fear I made but a poor 
 appearance in the pulpit, a sort 0' stickit minister. I never 
 preached there again." 
 
 "What did you do next T 
 
 " They wanted a missionary for the Jews in Constantinopla 
 I went there. I stayed seven years. I converted three Jews, 
 who, as I afterwards found, had been converted by all my prede- 
 cessors in turn. They did not cost much ; and as their names 
 were always changed, they helped to make up the quarterly 
 report. However, I had to give that work up ; and I believe 
 my three converts all relapsed. Eh ! the hundreds of pounds 
 those three rascals cost our country. I say nothing, Phil ; but 
 you will think over my parable, as you please to call it. Mind, 
 I believe the marriage was pairfectly legal. You may find out 
 afterwards, whatever you please. Eemember, the Church of 
 Scotland is not yet disestablished. It is as respectable as your 
 own Church." 
 
 "Truly," said Philip, .saluting him. 
 
 '•' I say, sir," repeated the reverend divine, " it is as respectable 
 as yours. Otherwise, I should not be in it." 
 
 " Quite so," said Philip — " quite so." 
 
 "My friend, you see," he went on, "argued thus by my 
 advice : * If I choose, I can at any time investigate the question 
 of legality. On the other hand, ray wife Avill alwavs bolicvo 
 
 10
 
 146 MY LITTLE GIRL 
 
 herself married. There -will be no question of a very ugly 
 word, because the Church will have done her part.' A blessed 
 thiug it is, Philip, that there is a Church to protect the world." 
 
 He stopped for a moment, and took a sip of half a pint or 
 so of brandy and water. Then his speech became suddenly 
 thick. 
 
 "A real-a-tooll-a 'lessed 'spensation of Providence. What 
 that friend of mine, in love and all with most beautiful creech', 
 would have done withou' th' Church, impossible to say." He 
 steadied himself with an effort. " Phil, my dear boy, brandy 
 always makes me ill. Gi' me a ma' hat, ye blettherin' deevil, 
 telling your stories, and keeping your old tutor out of bed. Gi' 
 nie ma hat, and le' me go. I'll tell ye the rest to-morrow." 
 
 Philip, left alone, began to meditate. The evil suggestion of 
 his tempter lay at his heart like a seedling waiting to put forth 
 its leaves. There was, over and above the other difficulties of 
 the position, that of living if he were to marry. A very con- 
 siderable slice of the five thousand was gone, that was quite clear. 
 About the rest he was not quite clear, but there could not be 
 much. 
 
 "What matters?" he murmured. "I will sell out, and we 
 will do something — love like the birds, by Gad. But I must 
 and will have the girl." 
 
 He took out the locket again, and looked at the face which 
 lay in it, with its bright, innocent smile. As he looked, his 
 face softened. 
 
 "It is a shame," he said, '^a shame. That scoundrel, Mac 
 Intyre. No, child, no. I will never Avrong you." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Phil, you see, was born for better things. His heart was open 
 to all noble impulses, as his eye and his ear were attuned to all 
 harmonies of colour and sound. He had a quick appreciation — 
 could take a broad view of things. He knew his own powers ; 
 for men no more really deceive themselves on the score of intel- 
 lect than women on that of beauty. If a man has brains, ho 
 knows it. I reserve the rights of those that are not clever and 
 know it, and pretend to be aod are proud of their pretensions. 
 These are the men who go about the world with all the lettera
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 147 
 
 of the alphabet after their names, imposing more upon them- 
 selves than on the credulous public. There is yet another 
 diiFerence to be made. Some few men are proud of the infy%ia, 
 and many men are proud of the hbvaiMii. The pride of poten- 
 tiality lingers long after the power of real work has altogether 
 gone, long after the regret that tinges the first twenty years of 
 an idle man's life. You may see, at Oxford and Cambridge, 
 old men who walk erect and proud, still flushed with the 
 triumphs they achieved as boys, and proud still as men ; though 
 their strength has been measured against no other competitors, 
 and in no larger battle-field, and though the men they once 
 defeated have long since conquered in far greater struggles, 
 while they have grown rusty over the combination port. 
 
 Philip was now at the age when regret is strongest. At no 
 time do the possibilities of life appear so splendid as at twenty- 
 five, or is the conscience quicker to reproach us for wasted 
 opportunities. But, after all, what was he to do ? Life is but 
 a vague thing to a young subaltern of distinct ambitions, not 
 clearly seeing what glorious path to take up. Often enough it 
 becomes a merely ignoble thing, meaning billiards, betting, 
 brandy and soda, et talia. In Phil's case, the life he led was 
 telling on his face — broadening his features, giving them a 
 coarse expression. Our lives are stamped upon our faces. Does 
 there not come a time in every good man's life when the hardest 
 and unloveliest of faces softens into beauty by reason of the 
 victory within ? Do not buy a " nose machine," unlovely reader. 
 Have patience, and aim at the highest things ; and one day your 
 face, too, shall be beautiful. As for Adonis, if he had lived the 
 life of men about town, his face would have been coarse as theirs 
 before the age of thirty. 
 
 The coloured blood had something to do with it. It helped 
 to make Philip at once sensitive, eager of distinction, and vain. 
 But not everything. Fain would I put it all down to colour. 
 Mighty comforting thing as it is to us white men to reflect on 
 our superiority, we must be careful about the theory. We may 
 be the aristocracy of Nature. To be sure, the creature who 
 walks about in the similitude of man, with the leg in the middle 
 of his foot ; whose calf is in front, and shin behind ; whose lips 
 are thick ; whose hair is woolly ; whose nose is flat ; whoso 
 brain is small in front and big behind; who has had every 
 chance, and has clearly shown that he can do nothing so well aa 
 the white man — the full-blooded negro, I say, must be regarded 
 
 10—2
 
 T48 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 as a distant cousin, a poor rolatiou of humanity, and not a 
 " bnidder" at all. But as for the mulattiy cLass, I don't know. 
 Take a good quadroon mothei, and a good white father, and I 
 really cannot sec why the resulting octoroou is a whit inferior to 
 our noble selves — the aristocrats by colour. 
 
 Lut the influence of colour is always bad. It helped to make 
 rinlip inferior to himself. Let it be remembered about our Phil, 
 the backslider, that, till he was twelve years old and more, he 
 had been accustomed to look on colour as the outward mark of 
 a degraded race. 
 
 It is all part of the same question. Take the heir of all the 
 Talbots — I mean nothing personal to the heir of this dis- 
 tinguished house. Eear him in pride of birth, in contempt for 
 lowborn people, in ideas of the responsibilities and dignities of 
 rank — you will turn out a creature whom the whole v^orld cannot 
 match for pride, self-respect, self-reliance ; and the virtues of 
 courage, pluck, and endurance, which depend on these. 
 
 But take the little Echo boy. Suppose he had been subjected 
 from infancy to the same teaching and treatment, would there 
 have been any diflereuce ? 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre Avould have replied — " I vera much doot 
 it." 
 
 " The future of a boy, sir," Venn said, one evening, " may bo 
 entirely prophesied from an observation of his early habits aud 
 prejudices. I have gathered, for instance, a few particulars 
 from the boyhood of great men, Avhich throw a Avonderful light 
 upon their after-career. When I tell you, for example, that 
 Mr. John Stuart Mill, early in life, had to submit his nails to a 
 disfiguring course of bitter almonds to cure him of biting them, 
 you feel at once that you understand the whole of the philoso- 
 pher's works." 
 
 " I do not, for one," said Jones. 
 
 " I have also heard," he went on, ''that Wx. Gladstone was 
 birched more than once for cutting Sunday chapel at Eton. 
 Eemark that the years pass over his head, and presently he die- 
 establishes the Irish Church. And I believe it is a fact that 
 Mr. Disraeli, as a boy, Avas wont to sit on a rail and suck sweets. 
 The analogies between these small circumstances and the after- 
 lives of these men are subtle, perhaps ; but, once pointed out, 
 ought to be clear even to Jones." 
 
 It Avas on another occasion that Venn showed how an apology 
 might be made for a criminal on higher ground than that reached
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 149 
 
 by the evidence. He delivered liis "Oratio pro Peccatore" one 
 night in Avig and gown. The following is a portion : 
 
 " Circumstances, my lud, have been against my unhappy 
 client. Brought up under the contempt, or fancied contempt, 
 of society, he early manifested his superiority to the ordinary 
 trammels imposed on the thick-headed by becoming a prig. I 
 do not mean assistant masters of liugby or Marlborough, who 
 are all prigs, but the common prig of the London streets. From 
 a prig of Holborn, the transition was easy to being a prig on a 
 larger scale and in a more extended sphere. Step by step, my 
 lud and gentlemen of the jurj'-, you may trace everything back, 
 not to the want of education, because my client was taught in a 
 National School, and possesses even now a knowledge of the 
 Kings of Israel ; but to the fact that, in the circles wherein he 
 should have moved, his parentage was despised — his father, 
 gentlemen of the jury, having been a barrister-at-law, and his 
 mother at one time a lady of the ballet." 
 
 And with this as a preface, he v/ould go on to defend his 
 client. 
 
 You may leave out the preceding, if you like. But I would 
 rather you read it. 
 
 Meantime, it is the month of May — 
 
 " Ce fut en tres doux tenz de Mai 
 Que di cuer gai, 
 Vont ci^ oiseillon chautant," 
 
 a3 the old French song lias it. Laura has met Philip in all 
 aljout six or seven times — always with another promise of 
 secrecy, She is to marry Philip. That is agreed upon between 
 thcni. It will please Mr. Venn. Meantime, she is trying to 
 understand her lover. He is kind to her ; but not witli the 
 tenderness of her guardian, to whom she compares him. He is 
 not gentle with her; but passionate, htful, uncertain of temper — 
 being, indeed, in constant conllict with himself. Then he was 
 Ku.spicious and jealous. Worse than all, he Avas always asking 
 her if .she loved him more, if she loved him at all, if she ever 
 could love him. It wearied and teased her — this talk of love. 
 "What did it meanl" she asked herself over and over again, 
 l>ut could find no answer. 
 
 "I don't know, Philip," she said. "What is tlio use uf 
 always asking V
 
 ISO 
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " You must know if you love me, Laura." 
 
 "How am I to knowT 
 
 "Do you love ]\Ir. Venn?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" — her face lit up at once ; " but I don't feel at all 
 like that — oh, not in the least bit. If that is love, Avhy, I 
 suppose I do not love you." 
 
 Philip ground his teeth. 
 
 " Always Mr. Venn," he growled. " Tell me, Laura, do you 
 like to bo with me?" 
 
 " Yes, it is pleasant — so long as you are in a good temper — 
 to talk to you. I like you a great deal better than when I saw 
 you first. I don't think you are such a good man as you ought 
 to be, because I have heard you swear, which is vulgar." 
 
 " You shall make me good, when we are married." 
 
 " And when will that be V she asked, suddenly. " Because, 
 you see, I will not go on having secrets from Mr. Venn ; and I 
 must tell him soon." 
 
 " Then you will give me up," said Philip gloomily. 
 
 " Very well," she returned, calmly ; " that will be better than 
 deceiving Mr. Venn. To be sure, I am only deceiving him 
 with the idea of pleasing him. Of course he will be pleased." 
 She sighed. " If only I felt qxdte sure ! But he told me so 
 distinctly that I was to marry a gentleman. Oh, he will be 
 pleased. And I am sure he will like you." 
 
 " Only wait a little longer, my dear." 
 
 " K'o, Philip — I will not Avait any longer. We must be 
 married at once, or I will tell Mr. Venn all about it. I cannot 
 bear to have secrets from him. I believe, after all, you are only 
 laughing at me because I am not a lady." 
 
 The tears of vexation came into her eyes. 
 
 Philip's face was very gloomy. It was in his moments ot 
 linger that the cloud fell upon his face which altered his expres- 
 sion, and changed him almost to a negro. It was then that his 
 nostrils seemed to broaden, his lips to project, his cheeks to 
 darken. 
 
 " Tell him, then," he returned; "and good-bye." 
 
 He turned on his heel — it was under the trees in Kensington 
 Gardens. She sat down and looked at him. There was no 
 anger in her breast for the spretaj injuria formae : none at the 
 loss of a love, none at the destruction of an idol. For she had 
 no love. Philip Durnford had never touched her heart. To 
 please Mr. Venn — let us say it again and again — to please Mr.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 151 
 
 Venn, who wanted to see her married to a gentleman, and be- 
 cause she was wholly, utterly ignorant of the world and innocent 
 of its ways, she listened to Philip's pleading, and almost offered 
 herself to him in marriage. What did marriage mean % She 
 knew nothing. How was she to know ? She spoke to no one 
 but Hartley Venn. She never read novels or love poetry. Her 
 life was as secluded as that of any nun. 
 
 Her lover was three or four yards off, when his expression 
 changed as suddenly to his old one. He wavered, and half 
 turned. 
 
 " Philip," cried Laura, " come here." 
 
 He turned and stood before her. 
 
 "I think I have made a great mistake. Perhaps Mr. Venn 
 would not be pleased. Let us say good-bye, and go away from 
 each other for ever. You will soon forget me ; and before I 
 listen to any one again, I will take Mr. Venn's advice." 
 
 She spoke in a business-like tone, as if the whole thing was a 
 mere matter of expediency ; and shook her head with an air of 
 the most owl-like wisdom, and looked more beautiful than ever. 
 It was one of the characteristics of this young lady that she had 
 as many different faces as there are thoughts in the brain, for 
 she changed Avith each. I think her best was when she was 
 playing in the evening — far away, in imagination, in some 
 Paradise of her own — alone with Mr, Venn. 
 
 Philip's blood leaped up in his veins. All the love and 
 desire he had ever entertained for her seemed multiplied tenfold. 
 He seized her hand and held it fast. 
 
 "My Laura!" he cried, "my little bird, my pet! Do you 
 think I will let you go % At least, not till I have had another 
 chance. It is all finished — all the waiting and hoping. I am 
 ready to marry you whenever you like. You shall name your 
 own day, and you shall tell ]Mr. Venn after we are married. 
 Only keep the secret till then." 
 
 " How long am I to wait ?" asked the girl. 
 
 " A week — ten days, not more. We must make our prepara- 
 tions. I must get you all sorts of things, darling. I love you 
 too well to let you go in a lit of passion. If I have been ill- 
 tempered at times, it is because I am sometimes troubled with 
 many things of which you know nothing. Make a little allow- 
 ance for me. You, at least, shall never be troubled, Laura, my 
 l)et. My happiness is in your hands. Give it back to me ; and, 
 in return, all my lif(; shall be spent in trying to please you."
 
 152 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ** You frighten me," she said. " You are so passionate. "Why 
 do you hold my hand so hard % Look here, Philip — I will do 
 this. To-day is Wednesday. I -will meet you and marry you 
 next Wednesday, if you like. If you do not marry me then, 
 you shall not marry me at all. And now, good-bye till Wednes- 
 day morning." 
 
 She tripped away, without her heart beating a single pulsation 
 faster ; while he was left trembling in every limb. 
 
 *' Wednesday !" He began to reflect how people wei'o 
 married. " Wednesday. A week. And there is everything to 
 be got ready." 
 
 He went to the City, to his agent's, and drew five hundred 
 pounds, 
 
 " It is my duty, ]Mr. Durnford," said the agent, " to remind 
 you that you have only a thousand pounds left. Although it is 
 invested at ten per cent., a hundred a year is not a large 
 income," 
 
 "You are quite right," said Philip. "It is not, indeed — 
 too small to be considered, almost. But I must have the five 
 hundred." 
 
 He lodged it at Cox's ; and then went to a milliner's shop and 
 ordered a complete trousseau, to be ready packed in a few days. 
 They wanted to try things on; but he picked out a young lady 
 in the shop of about Laura's dimensions, and told them to try 
 the things on her. 
 
 After that he began to investigate the great marriage question, 
 being as yet little conversant with legal procedure of any kind. 
 He knew that you might go to church, or that you might go to 
 a registrar's office ; so he found out the office of a registrar, and 
 asked what he had to do. 
 
 It appeared to be very simple. You must reside for the space 
 of three weeks in a parish — that had already been done ; but, 
 which made it impossible, he must have the names posted up 
 in the office for a fortnight. And so he went and bought a 
 special licence. 
 
 He went home radiant with hope and happiness, and .sjient a 
 quiet evening alone, communing with the future. 
 
 The next day he went to see how the trousseau was getting 
 on, and bought a wedding ring. Then he ordered several new 
 suits of clothes to be made at once, and a large stock of linen, 
 with an undefined feeling that married life meant everything
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 153 
 
 That was Thursday's work. 
 
 Then came Friday, and, with Friday, a visit from Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre. 
 
 "You will not spend many more evenings with me," said 
 Phil ; " so sit down and make yourself comfortable." 
 
 " And wherefore not T asked his tutor. 
 
 " Eecause I am going to be married next Wednesday." 
 
 " Glide guide us !" The good man turned quite pale. " Xcxt 
 Wednesday 1 Is all settled 1 It is Laura, of course — I mean 
 Miss Collingwood." 
 
 " Of course it is Laura." 
 
 " And how are you to be married ]" 
 
 " By special licence." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre looked as if he would ask another question, 
 hut refrained ; and presently went his way. 
 
 On Tuesday evening, Mr. Maclntyre looked up quietly and 
 asked — 
 
 " What church are you going to be married in V 
 
 Phil turned pale. 
 
 " Idiot that I am ! I never thought about the church at all." 
 
 CHAPTEE XVL 
 
 " Under ordinary circumstances, Lollie," said Venn, on Tuesday 
 morning, when the child came round — " under ordinary circum- 
 stances, the middle-aged man awakes in the morning with the 
 Aveary feeling of a day's work before him." He always spoke 
 as if he was oppressed with the duties of labour. " By some 
 unlucky accideit!;, I feel this morning as if the innocent mirth of 
 childhood was back again. I fear nothing. I hope everything. 
 Two courses are therefore open to us." 
 
 '• What two courses ?' asked the girl — always watchful of 
 Venn's words, and never quite able to follow the conclusions to 
 which they led him. 
 
 " I ought, I suppose, to take advantage of this unusual iluw 
 of spirits, and write something with the real glow of joy upon 
 it. My worlis are, perhaps, too uuifjrmly meditative. I daro 
 tay you have remarked it." 
 
 " I think they arc beautiful, all of tlicm," replied the flatterer, 
 
 ^' All, Lollie, I ought to be a happy man. I have an audience
 
 154 J^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 — limited at present, to bo sure — which appreciates mo. 
 Moliammed had his Cadijah. But there is another course opeu 
 to us. See the sun upon the leaves of the two trees in the 
 court. Listen to the sparrows chirping with renewed vigour. 
 They know that the hilarious worm will be tempted forth to 
 enjoy the sun. The purring of the basking cat is almost audible 
 if you open the window. The paper-boy whistles across the 
 square. The policemen move on with a lighter step. The post- 
 man bounds as he walks. The laundresses put oil' their shawls. 
 Lollie, what do these things mean ?" 
 
 " They mean going into the country, do they not ?" she 
 replieil, catching his meaning. 
 
 " They do, child. They mean Epping Forest, We will take 
 the train to Loughton and walk to Epping. They mean a little 
 dinner at the C®ck, and a pint of Moselle. They mean strolling 
 through the wood to Theydon Bois, and coming home in the 
 evening with roses in our cheeks." 
 
 Another time Lollie Avould have jumped for joy. !N"ow she 
 only looked up and smiled. 
 
 "What is the matter, my little girl"?" asked Hartley, taking 
 her face in his hands. " For a fortnight past you have not been 
 in your usual spirits. To-day you are pale and worn. Are you 
 ill, Lollie T 
 
 " Ko," she cried, bursting into tears, " I am not ill ; only — 
 only — you are so good to me." 
 
 His own eyes filled as he stooped and kissed her forehead. 
 
 " You are nervous this morning, little one — you must go to 
 Epping, that is clear." 
 
 "It is not only that : it is something else." 
 
 " What else, Lollie % You can tell me," 
 
 " It is my secret, Mr. Venn." 
 
 " Well then, Lollie, if that is all, I can wait for this precious 
 secret. So be happy again." 
 
 " It is a secret that concerns 5''ou. I think it will make you 
 happier — you said once that it would. Oh, I wish I might tell 
 you — I wish you would let me." 
 
 " Little Impatience ! And what sort of a secret would that 
 be which I know already % Do you remember the man who 
 Avhispered his to the winds ? !Never tell a secret, child ; because 
 the birds of the air may carry it about." 
 
 " I have been so unhappy about it," the girl went on, through 
 her tears. " I can't sleep for thinking of it. Oh, you will be
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 155 
 
 pleased — I know you will. Bat I wish I could tell you. I will 
 — I don't care who is offended. Mr. Venn, I am going — •" 
 
 " Stop, Lollie," he replied, putting his finger to her lips — • 
 "dou't tell me. See, I give you perfect control over your 
 secret till to-morrow. I refuse to listen — I am deaf. If you 
 try to tell me I shall begin to sing, and then the nearest cows 
 will fall ill, and the calves will lie down and expire.' 
 
 She sighed and was silent. Alas ! if only she had spoken. 
 Fate was against her. 
 
 They went to Loughton, and took that walk through the 
 forest which only the East-end Cockneys love. In the long 
 glades which stretch right and left the hawthorn was in full 
 blossom ; the tender green of the new leaves, freshly coloured, 
 and all of different hues, the soft breath of the young summer, 
 the silence and repose, fell on the girl's spirit and soothed her. 
 For the moment she forgot the secret, and almost felt happy. 
 And yet it lay at her heart. Her life — she knew so much — was 
 going to be changed ; how much she could not tell. The life of 
 two would be, she thorglit, a life of three. It was what Mr. 
 Venn had wished for her ; and yet — and yet — there was the 
 shade of a danger upon her, a foreboding of calamity, which she 
 tried in vain to throw off. Venn poured out his treasures of 
 fancy — those half thought-out ideas and half-seen analogies 
 which filled his brain and evaded him when he tried to put 
 them on paper. But they fell, for once, on unfruitful ground. 
 She caught some of them, or only half caught them ; and then 
 talk grew languid. 
 
 " ]\[y spirits of this morning seem to have failed me," he 
 cried impatiently — 
 
 " ' Not seldom, clad in radiant hue, 
 Deceitfully goes forth the morn.' 
 
 A spiritual shower has fallen, and we have no umbrella. "What 
 is it, child T he asked impatiently. " Why are we so silent 
 and sad to-day % Let us be happy. Are we drenched with the 
 shower?" 
 
 Lollie half laughed, and they walked on. 
 
 Presently they came upon a woman, toiling along with a baby 
 in her arms, and two children toddling after them. As they 
 came up to her, the woman turned and struck one of them 
 sharply, for lagging. 
 
 " Don't do that, my good creature," said Venn. " Pcihapa 
 the little one is tired."
 
 156 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " He's tired and hungry too, sir," sho replied ; " but I've got 
 to get him to Ei)piug, for all that, and walk he must." 
 
 " Poor little man !" said Yenu. " Say, arc you very tired ?" 
 
 The child was evidently worn out. 
 
 " We are going the same way," he said. " I will carry him 
 for you." 
 
 " You, sir? — and a gentleman and all !" 
 
 " Why not? Come, my boy." 
 
 He lilted the little one in his arms. 
 
 " Lollie, I am not going to let you carry the other. He is 
 big enough to walk." 
 
 " Ah, yes, miss — don't 'ee now," said the woman. '' He's 
 strong enough — ain't you, Jackey?" 
 
 Then they all walked away together — Venn talking to the 
 woman, and she telling her little story ; how her husband had 
 got work at Epping, and she was walking all the way from 
 town with her babies. 
 
 " I had a comfortable place, sir," she said, " six years ago ; 
 and little I thought then of the hardships I should have to 
 undergo. God knows we've been half starving sometimes." 
 
 " And are you sorry you married T asked Lollie. 
 
 " Nay, miss, a woman is never sorry she married," replied the 
 poor wife. " My man is a real good sort, unless now and then 
 when it's the drink tempts him. And then I've the children, 
 you see. Ah ! well, sir — God gives us the good and the bad 
 together. But never you think, miss, that a w^oman is sorry 
 she married." 
 
 " Truly,'' said Venn, " marriage is a continual sacrament." 
 
 " Are you married yourself, sir ?" 
 
 " I am not," he replied gravely. '' So far I am only half a 
 man ; and now I shall never marry, I fear." 
 
 Lollie looked up in his face, over which lay that light cloud 
 of melancholy which alternated in Venn with the sweet smile of 
 his mobile lips. She walked on, pondering. " No woman ever 
 sorry for being married." There was comfort ! 
 
 " You are happy when you are Avitli your husband ?" she 
 asked, presently. 
 
 The woman turned sharply upon her. 
 
 " Of course, I am happy with my Ben," she said. " Happi- 
 ness with us is not made of the same sort of stuii" as with you 
 rich folks." 
 
 *' I am not a rich folk/' said the girl, smiling.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 157 
 
 ""Well, well — never miucl my sharpness, miss. You're ona 
 of the kind folks, and that's all I care about." 
 
 She trudged on, talking to herself, as such women do, between 
 her lips. Venn was behind them now, talking to the boy in his 
 arms ; and so they reached Epping. At the outskirts of the 
 long town, Avhere the cottages begin, the woman insisted on the 
 boy being put down, and began to thank them. Venn gave 
 her a little present of a few shillings, and left her trudging along 
 with the children. 
 
 "There goes our Moselle, Lollie," he said with a sigh. 
 " Always some fresh disappointment. I had set my heart on 
 *hat Moselle for you." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Venn ! As if I should be so selfish." 
 ' All the same," he grumbled. " It was a stroke of my usual 
 bad luck, meeting that woman." 
 
 The bottle of Moselle made its appearance in spite of her ; 
 but even the sparkle of the wine failed to raise LoUie's spirits 
 to their usual level. The girl was profoundly dejected. Venn 
 tried the wildest talk, told her the wildest stories ; but in vain. 
 It grew close to the hour of the last train — the Great Eastern, 
 with its usual liberality, having fixed the last train at eight, so 
 as to prevent everybody from enjoying the evening in the 
 Forest. They walked together to the station — silent, dejected, 
 and unhappy. 
 
 " I wish — oh, I wish to-morrow was over 1" the girl sighed, 
 when they were alone in the railway carriage. 
 
 " Does that secret worry you, Lollie % Is that the wretched 
 cause of your depression? Forget it — put it out of your mind." 
 
 " Let me tell it you." 
 
 " Nonsense, child," he laughed ; " as if I wanted to know. 
 Think of Midas, as I told you this morning. You shall not 
 tell me now." 
 
 " Tell me once more," she said, " what you would like mo 
 most of all to do." 
 
 He hesitated. Had he followed the promptings of his own 
 heart, he would have said : 
 
 " To marry me, Lollie ; to go away with me from Loudon \ 
 to live together, never to get tired, in some country place — tho 
 world Ibrgetting, by the world forgot." 
 
 If he had but said so ! — for it was not yet too late, and the 
 girl M'as yearning to tell him all. 
 
 " I think, child," he said, slowly, after a pause, " there ia
 
 T58 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 but one thing I really want you to do. I should like, before all 
 else, to see you married happily. Sukey settled that for us, you 
 know. I haven't seen Sukey now for two months. Let us go 
 there to-morrow." 
 
 " Not to-morrow," said Lollie. " Do you really mean — ■ 
 really and truly mean what you say % You would like to see 
 sae married ]" 
 
 Heavens, how blind the man is ! He does not see that the 
 girl's whole heart is his ; that after all those years her nature is 
 responsive to his own ; that she has but one thought, one affec- 
 tion, one passion — though she knows it not — the love of Hartley 
 Venn. 
 
 " Mean it ]" he says, with his tender smile. " Of course I 
 mean it. Eecollect what the woman said to-day. You have 
 seen how love may survive poverty, hunger, misery ; and rise 
 triumphant over all. Think Avhat love may be when there is no 
 misery to beat it down." 
 
 " Love — yes, love. They are always talking about love, I 
 mean marriage." 
 
 " They go together, Lollie." 
 
 " Does — " she checked the name that rose to her lips — " do 
 people, when they talk of marriage, always mean love T 
 
 "They are supposed to do so, Lollie. On the other hand, 
 when they talk of love, they do not always — Ah, here is 
 Fenchurch Street." 
 
 N'o more was said that night. The girl went up to his room 
 and made him tea ; and at half-past nine she put on her hat. 
 
 " To-morrow, Mr. Venn — ah ! to-morrow — I shall tell you my 
 secret." 
 
 " Sleep soundly, little bird, and forget your secret. What 
 time am I to know it ?" 
 
 " I don't quite know. I should think, in the afternoon." 
 
 " Very well, then ; I shall stay in from one till four, and if 
 you do not come then I shall suppose the secret is not ready. 
 Will that do 1 Good night, Lollie dear." 
 
 He stooped to kiss her forehead ; but she took his face in her 
 hands, and kissed his lips almost passionately. 
 
 '^ Always believe," she said, " even if you are not pleased, 
 that I love you, and am so grateful to you that nothing can tell 
 it. Always believe I love you, and hoped to please you." 
 
 And so slipped away, and was gone. 
 
 Did Hartley have no av^picionl i^one — none— none. He
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 159 
 
 was not, you see, a man " about town." Ho did not think 01 
 suspect evil. Least of all could he suspect evil in the case of 
 his little girl. And that she should take his words so literally 
 as to marry a man in order to please him would have struck 
 him as beyond all belief. 
 
 And yet it was exactly what she was going to do. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 It is the morning of Lollie's wedding day. As the girl drcssea 
 in her little room, she is crying silently. For a great fear has 
 fallen upon her, the fear that what she is going to do will not 
 meet with that approval and praise which she at first anticipated. 
 It had been growing in her brain ; and when, only yesterday, 
 she first gave it expression, it assumed a clear and definite form. 
 She dressed quickly, trying to soothe her own excitement, drank 
 a cup of tea, and slipped out at ten o'clock to meet her lover. 
 N"o thought, you will remark, of her grandmother? On the 
 whole, I hardly see how any could be expected. The girl did 
 not belong to the old woman. She owed nothing to her, she 
 hacj not % thought in common Avith her, she hardly ever spoke 
 to her ; and save that they slept under one roof, they had 
 nothing to do with each other. Certainly, the idea that the 
 old woman might be made unhappy by conduct of hers never 
 occurred to her. It was a lovely morning in June, one of those 
 days when London puts on its brightest aspect, and looks — as it 
 always would, were Heaven pleased to improve our climate — 
 the Empress of cities. Through the crowded streets, down 
 Oxford Street and Eegent Street, without stopping to look at 
 the gratuitous exhibitions in the shop Avindows, Lollie tripped 
 along, with heightened colour and quick-beating pulse. 
 
 Going to be married — going to marry a gentleman ! What 
 would be Mr. Venn's surprise and delight when she went tc 
 him in the eveniug? 
 
 For once, Philip was first at theii trysting-place in the park. 
 
 Going to be married. Going to plight her troth — for better 
 for worse, too. A girl, who, in the absolute innocence of her 
 heart, gives herself to him for no love that she bears him, but 
 only to please, as she thinks, another man. Going to bo a bride- 
 groom? He does not look it, as he paces up and down the 
 gravel, driving down his heels, with a pale face and a troubled
 
 i6o MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 look. Surely a bridegroom sliould look iu better spirits; and 
 when he sees the girl approaching, his own betrothed, soon to 
 be his bride, why do his knees tremble beneath lam, so that ho 
 must flrin sit down on a bench ? 
 
 Then she holds out her hand, and he takes it undauntedly. 
 
 " Itcmember what I said, Philip," she began directly. " Unless 
 you marry me to-day, I shall not marry you at all ; and I shall 
 tell ]\[r. Venn everything." 
 
 " Is that the only love-vow you have to give me ]" asked the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 " Oh, Philip, do not talk like that. Always of love, and 
 love-vows ! I tell you again, I do not understand it. "What 
 should I say, if not the truth T 
 
 Philip sighed. There was yet time to save himself. The 
 girl did not love him ; but, then, he loved the girl. He had 
 that passionate longing for this sweet, fair-haired maiden — so 
 bright, so clever, so new — which, I think, can never come to a 
 man more than once in his life. God has made us so that not 
 more than one wom<in can be an angel to us. Her excepted — 
 we know the sex. We grovel to her ; we stand upright before 
 the rest, conscious of the head and a half difierenco between the 
 man and the woman. Lollie was Philip's angel. And — alas ! 
 the pity of it — there are so many men who cannot hold their 
 one AA'oman an angel for longer than the honeymoon ; and must 
 needs cry shame and folly to themselves for the sweet infatuation 
 which alone makes life tolerable to us. 
 
 " Come, Laura," said Philip, " I have the licence in my 
 pocket — a special licence. See here." He pulled out the docu- 
 ment. " The Archbishop of Canterbury has given his consent, 
 you see ; so that is all right. I thought you would best like a 
 private marriage." 
 
 " Oh, yes," cried Lollie — *' much best." 
 
 " And as we shall have no wedding breakfast, no carriage, 
 and nothing but our own two selves, I have arranged with a 
 very excellent clergyman — a Scotch clergyman — to perform the 
 ceremony for us which will make you my wife. Will that do 
 for you ?" 
 
 He had fallen, then, into the pit digged for him. 
 
 " Surely, Philip," she said, " it shall all be as you think best 
 for us ; and then I shall tell Mr. Venn." 
 
 He had been out of the park into the Strand, and took a 
 Hansom cab to Kcppel Street.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. l6i 
 
 Mr. !MacIutyre Wcis himself standing' at the windoAv in the 
 ground-floor front, and came to open the door. Then he led 
 them in, and shut the door carefully. That done, he stared 
 hard at the bride. 
 
 " Come into the other room a moment," said Philip, in a 
 hoarse voice. " I want to say a word." 
 
 The other room was Mr. jNIacIntyre's bed-room, opening from 
 the first by folding-doors. Lollie, left alone, looked out of the 
 window and waited. As she looked, a funeral procession came 
 from an opposite house, and the dismal cortege "passed down the 
 street. Then, too, the sky was clouded over, and big drops of 
 rain were falling. Her heart sank within her. Truly, an omen 
 of the worst. She turned from the window and looked round 
 the room. A curious fragrance, unknown to her, was lingering 
 about the corners. It was due to toddy. A small fire was 
 burning in the grate, though the morning was warm; and a 
 kettle was singing on the hob. Two or three pipes lay on the 
 mantelshelf; and a few books, chiefly of the Latin Grammar 
 class, bought when Mr. Maclntyre meditated taking pupils, 
 stood upon the shelves. The furniture was hard and uncom- 
 fortable. And her spirits fell lower and lower. 
 
 In the other room she heard voices. If she had heard what 
 was .said, she might even then have escaped. But she only heard 
 the murmur. 
 
 Philip, when the door was shut, turned upon his companion, 
 with lips and cheeks perfectly white, and seizing Mr. MacInt3Te 
 by the shoulders, shook the little man backwards and forwards 
 as if he had been a reed. 
 
 "Villain!" he groaned — "black-hearted, calculating scoun- 
 drel." 
 
 " When you've done shaking your best friend," returned his 
 tutor, " and calling bad names, perhaps you will listen for a few 
 moments to the voice of reason." 
 
 " Go on, then." 
 
 Philip sat down on the edge of the bed. 
 
 "I can't do it, Maclntyre — I can't do it," he murmured. "It 
 is the blackest villainy. Poor Laura ! poor darling ! Oh, what 
 scoundrels we are ! And I, who once was an honourable man !" 
 
 " Hoots, toots," said the philosopher. 
 
 But Philip was lying with hi.s face in his hands, sliaking with 
 emotion. 
 
 Maclntyre conterapLuted Ids old pupil for a few moments with 
 
 11
 
 1 63 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 a puzzled expression. Then — for lie felt unequal to the ordeal 
 -without support — he went to the cupboard, and very silently 
 })uured out just half a glass of raw spirit, which he swallowed 
 hastily. Then he addressed himself to business, and tried, but 
 with small effect, to assume a sympathetic air. 
 
 " Ma puir laddie," he said. " You surely never thought that 
 I, Alexander Maclntyre, the releegious guide of your infancy, 
 Avas going to counsel you to take a dishonourable step. Phil, 
 ye'll be as legally tied up as if the Archbishop did it. Lelievo 
 me, a regularly ordained minister of the Established Kirk o' 
 Scotland. If a prince was going to be married, this would bo 
 the right shop to come to. And you, with a licence, special and 
 most expensive, and all." 
 
 Philip sat up again. 
 
 " Is it true, Maclntyre ? Is it really true, what you say T 
 
 "True, my Phil, every word true. Shall I swear to it? Now, 
 brush your hair and look bright and let us go back to the lassie. 
 Hech! man — there's a thunder-clap. Come along, or she will be 
 frightened." 
 
 He pushed him back, and, sitting down at the table, laid open 
 a Bible, borrowed for the occasion from the unsuspecting land- 
 lady. 
 
 " Sit down, both of you," he began, imperiously. 
 
 They sat down opposite him. 
 
 " Have ye got a licence, Mr. Durnford V he asked. " Good. 
 A special licence, granting you permission to be married in any 
 parish] Good. At any time? Good. In any place of worship ? 
 Vera good. And by any clergyman? Vera good indeed. Young 
 leddy, your name, if you please. You may write it here." 
 
 He had prepared two slips of paper to imitate a marriage cer- 
 tificate. And Philip noticed now, for the first time, that he was 
 " dressed" for the character in complete black with a Avhite neck- 
 cloth that would not have disgraced a banjo man, and which, 
 with Jiis red nose, gave him quite the appearance of a superior 
 Mute. And, the signatures obtained, when he turned over the 
 leaves of the Bible a cheerful piety became diffused over his face, 
 quite new to his friends and very remarkable to witness. Lollie 
 looked at the clergyman who was marrying her with an instinctive 
 feeling of aversion. The ill-fitting black clothes, the voluminous 
 necktie, the red nose and pale cheeks, the sliakiug hand, all told 
 her, as plain as words could speak, that the man was one uf tlio 
 .§i;eat Sti^'^ins tribe of whom Hartley Vena had told her. I^ever-
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 163 
 
 theless, she was in Philip's hands ; and, like the bu"ds on the 
 solitary's island, she had not yet learned to distrust mankind, 
 because she only knew one man. 
 
 It does not beiit this page to describe with greater detail the 
 mockery of marriage which Mr. INIacIntj'^re solemnly Avent through. 
 Suffice it to say that, after reading a chapter of the Bible, he 
 prayed. And after his prayer, making the two stand up, he 
 joined their hands, pronounced them man and wife,and concluded 
 by an exhortation mainly made up of what he still recollected of 
 the shorter Catechism. What it wanted in unction it gained in 
 doctrine; and though there was little in the discourse calculated 
 to assist the bride in her duties of married life, there was plenty 
 which might have been used as a rod and staff by the Calvinistic 
 Christian. Lollie stood frightened and bewildered. For all 
 through the " service," the thunder had been rolling and crashing, 
 and the lightning seemed to play over the very house where this 
 great wickedness was being committed. Even Mr. Maclntyre 
 was moved by it. It was one of those great thunderstorms wliich 
 sometimes break over London, striking terror to all hearts, such 
 fts those which fell upon us last year — I mean the year of grace 
 1872 — a fierce, roaring, angry thunderstorm. And as the light- 
 ning flashed across his eyes, and the thunder pealed in his ears, 
 the minister fairly stopped in his discourse, and murmuring, 
 "Hech! sirs, this is awfu'!" waited for the anger of the elements 
 to subside. 
 
 But he ended at last, and congratulating the bride, offered 
 Philip one of the slips of paper, keeping the other for himself. 
 Then he rubbed his hands and laughed — a joyless cackle. And 
 then he produced a black bottle and a small cake, and poured out 
 three glasses of wine. He drank off his own at a gulp, refilled 
 it, and sat down rubbing his hands again. 
 
 This was Lollie's wedding breakfast. 
 
 Outside, the hail pattered against the windows, the thunder 
 rolled, and the warm spring air seemed chilled again to winter. 
 
 Philip said nothing. A look was in his face such as neither 
 Maclntyre nor Lollie had ever seen before — a sort of wild, 
 terrified look ; such a look as might be imagined in the face of 
 a man who, after long planning, has at last committed a great 
 and terrible crime ; such a look as one would have if he heard 
 the voice of God accusing him — the voice Philip lieard in the 
 storm. Men are so. That unlucky Jew whom the thunderstorm 
 Btcrnly rebuked for eating puik ^vas not the first, nor will he bo 
 
 11—2
 
 1 64 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the last, to connect iiatur:il phenomena with his own miscloinfj!?. 
 In the storm outside, Philip, with the superstition of a Creole, 
 heard tlie anger of heaven. It only echoed the remorse in hia 
 own heart. A second time he seized Maclntyre by the arm, and 
 led him to the bed-room. 
 
 " Once again," he said, " I must speak to you. Tell me whether 
 it is true — is it true — are we married % Spealc the truth, or I 
 will kill you !" 
 
 "You are married, Phil," returned the other. "No question 
 can ever arise on the legality of the marriage — until — " 
 
 " Until when T 
 
 " Until you come into your property. And now, listen. There 
 is, perhaps — I only say perhaps — a little irregularity. If you 
 want to remove that, remember to take your wife into Scotland, 
 tt'henever you please, and live with her as your wife, openly. 
 Then you need fear nothing. I say this to make you quite 
 certain : but I do not believe there can be any legal doubt." 
 
 Philip looked at him with a surprised air. Then, with great 
 relief, he walked into the other room, where Lollie was standing 
 waiting and puzzled. 
 
 "Laura, my darling," he cried, kissing her passionately. " My 
 wife, my bride ! we are married at last. If ever I desert you, 
 may God desert me !" 
 
 She drew herself from his arms, not blushing, not coy, not 
 ashamed ; but only cold. 
 
 " We are really married ?' she cried, clapping her hands. " I 
 wasn't certain. And now we will go straight to Mr. Venn, and 
 tell him." 
 
 The tAvo men looked at each other. 
 
 "j\ry child," said Philip, changing colour, "we must be married 
 like everybody else, must we not V 
 
 " But Ave are, Pliilip, are Ave not?" 
 
 " Yes, dear; but married people ahvays go away for a journey 
 together. You and I are going to France for a month. When 
 Ave come back, we shall call at Mr. Venn's chambers." 
 
 She stamped her foot. 
 
 " I shall go to-day. You said I was to tell him to-day. I will 
 tell him. Philip, if you do not go Avith me, I Avill go by my- 
 self" 
 
 " Make her Avrite," Avhispered the man of experience. 
 
 " You certainly cannot go, Laura," said her husband. "That 
 ia impossible. But I tell you what you shall do. You shall
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 165 
 
 write him a letter, telling him all. Mr. INIacIntyre shall take it, 
 and tell him the particulars. We have but a quarter of an hour 
 to spare, for our train starts at once. K'ow, dear " — taking pen 
 and paper — " sit down and write. It is best so — it is indeed." 
 
 She burst into tears. She declared that she had been deceived. 
 She insisted on going at once to Gray's Inn. If Philip had not 
 held her, she would have gone. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre said nothing ; only, when he caught Philip's 
 eye, he pointed to the pens and paper. Meantime, it was a 
 critical moment ; and his nose, which he constantly rubbed, 
 seemed bigger and redder than ever. 
 
 " Laura, you must not go to Mr. Venn to-day. It is absurd," 
 pleaded Philip. " Sit down, now. Write ; no one shall read 
 what you say. And it shall be sent at once. But you cannot 
 go to Gray's Inn." 
 
 Lollie sat down, and tried to write. But she burst into fresh 
 tears, and was fain to bury her face in her hands. 
 
 " Women are so," whispered the Scotchman. " Obsairve. In 
 ten minutes she will be laughing again." 
 
 In less than ten minutes she recovered, and tried to write. 
 Philip waited patiently, watching her. 
 
 She began three or four sheets of notepaper and tore them up. 
 At last she wrote, hurriedly — 
 
 "Dearest Mr. Venn — My secret may now be told. I have 
 done what you wished me so much to do. I have married a 
 gentleman. I have married Mr. Philip D urn ford ; and I am 
 always, ever and ever, your own most grateful and most loving 
 little girl — " Lollie." 
 
 She folded it up, addressed it, and gave it to her husband. 
 
 " Maclntyre," said Philip, " take tlie note round, will you, 
 this very day"? Tell Mr. A^cnn that my wife and I are gone to 
 France — probably to Normandy — for a month ; that wo shall 
 call upon him directly we return ; that my greatest wish is to gain 
 his friendship. Will that do for you, Laura 1" 
 
 "Philip," she said, taking his hand — "now you are really 
 kind." 
 
 " That is my own Laura. But now we must make haste. I 
 have got y(<ur boxes at the station." 
 
 "My boxes r 
 
 " Yes. You did not think you were going to Franco with 
 nothing but what you have on, did you 1"
 
 1 66 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " I never thought ahout going to France at all." 
 
 "The tickets are taken. There will he nothing to do hut to 
 make ourselves happy. Now, IMacIutyre, get me a cah, will 
 you T 
 
 It seemed strange that so reverend a gentleman should be 
 ordered in. this peremptory way to fetch a cab ; but Lollie was 
 too much surprised with everything to feel perplexed at this. 
 The cab came. 
 
 "Kow, my darling ! Maclntyre, good-bye. Jump in, Laura." 
 
 "Don't forget my letter, Mr. Maclntyre," cried the girl. 
 " Mind you take it to-day." 
 
 And so they drove off. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre returned to his room. 
 
 " About this letter, now," he said. " Let me read it." 
 
 By the help of the kettle he steamed the envelope, opened and 
 read the poor little epistle. 
 
 He put it down and meditated. 
 
 " (Suppose I take it round," he said. " Why should I? Poor 
 bonny little lassie ! Loves him more than her husband — that is 
 clear. If I take it, difficulties, dangers, all sorts of things may 
 happen. If I do not take it, this Mr. Venn will never forgive 
 the girl. Well, which is it — my happiness or hers % A man 
 or a woman % Myself or another ?" 
 
 He meditated a long time. Cruelly selfish and wicked as the 
 man was, he had been touched by the girl's beauty and inno- 
 cence, and would willingly have spai'ed himself this additional 
 wickedness. But then there rose up before him the vision of a 
 court of justice. He saw himself tried by a jury for mock 
 marriage. He knew that the law had been broken. What he 
 did not know was, how far the offence was criminal, or if it was 
 criminal at all. Then a cold perspiration broke out upon him, 
 
 " Let us hide it," he said — " let us hide it. Perhaps we can 
 devise some means of preventing this man Venn from knowing 
 it — at all events, just yet." 
 
 And so saying, he pushed the letter into the fireplace, and 
 watched it burning into ashes. 
 
 "And as for Master Phil," he murmured — "whj^ I'll give 
 him just two months to cure him of this fancy, and bring him to 
 the end of his money. Then, we .«ball see— we shall see. The 
 great card has to be played."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "I AM ill at ease to-night," said Hartley, on the "^Veclnpsday 
 eveniug, when Jones and Lynn found him at the Eainbow. "I 
 am low-spirited. Forebodings, like the screech-owl's mew, oppress 
 me. Laura was to have told me some grand piece of news 
 to-day, and has not come. Then there was the thunder. I am 
 afraid of thunder. Engineers ought to turn their attention to it. 
 Bring me some bitter beer, George — unless the thunder has 
 turned it sour. 
 
 " I like this place," he went on. " It is quiet. The mutton 
 is good, the beer is good, and there is an ecclesiastical air about 
 it. The head waiter resembles an elderly verger without his 
 gown. The manager might pass for a canon ; and as for the 
 carver, I have never known any one beneath the dignity of a 
 prebendary grow bald in that singular manner. 
 
 "Life, Jones," he continued, in the course of his dinner, "may 
 be compared to a banquet. You have, perhaps, often anticipated 
 this comparison." 
 
 "ISTot I," said Jones — "not I, myself. But Longfellow has. 
 
 " * Life is but an endless banquet, 
 Where we still expectant sit ; 
 Be not thou a cold wet blanket, 
 Damping all thy neighbour's wit. 
 
 " * Chops for one ; and for another, 
 Turkey stuffed with truffles gay. 
 Only bread for me. My brother, 
 Turn the carver's eye this way. 
 
 " ' Let us all be up and eating, 
 With a heart for any slice : 
 Beef grows cold, and life is fleeting ; 
 Pass the champagne and the ice.' " 
 
 Venn repeated his first words, and resumed the topic. 
 
 "When it comes to my turn to be served, the noble host, 
 addressing me with a countenance full of benevolence and friend- 
 ship, says, * Hartley, my dear boy, take another disappointment.' 
 It would be bad manners, you know, to refuse. Besides, I am 
 not quite certain how a refusal would be received. So I bow and 
 smile: 'Thank you, my Lord. One more, if you please. A very 
 little one, with gravy.'" 
 
 " Gravy! Is gravy the alleviator — T 
 
 ** Gravy, Jones, is the compensator. So I get helped again,
 
 1 68 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 and sigh when the plate comes back to me. In the distribution 
 of good things, no one is consulted ; but, by tacit agreement wo 
 show our good breeding by pretending to havo chosen. So, too, 
 I believe, when convicts at Portland converse, it is considered 
 manners to take no notice of each other's chains. I might prefer, 
 perhaps, pudding and port, such as my neighbour gets. But I 
 am resigned." 
 
 He sighed heavily, and went on eating his dinner with a 
 tremendous appetite. 
 
 "Let us have," he said, when they had finished, "a Chorus 
 night. Arthur Durnford is coming. Not a regular Chorus, ])ut 
 a Chorus of emergency. I hope it will not thunder any more." 
 
 " I have been making observations lately," he began, " on a 
 class of women hitherto little studied. Speak up, Jones." 
 
 "K'ay," said the dramatist, "I was but thinking of the old 
 lines — I forget the author — about women— 
 
 " 'Virtue and vice the same bait have : 
 
 Ou cither's hook the same euticeraents are- 
 Woman lures both the base and brave, 
 And beauty draws us with a single hair.' " 
 
 "There is method in his madness," said Venn. "It is to bo 
 regretted only that Virtue does not always choose the bait with 
 the same discrimination as Vice. This, however, is a wide sub- 
 ject. I was about to call the attention of the Chorus to the 
 AVoman who sniffs. About a week ago, having nothing to do, 
 I got into a Favourite omnibus for an hour or two of quiet 
 thought. The rattle of the omnibus glasses, when the wind is 
 Avesterly, I find conducive to meditation ; and as the Favourite 
 line runs from Victoria to the extreme verge of civilization at 
 Highgate, there is ample time. Several women got in, and I 
 noticed — perhaps it was partly due to the time of year — several 
 sniffs as each sat down and spread her petticoats. Your regular 
 female omnibus passenger always takes up as much room as she 
 can, and begius by staring defiantly round. I was at the far 
 end, whither I had retired to avoid an accusation of assault ; for 
 they kick your shins across the narrow passage, and then give 
 you in charge, these ladies. So delicate, my friends, is the virtue 
 of the class to which I allude, that even the suspicion of an 
 attack is resented with this celestial wrath. Presently, however, 
 I being the only male, there came in a young person, quiet, 
 modest, and retiring. She made her Avay to the far end, and sat
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 169 
 
 doU'n next to me. Instantly there was fired a volley — a hostile 
 sahite. — from seven noses : a simultaneous sniff of profound 
 meaning. Versed iu this weapon of feminine warfare, and there- 
 fore understanding the nature of the attack, the new-comer 
 blushed deej^ly, and dropped her veil. It was like the lowering 
 of a flag. I took the earliest opportunity of tendering her 
 respectfully the compliments of the season ; and, in spite of 
 a second and even a fiercer attack, Ave held our own, and con- 
 versed all the way to Highgate. Coming back by the same 
 omnibus, I insensibly glided into a vision." 
 
 " Good," said Jones, " let us have the vision." 
 
 " Methought I stood on an eminence and looked down, myself 
 unseen, upon an island where men and women Avandored about, 
 of uncouth form and strange proportions. Some Avith venomous 
 tongues, Avhich lolled out in perpetual motion, yet sajnng nothing ; 
 some Avith trumpetdike noses ; some Avith curiously deformed 
 fingers ; some Avith large and goggle eyes ; and some Avith heads 
 of enormous dimensions. This, my guide — I had an augel Avith 
 me, of course — told me, Avas one of the lesser islands of Pur- 
 gatory. It appears that Dante was quite Avrong in his account 
 of that place, Avhich consists really of a group of contiguous 
 islands, like the Bermudas. I dare say I shall see some more of 
 them before I die. The one I Avas standing over Avas appro- 
 priated to sinners in small things — backbiters, envious, malicious, 
 mean, grasping, selfish (these last had enormous stomachs, like 
 barrels of port Avine), and attributors of unworthy and base 
 motives (who Avere gifted AA'ith a corresponding prominence 
 behiui";). I requested permission to inspect the company more 
 closely, and Avas taken down into their vc-ry midst. I Avas 
 astonished to find that a very large majority of them Avere 
 Avomen : their dress and behaviour shoAved them to belong to 
 our own middle class. They Averc all English ; because, by 
 reason of the great babble of conversation that goes on among 
 this sort of criminals, it is found advisable to separate the 
 nationalities. ^^0 
 
 "Looking more closely, I observed that the men chiefly 
 carried the protuberances, fore and aft, of Avhich I have spoken ; 
 Avhile the AVomen, nearly one and all, had the trumpet-shaped 
 nose. The peculiarity of its shape Avas that the mouth of the 
 trumpet Avas outAA'ard. Its musical effect could therefore only 
 be produced by draAving the air towards the head, much in the 
 same way as by a snill'. This struck me as a very singular
 
 I70 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ftrrangcment. I was also informed that most of them, on their 
 iiist arrival, had but very small trumpet noses ; but that these, 
 by dint of practice, increased daily and gradually, until they 
 arrived at the gigantic proportions which I saw around me. 
 They began by being proud of this growth ; but by degrees grew 
 alarmed, and were seriously inconvenienced by its great size. 
 They then began to reduce its dimensions, by allowing it to 
 remain, so to speak, unexercised ; and if, as sometimes happened, 
 they arrived at a perception of its manifest ugliness, they discon- 
 tinued its use altogether, when it totally vanished. Others had 
 the great tongues of which I have spoken. They were too big 
 to use for speech ; but, as their owners were always wanting to 
 communicate some fresh piece of malicious gossip, they were per- 
 petually wagging and bobbing, though no articulate sound came 
 forth. The possessors of the tongues were more melancholy of 
 aspect than the trumpet-nosed sisters, because they were debarred 
 from the us« of their instruments altogether. The tongue fol- 
 lowed the same laws as the nose, and there were even women 
 provided with both tongue and nose. While I was conteni- 
 ])lating these unhappy victims of vice, my attention was directed 
 Ijy my guide to a young lady of about twenty-five, whose nose 
 had at its extremity the merest rudimentary mouthpiece — so 
 small as to be almost a beauty spot — suggestive only of Avhere a 
 trumpet had formerly been. My guide accosted her, and 
 requested her to give a history of herself. She smiled and 
 complied. 
 
 "'I was the daughter of a professional man, living in tho 
 neighbourhood of Eussell Square. We were not rich, but wo 
 were well ofi". I was sent to a boarding-school at Brighton, 
 where the principal things we were taught were to dress well, to 
 aspire to a wealthy husband, to despise people of lower rank, to 
 aim at getting as much amusement out of life as possible, to con- 
 sider the admiration of men as the glory of a woman's life, and 
 to regard the labour of men as performed only with one aim — to 
 provide dress and a good establishment for their wives. This 
 was the kind of education in our fashionable boarding-school; 
 and when my sister and I came back to Russell Square, we were 
 fully provided with all the weapons for that warfare which con- 
 stitutes the life of most women. I found, wherever I went, 
 nearly all girls the same as ourselves. We were good, inasmuch 
 as we all went to church regularly, and would have done nothing 
 wrong. But we filled up our time with frivolity and gossiping.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 171 
 
 ■\Ve were petty iu our vices, and therefore, you see, our punish- 
 ment is petty.' Slie pointed to lier nose, whereon the least tip of 
 a kind of hutton marked the place where the mouthpiece had 
 been only five minutes before. ' The evil we did was not very 
 great, and so our punishment is light. Even this is generally 
 removed, if we repent.' 
 
 " 'Do you repent?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Oh, yes,' she said ; 'the lives of women, which might be so 
 smooth, so happy, and full of love, are eaten into and poisoned 
 by these habits of malice and envy. You men tbink us angels, 
 and when you marry us and find out that we are full of faults, 
 you begin to decry the whole sex. "When will some one teach 
 us that largeness of heart and nobleness that so many men 
 have?'" 
 
 "A most sensible young woman," Jones interrupted. 
 
 "At this moment, the button at the end of her nose entirely 
 disappeared, and she vanished. 
 
 '"Where is she gone?' I asked my guide. 
 
 "There was that in his face which betokened temper. I 
 fancy he must have been paid a percentage on the inhabitants of 
 his island, or taken them on board by contract, according to 
 number : for he refused to answer me, and was on the point of 
 ordering me to move on, when I awoke." 
 
 "The young woman, you say, is in the Bermudas," said Jones. 
 " I would she v/ere in the arms of one who would rightly appre- 
 ciate her. 
 
 " ' Where the remote Bermudas ride, 
 A trumpet-nosed maid I espied ; 
 And, as I looked her through and through, 
 Her imperfections thus she blew — 
 " In Purgatory still I sniff, 
 And I will gladly furnish, if 
 You wish it, such a dismal tale, 
 As well may frighten maidens all." ' 
 
 1 leave out a good many lines, which I have forgotten : 
 
 " * So sang she with the trumpet nose ; 
 ]\Iy own, with sorrow at her woes, 
 I loudly blew ; and as she spoke, 
 The neighbouring sniffs the echoes woke.' 
 
 I believe the lines were originally Andrew Marvell's." 
 
 It was Jones's hard fate in the Chorus, that whatever he 
 quoted nobody seemed to take any notico. Venn's face betrayed
 
 172 MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 no signs of having heard what he said, while Lynn, as usual, 
 smoked in his chair, saying nothing at all. For Lynn M'as one 
 of those men who very seldom speak at all ; and when they 
 do, speak with more earnestness and energy than is generally 
 heard. 
 
 Arthur, however, laughed; and the spectacles of Jones heanied 
 gratefully on him. 
 
 "JNIy cousin Philip," said Arthur, ''started an infamous theory, 
 some little time ago, that women prefer warmth to anything else 
 in the world." 
 
 "Well," said Venn, "there may be something to be said for 
 it. I believe that he is partly right. Women live in the house. 
 Their ideas of life are those of the domestic circle. To have 
 everything pleasant, comfortable, and elegant round them is 
 quite a natural thing to desire. It is perhaps a brutal way of 
 putting it, to say that they like to be warm. In the Chorus, 
 we prefer a more indirect way of approaching a subject." 
 
 " Poor Phil takes direct views," said Arthur. 
 
 " Ering him here, and we will cure him," said Jones. " On 
 the subject of women, there is nothing so elevated as the views 
 of the Chorus — the Sophoclean Chorus. We arc, if we are 
 nothing else, Sophoclean in our views of love. 
 
 " ' Love, the unconquered, thou whose throne 
 Is on j'outh's fair and rounded cheek, 
 "Whom neither strong, nor brave, nor weak. 
 Can e'er escape — thee, thee we own. 
 
 " * Thou by thy master magic's aid 
 
 Chcatest keen eyes that else see well ; 
 And o'er the loudest-sniffing maid 
 Pourest the glamour of thy spell. 
 
 " ' The nymph whose deepest, fondest prayer 
 Is for a sheltered nook and warm, 
 Glows with a thousand fancies rare, 
 Lit with thy pyrotechnic chaz'm.' " 
 
 *' I suppose you will say that Sophocles wrote that T growled 
 
 Lynn. 
 
 " A free imitation only. It may, perhaps, in some points 
 excel the original. I say nothing." 
 
 " They talk a great deal," said Lynn, breaking his usual 
 silence, -" of educating women, of making them less frivolous. 
 Of course, the immediate result is to send them to the opposite 
 extreme, i^oav, of all the odious women you can meet, give me 
 the strong-minded-"
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 173 
 
 " Do not give lier to i/ie," said Jones. 
 
 " But it's all nonsense. They have made a college for them, 
 and have Cambridge men there to teach them. In other words, 
 they are going to make them second-rate scholars and third-rate 
 mathematicians. What on earth is th.e use of that V 
 
 " Is it," asked Venn, " the function of the Chorus to discuss 
 female education 1" 
 
 " Why not," returned Lynn. " By Jove ! I've a good mind 
 to have a vision too." 
 
 "Do," said Jones. "Two visions in the same evening are at 
 least more than we could have expected." 
 
 Lynn smoked meditatively for a few moments. 
 
 " I dreamed a dream," he began. " I thought that I stood in 
 the world of the future— the future of a hundred years. 
 Woman was emancipated, as they said. Every woman did, like 
 all men do now, what was right in her own eyes. They could 
 preach, teach, heal, practise law, live alone, and be as free as any 
 man can be now." 
 
 " Wein" asked Jones, for Lynn stopped. 
 
 " Well, I can't be as graphic as Venn was, because I have not 
 the art of telling a story. I walked about the streets of London. 
 I went into the houses, into the clubs, into the theatres — every- 
 where. The first thing that struck me was the entire mixture of 
 the sexes. Women were everywhere. They drove cabs, they were 
 markers at billiard tables, they kept shops, they plied trades, 
 they were in the public offices — for everything was open to 
 public competition. I talked to some of them. I found they 
 were very much changed from what I remembered them. Not 
 only were they coarse in appearance and manners, but they 
 seemed to have lost the delicacy of woman's nature. The bloom 
 was off the youngest of them. Men, too, had lost all their old 
 deference and respect. There were none of the courtesies of life 
 left ; for the women had long since revolted against being con- 
 sidered the weaker sex. A new proverb had arisen — * The six- 
 shooter makes all equal.' Every woman carried one, ostenta- 
 tiously 3 not, I fancied, so much for self-protection as for 
 purposes of attack. Their talk seemed loud and coarse, their 
 jokes were club jokes, their stories were like those we hear on 
 circuit and in mess-rooms. Their dress was altered, too. The 
 old robes were discarded, and short kilts, with a tight-fitting 
 jacket, seemed to bo all the fashion. .1 asked my guide — did I 
 nay T had a guide ?"
 
 174 ^^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " You did not," said Jones. *' Was he an angel?" 
 
 " Of course he was an angel. I asked him — or her — if they 
 were all married women % Marriage, she told me, liad been 
 abolished by a large majority of women, as contrary to the true 
 spirit of liberty. This was directly against the wish of the men, 
 who, it seemed, desired to retain the custom. As, however, the 
 ceremony is one which requires the consent of two, it was abo- 
 lished. Tlien the men turned sulky, and formed a kind of union 
 or guild for the protection of the marriage laws. For a time it 
 appeared as if the world Avould be depopulated, the statistics of 
 the Eegistrar showed a falling-ofi' in the number of births, which 
 excited the gravest apprehensions. This league, however, fell to 
 the ground from want of strength in the weaker brethren. After 
 that, all went well. The laws of property were altered, and an 
 old law, belonging to an obscure Indian tribe in the Neilgherry 
 Hills, was introduced. By virtue of this, property descended 
 only through the mother. The interests of freedom were served, 
 it is true \ but it seemed to me as if there were some losses on 
 the other hand, for all the men seemed dejected and lonely. 
 There were no longer any high aims ; no one looked for any- 
 thing more than worldly advantage ; no one dreamed of an 
 impossible future, as we do now ; there Avere no enthusiasts, no 
 reformers, no religious thinkers, no great men. All was a dead 
 level. I asked my guide if there were auy exceptions — if what 
 I saw really represented the actual world. She confessed it did ; 
 but she boasted, with pride, that the world was now reduced to 
 a uniform mediocrity. I^o one looked for anything better, there- 
 fore no one tried for anything better ; no one praised anything 
 good, therefore no one tried to do anything good ; there were no 
 prizes for excellence, therefore no one was excellent. But it all 
 seemed dreary, stupid, and immoral as a modern music hall ; 
 and I awoke, glad to fiud that it was, after all, only a dream. 
 I forgot to tell you that there were no homes — there were no 
 families. Children were sent out to be nursed, and the 
 necessity of labour on the part of the women necessitated the 
 abolition of the maternal instinct." 
 
 " Is that all T said Jones. 
 
 " It is," said Lynn, " and, before you make a rhyme about it 
 — I can see you are meditating one — I just wish to state my 
 moral. Women are only what their circle of men make them. 
 If they are frivolous, it is because the men are frivolous ; if they 
 a:.; viin, it is because the men teach them vanity. But men
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 175 
 
 have always to fall back upon their one great quality — their purity. 
 Deference to a quality which they so seldom possess seems to 
 me the truest safeguard for women, and the thing most likely to 
 be a restraint upon men. Education, emancipation, suffrage — it 
 is all infernal humbug. We confuse words. We call that 
 education which is only instruction; we call emancipation what 
 is a departure from the natural order ; we take woman from her 
 own sphere and put her into ours, and then deplore the old sub- 
 jection of the sex. Good God ! sir — man is the nobler as well 
 as the stronger. His function is to work — to do ; to drag the 
 world along, to fight against and keep down the great surging 
 sea of sin and misery that grows with our civilisation and keeps 
 pace with our progress. But woman's function is to stand by 
 and help ; to train the children, to comfort the defeated, and 
 succour the wounded. Why, in the name of all the — all the 
 saints, should she want to leave her own work and take ours ]" 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 Ox that Wednesday night, when Hartley Venn went to bed, it 
 was late, even for him ; and when, at six in the morning, a fierce 
 knocking came at his bedroom door, it was some fifteen minutes 
 or so before he could quite make up his mind that he was not 
 dreaming. At last, however, he roused himself sufficiently to 
 be certain that somebody was actually knocking. Mrs. Peck was, 
 in fact, the disturber of his rest. She was beating on the panel 
 with a hammer, in despau* of being able to awaken him in any 
 other way. He half opened the door, cautiously, and peered 
 through to discover the cause of this phenomenon. 
 
 " Mrs. Peck," he said, " we have known each other now for 
 a great many years, and I never before remember you doing so 
 ridiculous a thing as to call me at six, the very hour when 
 civilised life is on the point of recovering its strength. Pray, 
 Mrs. Peck, do you take me for the early worm?" 
 
 The old woman pushed the door open, and came into his bed- 
 room, looking curiourily round. She was not, takiug her at the 
 best, a pleasant specimen of womanhood to look upon ; but this 
 morning she looked even less attractive than usual. For her 
 false front was slipping off sideways ; her black stuff dress was 
 covered with mud ; her wrinkled old face was begrimed with 
 dirt and puckered up with trouble; and Venn, rubbing his eyes.
 
 176 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 gradually awoke to the consciousness that she was staring at him 
 with frig] 1 toned eyes, and tliat something had hapi:)ened. 
 
 Eealising this, he stepped back and got into bed, disposing 
 the pillows so that he could give audience with an air of pre- 
 paredness. JS'othing, he used to say, speaking after the manner 
 of Charles the Second's period, makes a man look more ridicu- 
 lous in the eyes of his mistress than an appearance of haste ; and 
 whatever happens, it may as well be received with dignity, 
 which only costs a little time for reflection. JSTow, there was 
 no possibility, short of genius for dignity, of preserving a digni- 
 fied appearance while shivering on a mat with but one garment 
 on, and that of the thinnest and lightest kind. Therefore, he 
 retreated to the bed ; and, propped np by the pillows, prepared 
 to receive Mrs. Peck with self-respect. I^ot one thought of 
 danger to himself : not one gleam of suspicion about the girl. 
 
 The old woman came in, confused and trembling. She 
 looked about in a dazed sort of way, and then sank into a chair, 
 crying— 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Yenn, what have you done with herl What have 
 you done wutli her?" 
 
 All Venn's dignity vanished. He fell halfback on the pillow 
 for a moment, and then started up and caught the old -woman 
 by the arm. 
 
 " Done with her ? Done with her? Done with her? Speak, 
 Mrs. Peck. Tell me what you mean." 
 
 " You know, sir," she said. " You know who I mean. What 
 hate you done with her, I say 1 What have you done with the girl 
 as you petted and made so much of, till she Avasn't fit company 
 for her grandmother? Oh, I ain't afraid to speak. Where is 
 she, I say? Where have you gone and hid her away? But I'll 
 find her — if I search all London through, I'll find her. Oh, my 
 fine grand-daughter, that Avas why he wanted you up here every 
 day, and nothing too good for you : and lessons every day, and 
 grand clothes. And what am I to say now to the people that cried 
 out how good she was? And where, oh, where is my 'lowance 
 for her T 
 
 Yenn stared at her, speechless, 
 
 " Give her back to me, i\Ir. Yenn. iN'obody knows nothing. 
 It shall all be as it used to be. Only let her come back, and we 
 can make up a story and stop their meuths. IS'obody knows." 
 
 " AYoman !" cried the man, not knowing what he said, 
 " vroman I you are mad — where is Lollie J"
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 177 
 
 " And yon, too, that I thought the best of men. You made 
 her a little ladj', so that all the people envied her. And one 
 pound ten a Aveek gone ! You made her so good that not a crea- 
 ture could find a word to say against her. But you are all 
 -wicked alike. And now it's you. And after all these years. 
 And I'm to lose my 'lowance, and go into the workus." 
 
 Her voice changed into a sort of wail, for her feelings were 
 divided between the loss of her grand-daughter and the probable 
 loss of her allowance. 
 
 " Give her back to me, Mr. Venn. It isn't only the loss of 
 the one pound ten a week, paid regular, though the Lord knows 
 it's the parish I must come on. Give her back to me, and I'll 
 go on my bended knees to you. Say she's good, and I'll pray 
 for you all the days of my life ; and go to St. Alban's, though 
 I can't abide their ways, a purpose. Oh, give her back to me ! 
 Tell me where you've put her." 
 
 She sat down exhausted, in the chair by the bedside. 
 
 " It isn't the 'lowance I mind so much ; nor it isn't the girl, 
 because we never had much to say to each other, her and me. 
 But it is the people. And they will talk. And one pound ten 
 a week's an awful sum to lose. And see, Mr. Venn — I know 
 that gentlemen will be gentlemen ; and though the pore men 
 curse, the pretty ones always goes to the gentlemen. That's 
 right, I suppose ! though why it's right, God only knows. But 
 give her back to me ; for I am an old woman, and respected, by 
 reason of my grand -daughter. Give her back to me, Mr. Venn. 
 I mind an old story about a man and a ewe lamb, and let me 
 look the folk in tlie face again, for the love of God !" 
 
 He was standing before her in his night shirt all the time, 
 Bot knowing what to say, feeling dizzy and confused. 
 
 I^ow he took her by the arm, and led her to the door. 
 
 " One moment, Mrs, Peck. Sit down and wait while I dress. 
 I shall not be long. Don't say another word till I come." 
 
 He dressed with feverish haste, though his lingers were 
 trembling, and he could not find the buttons. Then, after ten 
 minutes or so, he came into the sitting-room, and, pouring out a 
 glass of spirits, made the poor old creature drink it down. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Peck, let us try and get all our courage. T have 
 not seen her — believe me, my poor woman — since Tuesday 
 evening." 
 
 "She came home on Tuesday evening at ten o'clock." 
 
 12
 
 178 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Yes ; she was to liavo come and told me something 
 yesterday." 
 
 " She went out at half-past nine yesterday morning, and sho 
 never came back. I waited for her till ten last night, an(\ 
 thinking she was with jou, I weut sound asleep, and didn'j 
 wake till tliis morning at six. And then I looked in her room, 
 for the door was open, and she wasn't there. And the workus 
 is all I've got to look to." 
 
 Venn's hands were trembling now, and his face \\ hite. 
 
 " She cried when she left me on Tuesday. She had her 
 secret then. Mrs. Peck, remember, my little girl is good. Sho 
 has done no harm — she can do nothing wrong. Fool that I 
 was when she wanted to tell me her secret, and I would not 
 hear it. "Where is she ? But she is a good girl. Only wait — 
 wait — wait — we shall see.'' 
 
 He spoke hopefully, but his heart fell. N"othing wrong? 
 "Whence, then, those tears % Why had she been so sad for two 
 or three weeks % Why had she harped upon her secret % And 
 yet, what could she do % Always with him — whose acquain 
 tance could she make ? 
 
 " You're telling me gospel truth, sir T cried his laundress. 
 " Swear it — swear it on the Bible." 
 
 " I don't know where my Bible is — the Lord forgive me !" ho 
 answered. " Do not let us be miserable," he went on, with an 
 attempt at cheerfulness. " I expect she is stopping out with 
 some friends." 
 
 " She has no friends. jSTever a soul has she ever spoken to, 
 for twelve years, but you and me, and Miss Venn." 
 
 " Perhaps she is up there. I will go and see." 
 
 He tried to cheer up the old woman ; invented a thousand 
 dill'erent Avays in which the girl might have been obliged to pas.-s 
 the night away from home ; and then, because his OAvn heart was 
 racked and tortured, he hurried off to his sister's. 
 
 Sukey he met on her way to early service — that at half-past 
 seven. It was one of the peculiarities of that young lady to 
 find a considerable amount of enjoyment in these extra-parochial, 
 so to speak, and extraordinary forms of religion. 
 
 " Hartley ! — you, of all men in the world, at half-past seven !" 
 
 " Sukey, have you got LoUie with you T 
 
 "Laura? I haven't seen her for six weeks — not since sho 
 had tea with me. But, Hartley, what is the matter T 
 
 He caught hold of the railing which ran round the garden of
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 179 
 
 the square, and almost fell. For it was liis one hope ; and his 
 liead swam. 
 
 " God help us all !" he murmured — " my little girl is lost." 
 
 What could she say ? 
 
 " She left me on Tuesday evening. She told me that yester- 
 day I should learn a secret which would please me more than 
 anything — she even offered to tell it me. She was excited and 
 nervous when she said good night to me ; and yesterday evening 
 she never went home at all. Sukey, don't speak to me — don't 
 say anytliing, because I cannot bear it. Come and ask in a day 
 or two. Sukey, you believe in prayer. Go into church, and pray 
 as you never prayed before. Throw all your heart into your 
 prayers for the child. Pray for her purity — pray for her restora- 
 tion — pray for my forgiveness ; or — no — why do men always 
 want to push themselves to the front % — pray, Sukey, that my 
 ill-training may bear no ill fruit. And yet, God knows, I meant 
 it all for the best." 
 
 He turned away and left her. She, poor woman, with the 
 tears in her eyes, Avent back to her own room ; and there, not 
 in the artificial church, with the cold and perfunctory service, 
 but by her own bedside, knelt and prayed for her brother and 
 his darling, while sobs choked her utterance, and the tears coursed 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 Hartley returned to his chamber, and found Mrs. Peck still 
 there. The effect of the excitement upon her was that she was 
 actually cleaning things. He tried to cheer her up, and then 
 went to the police-station, where they heard what he had to 
 say, made notes, looked wise, and promised great things, after 
 he had given an exact description of her dress and appearance. 
 
 What next ? 
 
 " Had she any friends ?" 
 
 " None," ]\Irs. Peck had replied. 
 
 He knew of an acquaintance, at least ; though INIrs. Peck had 
 /lever heard of her. There was a certain Miss Blanche Elmslcy, 
 third-rat(5 actress, figurante, anything, attached to the fortunes of 
 Drury Lane Theatre. Her papa, who rejoiced in the name of 
 Crump, was the proprietor of a second-hand furniture shop in 
 Gray's Inn Road. Ho had not much furniture, but he sold any- 
 thing, bought anything ; and was not too proud to do odd jobs 
 at the rate of a shilling an hour. Moreover, !Mr. George 
 Augustus Frederick Crump, christened after one of the late 
 lamented Hoyal Princes, was a most respectable man, and highly 
 
 12—2
 
 iSo M\ LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 fistcemcd iu his quarter. He was the worshipful Master of a 
 Lodge of Ancient Druids, and accustomed to take the vice-chair 
 at a weekly harmonic meeting. His daughter, Mary, was a 
 child to whom Venn, who knew everybody, had been accustomed 
 to make little presents, years before. She was about five or six 
 years older than Laura. When she grew up to woman's estate 
 she obtained — chielly through Venn's interest — a post as assistant 
 in the refreshment department of one of the leading railway 
 stations. Then he lost sight of her altogether till a twelve- 
 month or so later, when Lollie came to him one night with a 
 piteous tale : how that poor Mary, for some reason unknown to 
 her, had been turned from her father's door, and was penniless 
 and houseless. Then Hartley Venn — a Samaritan by legitimate 
 descent, as much as the present Sheikh, Yakoob Shellaby — went 
 to the rescue \ the end being that he saw the poor girl through 
 a good deal of trouble, and by dint of wonderful self-sacrifice, 
 living on herbs and cold water for a quarter or so, managed to 
 put things straight for her. 
 
 The Samaritan, you know very well, not only bound up the 
 wounds which the wicked robbers had made, but poured in oil. 
 ISTot content with that, he lifted the poor man, all bleeding as 
 he was, upon his own beast, doubtless covered with a new and 
 highly respectable saddle-cloth, trudging alongside — and those 
 roads of Palestine, unless it was the lioman road, v/ere none of 
 the best, mind you — until he came to the nearest Khan, where 
 he bargained with the landlord for a small sum. The Priest 
 and the Levite, I make ]io doubt, would have done exactly the 
 same, but for the look of the thing. It would seem too dis- 
 reputable for persons of their respectability to be seen tramping 
 along the road with a bleeding man upon their private ass, be- 
 dabbling their saddle-cloth. Yet make no doubt that their 
 hearts Avere deeply touched, and I think I can fancy the Priest 
 making a very fine point of it, in his way, next Sabbath day's 
 discourse. It would turn on the duty of being Prepared. 
 
 ]\Iary's father was the priest. So, with a pang at his heart 
 and an oath on his lips, he told the girl to go, and never again 
 to darken his doors. 
 
 She went. His respectability was saved. Close by, she met 
 little Lollie on her way home. She knew her by sight, and 
 told her some of the story. The rest we know. 
 
 Venn was her Samaritan. . 
 
 Mary was sitting in her second floor back, making a dress foi
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. i8i 
 
 the baby, and crooning a tune iu as simple freshness of heart as if 
 she had never sinned at all. The blessed prerogative of maternity 
 is to heal, at least for the time, all wounds. Besides, we can't 
 be always crying over past sins. When the sun shines, the birds 
 will sing. In her child, Mary had forgotten her troubles. IMau 
 leaves father and mother, and cleaves to his wife. Woman 
 leaves father and mother, husband and lover, and forgets them 
 all, and cleaves to her little ones. 
 
 A^enn came in, hurried and excited. 
 
 " Where is Lollie T he asked. *' Have yon seen Lollie ?" 
 
 " Your little girl, Mr. Venn % Oh what has come to her?" 
 
 Hartley's last slender reed of hope was broken. He sat down, 
 and dropped his face in his hands. Then he looked round, 
 blankly. 
 
 '• VL I could find him !" he groaned — " if I could find him ! 
 By G — d ! — if I should but for once come across him some- 
 where !" 
 
 Polly understood in a moment. 
 
 " Don't say that, Mr. Venn. Don't tell me that Lollie, of all 
 girls in the world — " 
 
 " Hush ! Perhaps — perhaps — Mary, you know nothing of itl" 
 
 " God forgive me !" sobbed Mary. " Mr. Venn, I'd rather 
 my little boy died in my arms ; and then. Heaven knows, I'd 
 lie down and die myself. Lollie ! Oh, it was she who brought 
 me to you in all my trouble. What should I have been with- 
 out her] Where should I be now T 
 
 " I must go," said Venn, rising abruptly. " Think of her, 
 my girl. If you can devise any plan for looking after her, tell 
 me. If you can think of anybody or anything — remember that 
 every penny I have in the world I will spend to bring her back. 
 AVhere can I look for her — where T 
 
 He spread out his hands in his distress, and walked back- 
 wards and forwards in tlie little room. 
 
 "Don't be angry with me, Mr. Venn, at what I'm going to 
 say. She must have gone olf with some one. IS^o doubt he 
 promised to marry her. They all do. And if he does it, you 
 will have her back in a day or two, with her husband, asking 
 for your forgiveness. And if he doesn't, why, then — wliy then, 
 Mr. Venn, don't let us think of it. But if slie comes back, all 
 wretched and tearful, will you forgive her, Mr. Venn — will you 
 forgive her?" 
 
 "l^rgiveher? Is there anything my child could do that J
 
 i82 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ^vo^ll(l liot forgivG? You don't understand, Mary. She is 
 my life. I have no thought but for her. In all these years, 
 ■wiiile she has been growing up beside me, every hour in my day 
 seemed to belong to the child. What could I not do I'or herl 
 Let her come back, and all shall be as it was before. But, no. 
 That, at least, cannot be. The fruit of the tree of knowledge, 
 of good and evil, prevents that. Eden is shut out from us. 
 But let her come back, and we may be but as another Adam 
 and Eve, making aprons to hide the memories of our souls." 
 
 " Perhaps they were happy," said Mary the mother, " be- 
 cause they had children." 
 
 " I don't know," said Venn. " History says very little about 
 it. Perhaps they were. Let us hope so. Good-bye, girl." 
 
 She took his hand, and, out of her gratitude and sympathy, 
 raised it to her lips. The action had all the grace of a duchess, 
 though it was but in a poorly furnished lodging — bed-room, 
 .<^itiug-room, and all in one— and the performer was only a ballet 
 girl. 
 
 From her, Venn went to Lynn's rooms. These were at the 
 top of an endless staircase in the Temple. 
 
 "You, Venn!" said Lynn, opening the door. "I thought it 
 was the long-expected case. What has brought you here at this 
 time of day ?-" 
 
 Venn sat down, and answered nothing. After a minute or 
 so, which his thoughts turned into half an hour, he got up 
 again. 
 
 '' I must go," he said. " I've stayed here too long." 
 
 He put on his hat, and made for the door, with staggering 
 step. Then Lynn caught him by the arm, and forced him into 
 ftn arm-chair. 
 
 "For God's sake, Venn, what is the matter?" 
 
 Hartley looked at him in a dazed way. Then he fairly 
 fainted, falling forwards. It was two o'clock, and he had eaten 
 nothing all day. Lynn lifted him, and laid him on the sofa — 
 pouring water on his forehead, which was burning. Presently 
 he recovered a little, and sat up. 
 
 " Do you remember our idle talk last night, Lynni" 
 
 " Perfectly. AVhat about it T 
 
 " Do you remember wdiat w^e said about women T 
 
 " Wliat about it f 
 
 Venn was silent again. Then he went on, v;"ith a deep, harsh 
 voice— =
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 183 
 
 "I fouad a little child. In my loneliness, and the despair 
 tliat followed all my ruined hopes, I made her the one joy and 
 comfort of my life." 
 
 " Laura?" 
 
 " I brought her up myself, and taught her all that I thought 
 the child should know. I forgot one thing." 
 
 "Venn, what has happened?" 
 
 " I forgot religion. All the rules of right and wrong do not 
 come by observation. The habit of fearing God comes by 
 teaching. But I loved her, Lynn — I loved her. She looked to 
 me as a kind of elder brother; but I — I loved her not as a little 
 sister. I looked for a time when she should be old enough to 
 hear the love story of a man nearly twenty years her senior. I 
 thought to win her heart, and not her gratitude. So I was con- 
 tent to wait. Her only joy in life was to come to me. But I 
 
 forgot that there are wolves abroad. If ever I meet the man 
 
 But it is idle threatening. Old friend of twenty years, if I 
 tliought you had done this thing, I would strangle you as you 
 ftand there." 
 
 "Bat, Venn— Venn, what is it?" 
 
 " I was reading a story in a novel the other day — a French 
 novel. There was a Laura in it, and a man : a foolish sort of 
 story. She left him one evening, hanging upon his neck, vowing 
 a thousand loves, showering kisses upon him. She said she 
 •\ras going to the seaside — to Dieppe — somewhere for a fortnight. 
 She wrote to him a fortnight later, when he expected her back — 
 told him in three lines that she had left him for ever, that she 
 could never see him again, that she was to be married to some 
 one else. Kot a word, you see, of regret. Nothing left, no 
 memory at all of the days they had spent together. A foolish 
 story. I laughed when I read it. 
 
 " He, who was only a poor sort of loving fool, and believed 
 that women could be true, sat down in his lonely room and 
 cried. Then he wrote to a post-office where she might jiossibly 
 go and ask for letters, and told her to be happy ; that he forgave 
 her; that if anytliing happened to her — any poverty, any dis- 
 tress — he was siill her friend. I thought what an ass he Avas. 
 Her name was Laura, too. That must have been why I read 
 tiie story. Laura — Laura — a lover's name." 
 
 " In Heaven's name, Venn, what has happened T 
 
 " Women, you see," Venn went on, in a hard, unnatural voice, 
 " require positive teaching. You must say to them, do this, do
 
 1 84 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 that, aud avoid something else. I forgot this. I treated the 
 girl as if she had been a boy. 
 
 " Life, you will observe, is a series of unexpected retributions. 
 Tor every mistake you make, down comes the Avenger. Ko 
 quarter is given, and no Avarning. It seems hard when you first 
 begin to understand it, doesn't it? 
 
 " We have been accustomed to look at the disappointments of 
 life as so much capital — the occasion for saying clever things. 
 Why, Jones makes fifty rhymes every time he fails, and I say 
 iil'ty remarkable things. And you utter fifty oaths. Here is 
 only another disappointment. We will have another brilliant 
 Chorus next week. Life's disappointments are so many of a 
 small kind, that when a big one comes — the biggest that can 
 come — we really ought to be prepared. 
 
 " I loved her, Lynn, I loved her." 
 
 All the time he had been sitting on the sofa, talking in this 
 incoherent Avay, with his eyes strained and his lips cracked. 
 Then Lynn took him by the arm. 
 
 " Come back to Grivy's Inn," he said. " We will take a cab." 
 
 lie led him down the stairs, and took him back to his own 
 chambers. When they got there, the old woman, still waiting 
 for tliem, rushed forward. 
 
 " Have 3^ou found her, sir? Have you found her?" 
 
 And then Venn sat down in his old easy-chair, and cried 
 like a child. 
 
 '* I think," he said, presently, recovering a little, " that I will 
 go to bed. The Kings of Israel, whenever they experienced 
 any little disappointment, used to do it, and turn their f ices to 
 the wall. Ahab, you remember, in that afl'air of his about the 
 vineyard. I shall turn my face to tlie wall. When I was ill 
 as a child I used, directly I got into bed, to fancy myself in a 
 soach and four ; and the relief v\'as wonderful. Good-bye, Lynn, 
 it's very kind of you ; but—but — well, you can go away now." 
 
 " I shall stay," said Lynn, not liking the way in which ho 
 talked — " I shall stay ail night, and sleep on the sofa." 
 
 Venn went to bed ; and his friend, getting a steak sent up at 
 six, sat quietly v."aiting and Avatching. At midnight he stolo 
 into the bedroom. Venn Avas sleeping soundly, Avitli his fair, 
 smooth cheeks high up on the pilloAA^ As Lynn bent over him, 
 the lips of the sleeper parted; and, with that SAveet, sad smile 
 Avhich Avas his greatest charm, he murmured, softly and ten- 
 derly — 
 
 *' My little girl— kiss me again."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Do yoii know the coast of K^ormandy % It is a country that 
 everybody thinks he knows well. We have all boen to Dieppe, 
 some even to Havre. Dear friends, that is really not enough. 
 What you do not know is the existence of a dozen little watering- 
 places between Havre and Boulogne, all charming, all quiet, all 
 entirely French. These secluded retreats are like the triangles 
 in the sixth book of Euclid's immortal work — they are all similar 
 and similarly situated. Where the sea runs in and makes a bay, 
 where a river runs down and mingles the fresh with the salt, 
 where the cliffs on either side stoop to the earth and disappear 
 in space, there lies the little fishing town. What it must be 
 like in winter, imagination vainly endeavours to realize ; but in 
 summer, between June and October, there are no pleasanter 
 places for quiet folk to stay in. Eight and left, the cliifs rise 
 to a height of some hundreds of feet. You climb them in tlie 
 morning after your coffee and brioche, and stride away in the 
 fresh upland air, with the grass under your feet and the woods 
 behind. As you go along, you see the girls milking the sleepy- 
 eyed iS^orman cows, you salute the women going to market with 
 their baskets, you listen, to the lark, you watch the blue sea far 
 away beyond, Avith perhaps a little fleet of fishing boats. Pre- 
 sently you turn back, for the sun is getting hot. Then you go 
 down to the shore and bathe. Augustine, the fat, the bunchy, 
 the smiling, the rosy-fingered, brings you a maillot. Clad in 
 this comfortable garb, and, throwing a sheet about you, you trip 
 down the boards which lead to the sea, and enjoy a feeling 
 of superiority when you feel all eyes turned to behold you 
 swimming out to sea. Family groups are bathing together 
 beside you — father of family and circle of children, bobbiug, 
 with shrieks, up and down; next to them some ancient dame, of 
 high Xorman lineage and wondrous aspect, gravely bobbing, held 
 by both hands by the Amphibious One, who spends his days in 
 the water and never catches rheumatism. Ever^'body bobljing. 
 Then you go back to breakfast. The table d'hote might be 
 better, but it is wholesome. Here you become acquainted v,-ith 
 strange fish — conger eel, for instance; and you learn the taste of 
 mussels. The claret might be a more generous wine, but it is 
 light and sound. After vour Vt'alk. you may drink a bottle for 
 breakfast.
 
 1 86 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Presently you stroll into the town and look around. Here ia 
 a fisherman's church. In the little chapel, as you go in, are the 
 f.r roio pictures — they mean countless tears and anxiety. Here 
 is the ship tossed by the storm; here the ship entering the port; 
 here are the rags of a flag, the bits of an oar — all the little 
 memorials of an escape from danger, aided by Our Lady of tlie 
 Sea, inlluenced by the prayers of the faitliful. Are we in the 
 nineteenth century % So, too, the Eoman sailor offered his ex 
 roto to Venus Marina ; while yonder jDricst, in stole, alb, and 
 dalmatic, may stand for his predecessor of Urindisium two 
 thousand years ago, who chanted the service to his goddess in 
 tlie self-same dress, and very likely in the self-same Gregorian. 
 Verily, my readers, we take a long time to change. 
 
 There is a quay. Lazy sailors lie about and talk. There is a 
 smell of soup in the air, curiously blending with the tar. Over 
 the cobbled roads thunder the country carts with their bells. 
 The diligence is preparing, with a tremendous clatter and bustle, 
 to get under weigh ; and where, in an English country town, 
 would be dismal silence and sluggishness, are life, animation, 
 activity. 
 
 At six you may dine — in fact, you must, if you want to dine 
 at all. The dinner is the same as the breakfast. And after that 
 you may go to the casino. Ah, the casino ! It is the home of 
 all dazzling pleasures. There is a theatre with a stage the size 
 of a dining-room table ; then the ball-room, with a piano and 
 violin for music — no better music can be found ; and there are 
 the young bloods of the place, panting for the fray, Avith waxed 
 moustache, and patent-leather boots, the Don Juans of a thousand 
 harmless amourettes. For here, mark you, we have not the 
 morals of Paris. And the young ladies. They are not pretty, 
 the Xorman girls, after our notions of beauty. Some of them 
 are too big in the nose, some of them are fiat-faced, some of them 
 are inclined to be " hatchety." But they are gracieuses. Say 
 anything you Avill of the Erenchwomen, but tell me not that 
 thej^ are clumsy. Always graceful, always at ease, always 
 artistic. I believe, speaking as a bachelor, and therefore as a 
 fool, that a Frenchwoman is, above ail, the woman one would 
 emphatically never get tired of. Pretty faces pall, pretty little 
 accomplishments are soon known by heart. A loving heart 
 may be no prevention against that satiety which cometh at the 
 end of sweet things. In love, as in cookery, one wants a little 
 ■ — eh ? a very little — sauce piquante. !NoWj the Frenchwoman 
 can give it you.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL 187 
 
 And at eleven o'clock you may go to bed ; because, if you sit 
 up, you Avill be the only soul aAvake in all the town. They are 
 all alike, as I said before. I have seen them all. The prettiest 
 of them is Etretat, the sweetest of watering-places, with its little 
 chalets perched on the hill sides, its perforated rocks, its sharp 
 clilFs, aud its gardens. But it is also the dearest. Reader of 
 the middle class, sensible reader, Avho, like me, dost not pretend 
 to be a Milord, go not to Etretat to stay. Go rather to little 
 Yporfc, close by, where the etablissement is no bigger than a 
 family pew, and -where in a day you will be the friend of all the 
 good people — chiefly connected with the cotton, or perha])s the 
 cider, interests — -who are staying there for the benefit of the sea 
 breezes. 
 
 It Avas to VieuxcarajD that Philip took his bride. They arrived 
 there the day after their marriage. Laura was too confused with 
 the novelty of everything to be able to think. She Avas wild 
 with excitement. This, then, was the world. How big it was ! 
 These were the people who spoke French. Why, the little 
 children talked it better than she did, after all her lessons ! Then 
 the Xorman caps, and the cookery, and the strangeness of it all. 
 I don't believe there is anything in the world — not even love's 
 young dream, or love's first kiss, or the first taste of canvas-back, 
 or the first oyster of the season, or the forbidden port, or a glass 
 of real draught bitter after years abroad ; or the sight of those 
 you love, when you come home again ; or the news that your 
 play is accepted, or the first proof-sheet, or a legacy when you 
 are sick with disappointment, or praise when you are dying with 
 fatigue, or a laudatory review : there is not one of these delights 
 — I forgot to mention twins, but not even that — which comes 
 up to the first joy of seeing a foreign land, and that land France. 
 
 Lollie saw some English children at Dieppe the morning after 
 they came. 
 
 " Oh Philip," she cried, " what a shame to bring those child 
 ren here ! Think of the happiness they will miss when they 
 grow up." 
 
 That, as the Yankees say, is so. 
 
 He brought her by diligence from Dieppe to Vieuxcamp, and 
 they began the usual life of the place. He had taken the best 
 rooms in the hotel, where they could sit and look at tlio sea. 
 Laura had not seen it since she went with Sukey to Deal, eight 
 years ago. In the morning, they bathed together in the pleasant 
 French fashion. In the hot daytime they stayed indoors, and 
 re;id novels. In the evening they went to the casino.
 
 1 88 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 At the table d'liote, Philip's wife was quite silout for three 
 days. Then, to his utter amazement, she turned to her neigh- 
 bour, a lively little Frenchwoman, who had addressed some 
 remarlc to her, and answered her quite fluently, and in perfect 
 Frencli. 
 
 "Where did you learn it, my darling?" 
 
 '• I learned it at home. Mr. Venn and I used to talk. But, 
 somehow, I could not say a word at first, jS"ow I begin." 
 
 And then the French ladies all made much of hei', admiring 
 the sweet innocence of her beauty, and that fair wealth of hair, 
 ^vhich she wore loose and dishevelled at breakfast, and neatly 
 ])ound up for dinner. 
 
 On the verj'- first morning after their arrival, Philip found her, 
 on coming in from a walk, Avriting a letter to Venn. 
 
 "That is right," he said. "Tell Mr. A'eun where we ore. 
 lie will Avaut to know more than your little note told him. 
 Vrrite all you can, darling ; but tell him you are happy. Aro 
 you happy, my own T 
 
 She smiled contentedlj', and went on writing. It was a long 
 letter, and took a good half-hour to write, though her facile pen 
 seemed to run glibly enougb over the paper. When it was 
 finished, slie folded and placed it in an envelope. 
 
 " Now, let us go and post it," she cried, looking for her hat. 
 
 Phil looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven, 
 
 " Better let me go, dear," he said ; "it only wants a quarter of 
 an hour to breakfast. I shall be ten minutes, and you Avill bo 
 ready to go down then." 
 
 She gave him the letter", and he went out. 
 
 On the way, the landlady of the hotel gave him a letter from 
 England, which he opened and read. It was from ]\laclntyre. 
 
 " I thought it best not to take that note to Mr, V. It has 
 been burned instead. If I were you, all things considered, I 
 would not let her write to liim. Questions will be asked. 
 Things perfectly legal in Scotland niajf not be so in England. 
 From wliJit I have learned of Arthur, who is his friend, Mr, V. 
 is a man capable of making himself very disagreeable. Bo)^t 
 Id licr urite. 
 
 "A, MacI," 
 
 Pliilip read it with a sinking heart. This man seemed to 
 stand between hiuifielf and every effort at well-doing. lie htid
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 189 
 
 firmly steeled himself to letting Venn know what he had done, 
 and taking any consequences that might befall him. The last 
 orders he had given were that the note was to he taken to 
 Gray's Inn ; and now the letter was burned, and the poor girl's 
 guardian would believe that she had run away from him. At 
 the first shock, Pliilip felt sick with dismay and remorse. Then 
 he began to think of himself Should the new letter be sent % 
 He strolled along the esplanade by the seashore, sat down and 
 looked at it. The envelope was not yet dr}'-. He opened it, 
 and took out the letter. Then, he committed the first crime — 
 unless the marriage was one — in his life. I mean the first thing 
 which destroyed his own self-respect, and gave him a stronger 
 Shove downhill — see the philosophical remarks in a previous 
 cbapter — than anything he had yet experienced. For he read 
 the letter. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Venn — I do not know how to begin my 
 letter. You have heard my secret now, because Philip sent on 
 my letter. I was so sorry not to be able to come with it myself. 
 When I saw you on Tuesday, I came determined to tell you all, 
 in spite of Philip's prohibition ; but you would not hear it. 
 And now I wish you had, because then you would have come 
 yourself, and been present at my marriage. Yes, I am really 
 and truly married. I cannot understand it at all. I keep 
 turning my wedding-ring round and round my finger, and saying 
 that I have done the very thing you wanted me to do. And 
 then I feel that I was wrong in not telling you of it. Directly 
 after the marriage we came over here — Philip and I, and are 
 going to stay for another fortnight. I will tell you all about 
 the place and the people when I see you. But it is all so strange 
 to me, that I feel giddy thinking about it. And you will like 
 Philip, I know you will ; if only because he is so kind to me 
 and loves me. It is all through your kindness. I can never 
 say or write what I feel towards you for it all. You will always 
 be first in my thoughts. We are not very rich, I believe; but 
 we have enough to live upon, and we are going to be hapjjy. 
 The old life has passed away, and all our pleasant days ; but the 
 new ones will be better, oidy you will have to come and see me 
 now. I think I shall be very happy as soon as I hear that you 
 are satisfied and pleased with what I have done. Write at once, 
 and tell me that you are, dear Mr. Venn, and then I shall dance 
 and sing. Let mo always be jour little girL I had to keep
 
 190 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the secret for Philip's sake ; but he always promised that as soon 
 as we were married you should know everything. 
 
 " He is too good for me, too handsome, and too clever. C>f 
 course he is not so clever as you are. Nobody is. And I do 
 not think he has ever written anything — at least, he has never 
 told me of anything. 
 
 " "Write to me at once, dear Mi\ Venn, by the very next post 
 that comes back. To-day is Saturday ; I shall get your letter 
 on Tuesday. Give my love to my grandmother. She will not 
 miss me. And always believe me, dear Mr. Venn, your own 
 affectionate and grateful little girl, 
 
 "LOLLIE DUBNFORD." 
 
 Philip's handsome face grew ugly as he read the letter — ugly 
 with the cloud of his negro blood. What business had his wife 
 to write a letter so affectionate to another man"? Jealousy sprang 
 up, a full-blown weed, in his brain. AVhat right had she to love 
 another man % His nostrils dilated, his forehead contracted, his 
 lips projected. These were symptoms that accompanied the 
 awakening of his lower nature. 
 
 Two men passed him as he sat on the beach. Quoth one to 
 the other, as they both looked in his face — 
 
 " C'est probablement un Anglais T 
 
 And the other made reply — 
 
 " Je crois que c'est un mulatre. Pent etre de Martinique." 
 
 He heard them, and his blood boiled within him. The low^er 
 nature was in command now. He tore the letter into a thousand 
 fragments, and threw them into the air. 
 
 Then he resolved to go back and tell a lie. At any cost — at 
 the cost of honour, of self-respect — he would break off all con- 
 nection with this man. His wife should not know him any 
 longer, should not write to him a second time. 
 
 He strolled back, angry and ashamed, but resolved. 
 
 Lollie was waiting for him, dressed for breakfast. He kissed 
 her cheek, and tried to persuade himself that he was acting for 
 the best. 
 
 " And what did you say to Mr. Venn, darling T 
 
 " I said that I was married, and happy, and eager to get his 
 letter to tell me that he is pleased." 
 
 " Why did you not write to your grandmother, my dear?" 
 
 " Oh," she replied, lightly, " she will hear from Mr. Venn. 
 And, besides, as she cannot read, what does it matter] You
 
 ■A/y LITTLE GIRL. I^i 
 
 know, she never liked me at all; and only kept me with l.cr, I 
 believe, on account of Mr. Venn. I must have been a great 
 trouble to her." 
 
 Caresses and kisses; and Philip, with the ease of his facile 
 nature, put behind him his deceit and treachery to be thought 
 of another day. After all, letters do miscarry sometimes. 
 
 The honeymoon, married men of some standing declare, is 
 ■wont to be a dreary season, involving so much of self-sacrifice 
 and concession that it is hardly worth the trouble of going 
 through it. It has some compensations. Among these, to 
 Philip, was the real pleasure of reading all the thoughts of a 
 pure and simple-minded girl. "When he was under the influence 
 of this maidenly mind, his mind — Augean stable though it was 
 — seemed cleansed and purified. The prompting of evil ceased. 
 The innocence of his youth renewed itself, and seemed to take 
 once more, with a brighter plumage, a heavenward flight — only 
 w^hile he was in her presence ; and, as Ave have seen, a few 
 words from his evil genius had power enough to make him 
 worse than he was before. For the stream of Lollie's influence 
 was a shallow one : it had depth enough to hide the accumula- 
 tions of mud, but not enough to clear them away. Like the 
 transformation scene in a theatre, for a brief five minutes all is 
 bright, roseate, and brilliant. Before and after, the yellow 
 splendour of the gaslight. With a lie hot upon his lips, with a 
 new sin fresh upon his conscience, Philip yet felt happy with his 
 wife. It is not impossible. The poor habitual criminals of the 
 thieves' kitchen are happy in their way — boozing and smoking, 
 though the policemen are gathering in pursuit, and they know 
 their days of freedom are numbered. 
 
 "Tell 2ne," said Philip, "did Mr. Venn never make love?" 
 
 " What a question !" she replied, laughing. " i\Ir. Venn, indeed ! 
 Why, he is as old — as old — No one ever made love to me ex- 
 cept yourself. But take me down to breakfast. Philip, when we 
 go back to London, Avill your own relations be ashamed of me V 
 
 " I have no relations, dear, except a cousin. If he is ashamed 
 of you, I shall wring his neck. But he wiU be prouel of you, as I 
 am proud of my pretty wife. But for the present you must bo 
 content with your stupid husband. Can you ?" 
 
 " Don't, Philip," said his wife. " And the bell has gone ten 
 minutes." 
 
 And on the Sunday — next day — Lollic got a new experience 
 of life.
 
 192 MV LITTLE CTRL. 
 
 It was after breakfast. They were strolling through the 
 town. The bells were ringing in the great old cliurch, so vast 
 and splendid that it might have been a cathedral. And in one 
 of the little streets, Avhere there was a convent school, there was 
 assembling a procession — all of girls, dressed in white, and of 
 all ages and sizes, from tlie little toddler who had to bo led, to 
 the girl of twenty, gorgeous in her white muslins and her laco 
 veil. As they stopped to look, the procession formed. At its 
 head marched the toddler, supported by two a little taller than 
 herself; and then, wedge fashion, the rest followed, the nuns, 
 with their submissive, passionless faces, like the sheep of sacri- 
 fice, following after. And as they defiled into the street, they 
 began to sing some simple French ditty — not more out of tune 
 than could be expected from a choir of French country girls — 
 and went on to the church. Philip and Laura followed. The 
 girls passed into the church. As the darkness of ths long nave 
 seemed to swallow them up, a strange yearning came over the girl. 
 
 " Philip, I should like to go into church." 
 
 '•' Do, my dear, if you like. I shall go and stroll along the 
 beach. You can go in and see the ceremony, whatever it is, and 
 then come back to the hotel." 
 
 She walked hesitatingly into the church. A man with a 
 cocked hat, and a pike in his hand, beckoned her, and gave her 
 a seat. She sat down and looked on. A tall altar, garnished 
 with flowers and lights, men with coloured robes, boys with in- 
 cense, and an organ pealing. In all her life of eighteen years, 
 she had never been inside a church : in all her education, there 
 had been no word of religion. Now, like another sense, the re- 
 ligious principle awakened in her ; and she knew that she was, 
 for the first time, worshipping God. 
 
 When the people knelt, she knelt, wondering. Always, the 
 organ pealed and rolled among the rafters in the roof, and the 
 voices of the singers echoed in her ears, and the deep bass of 
 the priest sounded like some mysterious incantation. It was so 
 grand, so sweet, this gathering of the folk with one common 
 object. Her heart went up with the prayers of the church, 
 though she knew nothing of what they meant. Lines from 
 poetry crossed her brain : words from some authors she had read. 
 The jNIadonna and the Child looked on her smiling : the effigy 
 of our Saviour seemed to have its eyes, full of tenderness and 
 pity, fixed upon her. When next she knelt, the tears poured 
 through her fingers.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. I93 
 
 The service ended. All went away except Laura. She alone 
 sat silent and thinking. 
 
 " Madame would like to see the church ?" asked the beadle. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Let me sit a little longer," she said, putting a franc into that 
 too sensitive palm. 
 
 " jNIadame is right. It is cool in here." And left her. 
 
 She was trying to work it all out. She had discovered it at 
 last, the secret which Venn's carelessness had kept from her. 
 She knew the grave defect of her education : she had found the 
 religious sense. 
 
 She rose at last, refreshed as one who, sufiering from some un- 
 known disease, suddenly feels the vigour of his manhood return. 
 And when she rejoined her husband, there shone upon her face 
 a radiance as of one who has had a great and splendid vision. 
 
 For the child had wandered by accident into the Fold. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 An answer was to be expected from Venn in three or four days. 
 Laura passed these in suspense and anxiety. Every morning she 
 went to the church and heard the service, daily gaining from her 
 artistic instincts a deeper insight into the mystery of religion. 
 After the service, she would go back to her husband, and pour 
 into his wondering cars the new thoughts that filled her heart. 
 He, for his part, sat like a Solomon, and shook his head, only 
 half understanding what she meant. Xor did she quite know 
 lierself. The instinct of adoration, of submission ; the sense of 
 a protecting power ; the sweetness of church music ; the gor- 
 geous ceremonial to which it was wedded — all these things coming 
 freshly on the girl's brain confused and saddened her, even while 
 they made her happier. For in these early days, Avhen every- 
 thing was new and bright, she wa» happy — save for that gnaw- 
 ing anxiety about Venn. 
 
 Tuesday came, and Wednesday, but no letter ; and her heart 
 f.^ll. 
 
 " I shall write again, Philip. Ho must be ill. He would 
 never else have loft my letter unanswered." 
 
 Philip changed colour ; for in tlie early days of dishonour mpn 
 can still feel ashamed. 
 
 IS
 
 194 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " If j-ou like," he said, with au effort. " Yes, write again, 
 dear. We will try one more letter before we go back to London. 
 Sit down and write it now." 
 
 The second letter was harder to write than the first. But she 
 got over the beginning at last, and went on. After repeating 
 all she had said in the first, she began to talk of the church : 
 
 "I have been to church. Oh, Mr. Venn, why did we not go 
 together? There is no place where I am so happy. It seems as 
 if I were protected — I don't know from what — when I am within 
 the walls, and listening to the grand organ. When Ave go back 
 to England, you will have to come with me. . . . Do not, dear 
 ]\Ir. A^enn, keep me any longer in suspense. Write to me, and 
 tell me you forgive me. I seem to see, now, more clearly than I 
 did. I see how wrong I was, how ungrateful, how unkind to 
 you. But only tell me you forgive me, and ease my heart." 
 
 This time, with less compunction, her husband quietly took 
 the letter to a secluded spot under the clifts, and tore it up. For, 
 having begun, he was obliged to go on. Laura, he Avas deter- 
 }nined, should have nothing whatever more to do with j\Ir. 
 Venn. She should be his, his own, his only. Some men make 
 angels of their wives. These are the highest natures : perhaps 
 on that account the greatest fools in the eyes of the world. 
 Philip did not commit this noble fault. He knew his wife Avas 
 a woman, and not an angel at all. Even in those moments Avhen 
 she tried to pour out all her thoughts to him — when, like Eve, 
 she bared her soul before his eyes, and Avas not ashamed — he 
 only saw the passing fancies of an inexperienced girl ; played 
 Avith them, the toys of a moment, and put them by. Of the 
 depths of her nature he kncAV nothing, and expected nothing ; 
 only he Avas more and more passionately fond of her. Eor it 
 seemed as if the change had made her more lovely. Bright and 
 beautiful as she Avas before, she AA^as more beautiful noAv. Som*' 
 of Philip's five hundred went to accomplish this change, for she 
 Avas noAV Avell dressed as Avell as tastefully dressed — a thing she 
 had never knoAvn before, and was woman enough to appreciate 
 accordingly. She was animated, bright, and hai^py, except for 
 the anxiety about the letter ; for no ansAver came to the second. 
 
 " We Avill not try again," said Philip. "Promise me faith- 
 fully, my dear, that you will not Avrite again Avithout my knoAv- 
 ledge.^'
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 195 
 
 * I promise, Philip. Of course I will not." 
 
 " "When we go back to England, perhaps, we may think 
 proper to make another attempt ; but we have our own dignity 
 to keep up," said her husband, grandly. 
 
 Laura only sighed. If Mr. Venn would but write ! 
 
 Sunday came round, and there was still no letter, Laura 
 grew very sad. Could it be possible that Mr. Venn was angry 
 with her % Was it possible that he would not forgive her ? She 
 sat in the church with a sinking heart. For one thing she had 
 already found out — a bitter thing for a young wife, though yet 
 it was but an uneasy thought — a sort of pin-pricking, whose 
 importance she did not yet know : that her husband would never 
 be to her what Hartley Venn had been. 
 
 Presently the service was finished. She sat on, while the 
 people all went out of church. As she sat, she watched the 
 women, one after the other, going to the confessional. They 
 had, then, some one in whom they could confide, some one to 
 advise, some one who would listen patiently to their little tales 
 of sorrow and anxiety. She felt desolate ; because, now there 
 was no longer Mr. Venn, there was nobody. Had Philip 
 touched her heart but a little, had she been able to love him, 
 she Avould not have had the thought. But she did not love him. 
 There was between the pair the barrier which only love can 
 destroy between two human beings. 
 
 The women went away. It was getting late. The confessor 
 — an old priest with white hair — came out, stretching himself, 
 and suppressing a little yawn. The confidence of tlie wives and 
 mothers had been more than usually wearisome to the good 
 man. As he came out, Laura stood before him. 
 
 " Hear me, too," she whispered in French. 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 " Madame is English— and Catholic f ' 
 
 " I am English. I am not a Catholic. Hear my confession, 
 too, and advise me. Do not send me away." 
 
 " Let us sit here — not in the confessional, my child. That is 
 only for the faithful. Tell me — you have doubts ; you would 
 return to the ancient faith '?" 
 
 " I want advice. You have given it to all those women. 
 Give some to me." 
 
 " Tell me how I can help you." 
 
 She told hitn all her little story. 
 
 *' I did not know that by niarryiug him I should separate 
 
 13-2
 
 loA MY I.TTTLE GIRL, 
 
 myself from Mr. Venn. T thnnglit to please him — I did, in 
 deed. Oh, what shall I do— Avhat shall I do T 
 
 " My poor child, you talk to an old priest. I know nothing 
 of love." 
 
 " Love ! it is ahvays love. What is love 1 I love Mr. Venn 
 because I am his ward, his daughter — because he is my life," 
 she said simply. 
 
 The priest was puzzled. 
 
 " I think you must go to see him directly you get back to 
 England. Consult your husband, and obey him. Your guardian 
 never took you to church, then f 
 
 '' No, I never came to church till I entered this one. It has 
 made me happier." 
 
 " It always does — it always does. Come to see me again. 
 Come to-morrow. When you go to England, my dear young 
 lady, search for some good and faithful priest who will teach 
 you the doctrines of the Faith. But obey your husband in all 
 things. That is the first rule." 
 
 She rose and left him, a little comforted. 
 
 This Sunday was a great day for Vieuxcamp, the day of the 
 annual races. These were not, as might be expected, conducted 
 on the turf, as is our English practice — perhaps because there 
 was no turf, except on the mountain side. The Vieuxcamp 
 races are held on the road behind the long promenade, which 
 stretches from the two piers to the Casino, about a quarter of a 
 mile. The course is hard, as may be imagined; but, as the 
 horses are used to it, I suppose it matters little. 
 
 Philip was as excited as a boy over the prospect of a little 
 sport, and was engaged all the morning in discussing events at 
 the Casino. The preparations were on a magnificent scale. 
 Flags were placed at intervals. Gardes champetres, if that is 
 their name, were stationed to keep the course. There were 
 stewards, who began to ride about in great splendour, very eaily 
 in the morning ; the ladies drove in from the country, dressed 
 in their very best ; the fisherwomen had on their cleanest caps ; 
 and the day was clear and bright. 
 
 " Come out, Laura," said her husband, bounding into tlio 
 room. " I've got a splendid place for you to see the fun." 
 
 " I don't want to, Philip. I think I would rather sit here 
 and read." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense," he urged ; " it will do you good. Come." 
 
 But she refused, and h^- went by himself, leaving her to 
 solitude and her reflections.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 197 
 
 The races began at two. First came a velocipedists' race, 
 which was fairly run and gallantly won, though not by the ladies' 
 favourite — a tall, good-looking young fellow, with a splendid 
 velocipede, and an elaborate get-up. A ragged little urchin from 
 the town, on a ramshackle old two-wheel, beat him by a couple 
 of yards. Then there came a running-race — four times up and 
 down the course, which made a mile. The competitors were 
 chiefly the fisher-boys of the place. The poor lads, good enough 
 in their boats, are weak in such unaccustomed sports as run- 
 ning. Philip looked at them for a little while, and then turned 
 to his neighbour and offered to bet twenty francs on the boy 
 Avho was last, though they all kept pretty close together. The 
 bft was taken. Philip's favourite was a man, older than the 
 others, who were mere boys. He was a little fat fellow, close 
 upon forty, with a funny look on his face, as if every step was 
 taking out the last bit left. But he kept up. And just at the 
 middle of the last course he opened his mouth quite wide, gave 
 a sort of suppressed groan, and put on the most comical, quaint, 
 and unwieldy spurt ever seen. But it landed him first, and 
 Philip pocketed his Napoleon. 
 
 Then they had a Avalking race, with some of the school lads 
 and others. It was severe upon the sailors. From time to time 
 one would burst into a run, and be turned out of the race by 
 a steward who rode behind. And just at the finish — there being 
 only three boys left, and all close together — the middle one 
 slipped and fell. "With the greatest presence of mind he kicked 
 out hard, and brought the other two dovvn upon him. Then 
 they all laid hold of each other, trying to be up first; and, for- 
 getting the terms of the contest, ran in together, amid inextin- 
 guishable laughter. That prize was not adjudged. 
 
 Then pony races; and then the grand trotting-match, of which 
 the JS'orraans are so fond. It was not like the American insti- 
 tutions, inasmuch as the horses were simply harnessed to the 
 heavy carriages of everyday life, and the pace was a good deal 
 under a mile in two minutes. Still, the interest and deliglit of 
 the people Avere immense. Pliilip made his selection out of the 
 animals, and offered his neighbour to take the odds against him. 
 It was his neighbour's own horse. He was delighted. 
 
 "Come," he said, dragging Philip away by the arm — "come, 
 we will get the odds." 
 
 And so Philip foHnd himself in the centre of a gesticulating 
 crowd, making a little book on the trottiug malcli.
 
 198 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Philip had his faults, as we have seen ; but an ignorance of 
 horseflesh was not one of them. That clay he went to his wife 
 with a flushed face, having come out of the melee thirty Napo- 
 leons the richer. Ho might as well have tried to communicato 
 his enthusiasm to a Carmelite nun ; because the girl had no 
 more power of understanding the excitement of betting. There 
 was, therefore, one point, at least, in which there would be no 
 community of interests. After dinner, Philip went to tho 
 Casino and played billiards with his new friends, while his 
 wife sat at home, and read and meditated. It was the fast 
 evening she had been left by herself ; but she was not lonel3^ 
 She had some pretty French novel of a religious tone — there 
 are not too many of them ; and she was happily passing over 
 the bridge that leads from ignorance and indifference to faith. 
 In what creed ? She knew not : it mattered not. Faith is 
 above dogma. So while she read, pondered, and prayed, her 
 husband smoked, drank, and gambled. 
 
 He had not come back at ten, so she put on her hat, and went 
 to look at the sea. I^o one was on the beach. The waves 
 came swelling gently in Avith their soft, sad murmur, as the 
 Sysyphean stone« rolled up the beach and back again. The 
 hoarse voice of the sailors on the quay, a quarter of a mile 
 away, sounded even musical in the distance. The air was warm 
 and sweet. The moonless sky was set with its stars, like 
 diamonds, seeming to fall back into illimitable depths. Sitting 
 there, the girl gave herself up to the thoughts newly born 
 Avithin her — thoughts that could produce no echo in the heart 
 of her husband — thoughts Avithout words : too deep, too pre- 
 cious, too sweet for Avords. 
 
 When the clock struck eleven she was roused by the carillon 
 from her meditations, and Avent sloAAdy back to the hotel. As 
 she passed through the hall to the staircase she heard her hus- 
 band's voice loudly talking in the little room on the right, Avhere 
 lay the papers and journals. There Avas the cliquetis of glasses 
 and the popping of soda. 
 
 A cold feeling stole over her, she kncAV not Avhy ; and she 
 went up to bed alone, saddened and melancholy. It was the 
 first real glimpse of the great gulf betAveen herself and the man 
 with Avhom her fate Avas linked. 
 
 A Aveek after this, no letter having come from Mr. Venn, 
 they Avent back to London ; for Phil's five hundred had Avalked 
 aAvay — thanks to the ecarte of the last few days — and he had 
 barely enough left to pay his hotel bill.
 
 JIIV LITTLE GIRL. 199 
 
 There was still another five hundred which ho miRht draw 
 from his agent, and he had his commission. 
 Aw\ aftPT that? 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Philip took his wife to a little cottage near dotting Hill. 
 She Avas pleased with the place and the furniture, and the 
 little garden ; hut more pleased still with the prospect of seeing 
 Mr. Venn again. She talked about it all the evening ; won- 
 dered what she should say ; and made her husband silently 
 furious with jealousy and foolish rage. But he said nothing. 
 Only in the morning, when, after breakfast, she came down to 
 him dressed, and announced her intention of going to Gray's 
 Inn at once, he took a line, and sternly forbade her to go at all. 
 
 " But you promised, Philip." 
 
 " I did," he answered. " But your letters, Laura. "Where is 
 his answer to them % Listen to me — one word will be enough. 
 You shall not go and see this man until he answers your letters, 
 or till I give you leave." 
 
 She sat down and burst into tears. Philip, not unkindly, 
 took off her hat, and laid it on the table. 
 
 " It is hard, Laura," he said — " I know it is hard for you ; 
 but it is best. He has given you up." 
 
 " He has not given me up," said the girl. " He would never 
 give me up — never — never. He loved me better than you can 
 ever dream of loving me. I am his — altogether his. You mado 
 me promise not to tell him. You made me leave him." 
 
 " Why does he not answer your letters?" 
 
 " Something has happened. Oh, Philip, let nie go." 
 
 " I Avill not let you go," returned her husband. " You, in 
 this new religious light that you have got, know at least that 
 you are to obey your husband. Obey me now." 
 
 She sat still and silent. It was what the priest had told her. 
 Yes, she must obey him: 
 
 " For how long ]" she said. " Oh, Philip, for how long T 
 
 " For two or three months, my dear. Forgive me ; I am 
 harsh — I am unkind. But it is best; Besides, other things 
 have happened. You must not go. Promise me again." 
 
 She pnjiiiised. 
 
 He took his liat. His hands were trembling, and his cheeks red.
 
 200 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " I am going to my club ou business," he naid; *' I shall not 
 
 be back till late this evening. Kiss me, Lauia." 
 
 She kissed him mechanically — obedient in everything ; and 
 he went away. 
 
 A bad omen for their wedded life. It is the first day at 
 home ; and her husband, unable to endure the torture of his 
 conscience about the letters, and the sorrow of his wife, ilies ta 
 his club of gamblers and sharpers — for relief. 
 
 It is late when he returns — a heavy loser at play — his clie<'k 
 flushed with wine, not shame. 
 
 Oh, Philip ! 
 
 *' Tu tibi suppliciiuii, tibi tu rota, tu tibi turtor." 
 
 Among the earliest callers on Mrs, Duruford — in fact, hrr 
 only visitor — was Mr. Alexander Maclntyre. He came dressed 
 in a sober suit of pepper and salt ; and, sitting with his hat on 
 the floor and his hands supporting one knee, he began to dis- 
 course to Laura — for her husband was not at home — on the 
 topics of the day. 
 
 " Did you take my note to Mr. Venn?" asked the girl, inter- 
 rupting hira. 
 
 "That note? Oh^ yes, I remember. Yes. I had not the 
 pleasure of seeing the gentleman, because he was out. I dropped 
 it into the letter-box." 
 
 Laura sighed. There was, then, no doubt. He had received 
 all her letters, and would write to her no more. 
 
 "Has there been no answer, Mrs. Durnford?" 
 
 " I^one," she replied; " And I have written to him twic-'j 
 since then ; but he will not take any notice of my letters." 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " I have promised Philip not to write again without his con- 
 sent. He says we have done as much as we can, I don't 
 know — I wish I could go round myself and see Mr. Venn." 
 
 " Oh, you must not think of doing that," interposed Mi. 
 Maclntyre, hastily. 
 
 " So Philip says. P>ut I shall think about it." 
 
 Presently she began to ask him questions about himself. It 
 was a new thing for the philosopher to have anybody taking an 
 interest in his movements \ and he perhaps " expand(;d " more 
 than was absolutely prudent. 
 
 " What am I to do 1" he said. " I am getting old ; my hair 
 is gray. People want to know all sorts of things that it is not 
 always easy to tell"
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 201 
 
 ** But the simple truth can always be told, and that ought to 
 satisfy them." 
 
 " There," said the man of experience, with a curious look, "ia 
 exactly the point. It is just the simple truth that will not 
 satisfy these sharks. I might write a book, but Avliat about ? 
 People only buy books written on the side of morality ; and 
 the moral ranks are so crowded that there seems little chance of 
 getting in ■with new lights." 
 
 " But you would not write on auy other side, surely ?" 
 
 " Obsairve, my dear young leddy ; if there ever were such a 
 thing as a clever scoundrel who had the moral strength to take 
 his stand as such, and write an autobiography without the usual 
 sacrifice to supposed popular opinion, he might make a fortune. X 
 general c;ise — a heepothetical case only : but one which occurred 
 to me. I mean, of course, an unscrupulous niau, Avithout reli- 
 gion of any kind — such a man as, to secure his own safety, 
 would ruin any one else who stood in his way, and do it without 
 a pang." 
 
 " I should hope no such persons exist. Why are we talking 
 about such creatures ?" 
 
 " They do exist, I have met them. In the colonies. TMrs. 
 iHirnford, if ever you sliould come across such a man, remember 
 my M'ords. They would rather do a good turn than a bad one ; 
 but if the bad turn has to be done for their own good, why — 
 then it must." 
 
 "But go on about yourself" 
 
 "About myself, then. I have a small sum of money, the 
 fruits of many years of careful living and economy." 
 
 Oh, Mr. Maclntyre, was not this a superlluous evasion of 
 truth? 
 
 " This small amount is rapidly decreasing ; what I shall do 
 when it is gone I do not know. It is my rule through life, 
 Mrs. Durnford, and I recommend it to your careful considera- 
 tion, never to decline the proffers of fiite. Very often, behind the 
 drudgery of a position which fortune puts into your hands, may 
 be found, by one who knows how to take an opportunity, the 
 road to wealth, if not to fame ; now I think nothing of it. What 
 does it matter] You do great things ; at least popular things. 
 You get money — you are asked to make speeches at dinners. 
 When you die, your friends write your life and distort your 
 character. Bah ! The only thing worth living for is moue}'. 
 Get money — get money. lie comfortable ; eat, drink, enjoy all
 
 202 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the senses of nature, and care for nothing else. That is what 
 the City people do, in spite of their smug respectability." 
 
 " ]Mr. Maclntyre, is this the faith that Scotch clergymen 
 teach T 
 
 He began to think that perhaps Laura was not yet sufficiently 
 advanced to accept all his views. 
 
 " Is your religion nothing ?" she asked. " Is it nothing to 
 lead a life of sacrifice and self denial like the nuns I have seen 
 in France? Is there no sacred duty of life but to make mouey % 
 Surely, Mr. Maclntyre — surely these are not the things you 
 preach in your church T 
 
 " You are right," he replied ; "they are not the things I preach 
 in my church. Forgive my inconsiderate speech. I say some- 
 times more than I mean." 
 
 But tlie conversation left a bad impression on Laura, and 
 she began to regard the man with something like suspicion. 
 
 As the weeks went on, she found herself, too, left a good 
 deal alone. Philip was growing tired of her. Her sadness, 
 her coldness, were silent reproaches to him ; and he neglected 
 her more and more. 
 
 One night he entertained a party of friends. On that occa- 
 sion, he insisted on her keeping upstairs all the evening, with- 
 out explaining why. They stayed till three. She could not 
 sleep till they went away, being kept awake by their noisy 
 laughter and talk. Philip came up when the last was gone. 
 
 *' I'm an unlucky devil," he murmured, pacing to and fro. 
 
 '' What is it, Philip T asked his wife. 
 
 " Nothing you understand, my dear ; unless you can under- 
 stand what dropping three ponies means." 
 
 " No, Philip — not in the least." 
 
 He put out the light, and was asleep in fi.ve minutes. 
 
 The clouds grew thick in Laura's sky. She could not under- 
 stand horse-racing and betting. She took not the smallest 
 interest in events and favourites. On the other hand Philip 
 took no interest in what she did : never asked her how sha 
 spent the day, never took her out with him, never gave her his 
 confidence. At least, however, he was kind ; never spoke 
 harshly to her, never ill-treated her, only neglected her. This 
 was not what the girl pined and sickened for. Philip occupied 
 her thoughts very little. She longed for the old life. She 
 longed for the freedom of her talks with the only man she could 
 talk to. She was solitary in spirit. She was beginning to feel
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 203 
 
 the misery of mating with low aims. She stood on a higher 
 level than her husband, and she did not have that perfect love 
 for him which sometimes enables a woman to stoop and raise 
 him with her. 
 
 The new and congenial society of gentlemen more or less in- 
 terested in the noble and exciting sports of our country, to 
 which Philip's friends had introduced him when he retired from 
 his old club, was banded together under the title of the Bur- 
 leigh Club. To the name of Burleigh the most captious can 
 take no exception. To such members as the name suggested 
 anything, its associations Avere stately and dignified. To the 
 majority, for whom it meant nothing beyond being the patro- 
 nymic of a noble house and the name of their club, it did 
 as well as any other. It looked well, embossed in colours on 
 the club note-paper. By any other name, the Burleigh could 
 not have smelt more sweet. And another name, by which it 
 was not uncommonly called, had been bestowed on it by a body 
 of gentlemen who, though not members themselves, had heavy 
 claims upon many who were. The ring men dubbed it, before 
 it had existed a twelvemonth. The Welshers' Ketreat. The 
 members, recognising the happiness of the sobriquet, jocularly 
 took the new title into favour ; and Philip's club had thus two 
 names — interchangeable at pleasure — always understood, and 
 the latter for choice. 
 
 This was Philip's club. A tall, narrow-fronted house in the 
 centre of club-land ; what an auctioneer would describe as 
 " most eligibly situate.'' Outside, the quietest and most re- 
 spectable club in London — quakerlike in the sober sadness of 
 its looks. Inside, a gambler's paradise. Day at the Burleigh 
 begins at three o'clock in the afternoon. The blinking waiters 
 would prophesy the speedy ruin of anybody who required their 
 services before that hour. It is the custom of the club for 
 members to leave it at any time, but never to enter it till two 
 or three hours after noon. 
 
 Breakfasts are served till five p.m., suppers till six a.m. Be- 
 tween these hours a smart Hansom can always be had opposite 
 the door. Business begins in the pool-room at half-past three ; 
 the chat is animated at five, and very lively between six and 
 seven. Then the men go away to dinner, to return any time 
 after ten to whist, loo, hazard, blind-hookey — anything that can 
 be gambled at. Kules % The code is short. It is summed up 
 in this one regulation — betting debts must be paid on the usual
 
 2o4 MY LITTLE GIRL 
 
 settling days ; card debts not later than the next day after they 
 have been incurred. " Complaints of the infraction of this rule, 
 on being referred to the coniniitteo,will render the defaulting 
 member liable to expulsion." And they do expel. honour- 
 able men, how admirable, how necessary is your rule ! In this 
 way the honour of the Burleigh kept is sweet. For the rest,' you 
 may do as you like : every member is a law unto himself; their 
 club is Liberty Hall. What manner of men, it may be asked, 
 is it that people this little Paradise % 
 
 The members of the Burleigh are young and old. Postobit 
 has just heard of his election at twenty. Leatherflapper, one 
 uf the fathers of the society, is seventy-three. They are rich 
 and poor. Four-in-^iand, with the string of forty thoroughbreds 
 in training at Newmarket, and the rents of twenty thousand 
 acres to keep them and himself upon ; Philip Durnford, 
 with five hundred pounds at his agent's, and his shovel in his 
 baud to dig it out with, both belong. They number in their 
 ranks the richest and the poorest, the kindest and the cruellest, 
 the most unirnpeachably respectable and the most undeniably 
 shady gentlemen in these kingdoms. In some clubs the elders 
 are unsociable, crustj- old hunkses. iN'ot so here. They are so 
 communicative, so ready to teach all they have learnt, and to 
 tell all they know, that it is quite beautiful to see. Every man 
 disposed to turn misanthrope should witness it. It always goes 
 straight to my heart to see old Leatherflapper taking young 
 Postobit in hand, and putting him up to every wrinkle on the 
 board. True, there is a price to be paid — understood, never ex- 
 pressed : a fee for experience. But what that is worth having 
 on earth is to be had for nothing ? You would like to be intro- 
 duced to this company of wise and benevolent men % You 
 know their faces well. They are to be studied at every race 
 meeting, seen in the Park on sunny days, at German spas, at 
 Hurlingham — everywhere where excitement can be bought. 
 And the bond that makes them such friends and such enemies — 
 you guess it : Gambling. The universal passion. The passion 
 of all times of life, from earliest youth to latest age ; of all 
 places, from Christian London to Buddhist iTeddo ; of all periods 
 from the first recorded tradition of savage life till the Archangel 
 shall sound the last trump ; of men and women, from the tramp 
 cardseller, who bets his sister two pennies to one against a 
 favourite for a race, to the nobleman who stakes a fortune on a 
 cast of the dice ; the miser, the spendthrift, the stock-jobber, 
 the prince — gambling has joys for all,
 
 MV LITTLE CtIRT.. 205 
 
 So tlie Burleigh was founded for play that might run to any 
 1: eight, for games prohibited at other places ; as a rendezvous 
 fjr every gentleman who Avauted a little excitement, a place 
 Avhere there should always be " something doing." You must 
 know the members by certain characteristic habits and ways 
 they have. They breakfast late ; they are fond of a devil early 
 in the day ; they take " pick-me-ups." In the day-time they 
 are busy with their books. Kotes addressed in female hands 
 lie waiting for their arrival in the morning, the writing being 
 generally of such a kind as to suggest a late acquisition of the 
 art of penmanship. They have a keen, cold look about the 
 eyes, where the crows-feet gather early. For the most part they 
 dress very carefully ; though, sometimes, just a day in advance 
 of the fashion : they affect drab or brown gaiters and cloth- 
 topped boots ; carry, in this year of grace, their walking- canes 
 by the ferule ; and smoke eternally. From these gentlemen 
 Philip's companions were chosen. 
 
 This was his club ; this the place where he spent his days and 
 nights, a short month after his marriage, while his wife stayed 
 at home, or, if she went out at all, was afraid to go far for fear 
 of meeting Mr. Venn. In this company, starting in July with 
 his five hundred pounds and the proceeds of his commission — 
 for he sold out — he was trying to make hay while the sun did 
 not shine, and melting it all away. 
 
 He kept no accounts ; but kept on digging at the little heap, 
 ignorant and careless of how much was left. His great hope 
 lay in his pluck and skill in playing cards, and betting on 
 horse races. He was often advised by Mr. Maclntyre, who had 
 the useful talent of clear-headedness, and used to come to Xotting- 
 hill about Philip's breakfast-time ; and then the two would sit 
 and go through the " Calendar" and " Piuff's Guide," while the 
 neglected girl looked on, and wondered what it was they talked 
 about. It was one of her great sorrows at this time that she 
 had no books to read — none of her old books ; none of those 
 old poets, which she and Mr. Venn used to pore over in the 
 .cummer evenings, while the shadows fell upon the dingy old 
 court of the Inn. Philip, who seemed to have given up his old 
 reading tastes, had only a few novels. She had never read any 
 novels at all until she went to France. Phil's did not please 
 her. They were barrack novels, stories of camp life, sporting 
 stories — books to her without interest. She could not read 
 them, and put them down one after another — falling hack ujpon
 
 2o6 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the piano, for which she had ao music, and could only play the 
 things she knew. 
 
 Maclntyre saw what was coming. Philip was plunging ; and 
 his method, inMlible on paper, as the experience of twenty 
 seasons proved, did not work quite perfectly in practice. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre had seen this form the first. In tlie 
 multitude of his experiences he had tried the martingale, new 
 to Philip, even before that young gentleman was born. Like 
 his pupil, he had been fascinated by it. The lever that was to 
 raise him to wealth and power : so beautifully simple, so utterly 
 impracticable. 
 
 He remonstrated with Philip, pointing out the rocks ahead. 
 Eat he spoke to a deaf man. 
 
 " I know better. It's my cursed luck, I'm sure to warm the 
 
 ring at ," Philip urged. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, 
 
 he added, " And if my luck sticks to me, why — at the worst 
 I shall pay up ; and then Laura and I will go away somewhere, 
 borrow money of Arthur, and become farmers in New Zealand, 
 or keep a shop in Ballarat, or mock the hairy-faced baboon 
 somewhere. We shall do. The world is Avide." 
 
 " It is, Phil. I have found it so. The world is wide and 
 hungry." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre took the book again, and totted up the 
 amount that Philip had lost at his last meeting. Then he 
 made a little note of it on a slip of paper, and put it into his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Phil," he said, with an insinuating air, " I hope you have 
 not lost much since you came home," 
 
 He changed colour, 
 
 " I've dropped more than four hundred at the club, and a 
 hundred and fifty one night here, when I had those fellows to 
 play loo ; besides that pill at the last m.eeting." 
 
 Mr, Maclntyre shook his head. When he went home he 
 made a little sum in arithmetic. 
 
 "When I consider," he said to himself, "that in a — h, h is 
 greater than a, I'm afraid that Phil is likely to be up a tree, and 
 my great card may very likely be played to advantage." 
 
 He went up to dine, a few nights after this talk. Laura was 
 charming, in a fresh, bright dress, and in better spirits than 
 usual. Philip, in one thing, had been disappointed in his wife. 
 He had promised himself the trouble of teaching her the little 
 courtesies of life — the ordinary accomplishments, perhaps her
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 207 
 
 mother tongue. He never made a greater mistake. She came 
 to him a lady ready to his hand : in all points an accomplished, 
 relined, well-educated lady ; how far superior to the ordinary 
 run of young ladyhood he hardly knew. 
 
 The little dinner went off pleasantly, and when Laura left 
 them in the little dining-room both men were pleased. She 
 sat down in the draAving-room, and played while they talked 
 over their wine. She played on till the clock struck ten ; then 
 she waited till eleven ; then she opened the door timidly, and 
 looked in. PhiHp, flushed in the face, was making calculations 
 on paper, Mr, IMacIntyre, with face very much more flashed, 
 had a long clay pipe in his mouth, not lighted, at which he was 
 solemnly sucking. 
 
 " By Jove !" said Phil, " I thought I was a bachelor again. 
 Come in, Laura — come in." 
 
 Maclntyre rose solemnly, holding by the table cover. 
 
 " The shoshiety of leddies is — what'sh wanted — ceevileeze the 
 world. Ye will obsairve — at the 'vershety of which I am — 
 member — Master of Arts — they always obsairved that the sho- 
 shiety of leddies — Phil, ye drunken deevil, whaur's my tum- 
 bler (" 
 
 Laura looked at him with amazement. The reverend gentle- 
 man was hopelessly drunk — as drunk as any stonemason in 
 Puddock's Row. Port, followed by whisky toddy, had produced 
 this lamentable effect. 
 
 " All right," said PhiL He was not drunk himself; but, as 
 policemen say, he had been drinking. "All right, darling. 
 Here, old bag of evil devices, put on your hat, and try to tie 
 your legs in as many knots as you can on your way home." 
 
 " Shir," said the Maclntyre, putting the bowl of the pipe 
 into his mouth, " apologeeze. This is — this is — eh ? — pershual." 
 
 " To-morrow," said Phih "Don't be frightened, Laura." 
 
 For his Reverence made a sudden lurch in her direction, in- 
 spired neither by animosity, nor yet by friendship, nor by any 
 amorous inclination, but solely by the toddy. 
 
 "I was shtudying — " 
 
 " Yes — yes — we know. Don't trouble yourself to say good 
 night." 
 
 Philip pushed him downstairs, and out of the door, and re- 
 turned. 
 
 "Oh, Phil, how could you?" 
 
 "Well, dear, he did it himself. I always let the Maclntyro 
 liave the full run of the bottle. So did my father."
 
 =c?, MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " But he is a clergyman." 
 
 " My dear wife," her husbaud exclaimed, " Ihey all do it in 
 private life." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 About the same time that Philip Dormer, Lord Chesterfield, 
 was bringing the powers of his great mind to the alteration of 
 Old Style into New Style, by making our English year begin on 
 the first of January instead of the twenty-fifth of March, and 
 cheating the common people of eleven good days of the year of 
 grace 1752, his right trusty and well-beloved friend, my Lord 
 Eath, after spending ten days at Newmarket, delivered himself 
 of a sentiment. His lordship was pleased to remark of his 
 favourite sport that " it is delightful to see two, or sometimes 
 more, of the most beautiful Animals of Creation struggling for 
 superiority, stretching every muscle and sinew to obtain the 
 prize and reach the goal ; to observe the skill and address of the 
 Eiders, who are all distinguished by different colours of white, 
 blue, green, red, or yellow, sometimes spurring or whipping, 
 sometimes checking or pulling to give fresh breath and courage. 
 And it is often observed that the Pace is Won as much by the 
 dexterity of the Eider as the vigour and fleetness of the Animal." 
 The flourishing era of the English turf dates from the time of 
 this memorable saying of Lord Bath's ; and it is doubtful if the 
 change in the calendar introduced by Lord Chesterfield has had 
 one tithe of the efiect upon manners and society that this new 
 fashion set by Lord Bath of patronising horse-races all over the 
 country has been the means of bringing about. 
 
 It is still as delightful as it was in the days of the second 
 Charles or the second George to stand on that magnificent expanse, 
 Newmarket Heath, and watch, from the rising ground at the 
 top of the town, or from the A.F. winning-post, the struggles 
 " of two or sometimes more of the most beautiful animals of 
 creation," though the " skill and address of the riders" are not 
 always turned to the account of making the "beautiful animals" 
 they bestride stretch "every muscle and sinew to obtain the 
 prize," as seems to have been the custom in the innocent days 
 Lord Bath knew. Probably, in his lordship's time, Eoping, as 
 an art based on scientific deductions, had not been invented, 
 though his description mentions "checking and pulling," but
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 209 
 
 it is for the now obsolete custom of giving " fresh breath and 
 courage." What the noble author would say if he saw a field 
 of thirty horses facing the starter for a fifty pound Maiden 
 Plate, T.Y.C. (A.F.), and his distinguishing colours " of Avhite, 
 blue, green, red, or yellow " complicated and modernised into 
 *' French gray, scarlet hoops and chevrons," or " black, white 
 sleeves, Death's Head and crossbones," we do not care to specu- 
 late upon. lu his time, honest races were run over four and 
 six mile courses ; a match was the favourite description of race ; 
 betting was not a profession ; and the Scum did not invade the 
 sacred precincts of the Duke of Rutland's heath. A noble 
 sport was in the hands of noble men. 
 
 Now — 
 
 Wel]^ this is hardly my business. 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. Maclntyre, speaking to his pupil, Philip 
 Dnrnford, above a hundred years later, "the fascination of this 
 noble sport. You never knew a man in your life who had once 
 tasted the delights of the turf who did not return to them again 
 as soon as he had the liieans. There is something about it that 
 no man can resist, break him as often as you like. If he has got 
 the money to go racing and bet, he goes racing and bets. I 
 knew a man who had three several fortunes, and lost them all 
 gambling on the turf," Mr. Maclntyre proceeded to say ; " and, 
 Phil, ye'll obsairve that when he came into a fourth, he went 
 and did likewise with that one also:" 
 
 Like every idle young man with the command of cash, and 
 the slightest possible amount of egging on, Philip Dui'nford was 
 inclined to fiddle a bit at long odds. He had on some score or 
 so of occasions taken a long shot, backed a tip or a fancy, before 
 ho had become the instrument in the hands of Providence of 
 rescuing Mr. Maclntyre from his advertising agency. But he 
 was not sweet upon the practice, for he had hardly ever won. 
 It is notorious that, at all other sorts of gambling, a man in- 
 variably wins at first. This is not so in wagering upon horses ; 
 and Philip, with the common inclination to bet, and his full 
 share of love for the sport, felt a little soured by his expe- 
 rience. Kow, part of the universal scholarship of Mr. Maclntyre 
 was an interest in horseflesh, a knowledge of betting, and an 
 experience of races. Added to this, he was an infatuated be- 
 liever in the well-known doubling martingale. Practising ou 
 tlie credulity and ignoiancc of Philip, he unfolded the secrets 
 of this wonderful system of winning fabulous sums, as his — 
 
 14.
 
 2IO MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the Maclntyre's — wliole and sole discovery aud property. And 
 he represented to that williug ear that if he only had the means 
 of working it out, the Fuggers in the past, and the Eothschilds 
 in the present, might be regarded as poor men compared with 
 the ci-devant pedagogue. 
 
 " Eh, my dear young friend, it's just the mighty lever that 
 can make us meellionaires, an ye'll only believe it." 
 
 And there was evidence forthcoming to support the assertion. 
 Eaciug calendars for twenty years were referred to ; piles of 
 paper scribbled over, and two or three lead pencils consumed 
 over these calculations. The system stood the test of all these 
 years ; generations of horses passed away as Phil and his mentor 
 tested the lever's strength, and no run of luck was ill enough 
 to break it. Philip believed in it — as, after such an array of 
 evidence, who would nut "? — but he doubted Maclntyre, 
 
 "And do you mean to say you found this out yourself?" ho 
 often asked. 
 
 And without either- blush or smile, the old vagabond declared 
 that he was the great discoverer, and accordingly rolled a New- 
 tonian and Copernican eye on Philip, and gave himself the airs 
 of the Spaniard holding in his hand the key of the Incas' gold, 
 or of Ealeigh with El Dorado in full view. 
 
 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512. 
 
 These figures were Maclntyre's ladder of fortune ; and he 
 offered boundless wealth to needy Philip Duruford, on the 
 modest condition of " standing in," He had confided his great 
 secret to him, and he trusted to his honour. 
 
 His pupil was convinced and fascinated. Could the favourite 
 lose ten times in succession? Maclntyre said no. Could a 
 tipster be out ten times running % Maclntyre said no. Could 
 Philip's own selection be wrong ten times ? Maclntyre said no. 
 Could any mortal thing happen ten times? Mr, Maclntyre's 
 calculations Avere there to give it the lie. 
 
 So they Avorked away at the books, going carefully through 
 the results of thousands of races. They applied their lever to 
 betting on billiards, boats, guns, cards, dice — anything that a 
 wa^er can be made about ; and nothing could happen in the 
 ordinary course of things to beat them. 
 
 Philip rejoiced, for he held power, and honours, and wealth 
 in his hand. He was the lucky possessor of the certain method 
 of making a colossal fortune. He could break the ring, the 
 banks, the world of gamblew. He did not envy his richer
 
 M Y LITTLE GIRL. 2 1 1 
 
 brother now, nor any man. He only pined at the little delay 
 that kept him from beginning. His broker was the slowest 
 fellow in the world. 
 
 " The mighty lever that can make us millionaires " — he held 
 it in his hand ; and the fulcrum was the ^Newmarket July Meet- 
 ing, two weeks hence. He began to spend his great wealth. 
 He dreamed long day-dreams. He was rich, famous, generous, 
 too, to poor Arthur, with only three or four thousands to spend 
 in good years. He made up the deficit in bad ones. Arthur 
 was a brother, after all, and could draw on him for what he 
 liked. laura, his wife — no princess of Eussia had such jewels. 
 His four-in-hand was the admiration of the park. His horses 
 were always first. If they cost their weight in gold, what did 
 it matter] He cou^ld pay it. He won the Derby. The most 
 splendid Prince in Europe came into his box to drink cham- 
 pagne-cup with him, and congratulate him on his success. He 
 bought vast estates — the envy of the envied — jNIr. Durnford, 
 the millionaire ! He had his troubles, too. He distressed him- 
 self when he had bought all the land in the market — in parcels 
 large enough to be worth having. He had to devise schemes 
 for keeping his secret from the ring, or betting would be over. 
 He could not get all the money he Avanted. His friends quar- 
 relled about his wealth. People watched him in the ring — 
 followed his lead — mobbed him. 
 
 Chateaux in Spain, and castles in the air beyond all power of de- 
 scription, he built on Maclntyre's ingenious multiplication table. 
 
 But in all his unbounded belief in the doubling martingale 
 there lurked a doubt. He never could credit Mr. Maclntyre's 
 statement that he was the inventor, though that canny gentle- 
 man stuck to his lie with characteristic hardihood. If he had 
 been disposed to tell the truth, he might have mentioned that 
 he got it from a groom at Melbourne, who in turn had got it 
 from a little shilling " Guide to the Winning Post," which had 
 been read no doubt by hundreds of people who had a shilling 
 to lay out. The author of the pamphlet, again, was indebted 
 to somebody before him ; and so on ad infinitum. But the 
 curious part of it was that all these persons clainred the inven- 
 tion of the system of doubling, and imparted their information as 
 something of a very secret and confidential nature. In this way, 
 Pliilip Durnford received it from Mr. Maclntyre. He gave a 
 solemn jtromise not to tell it to anybody, but to go to work as 
 ipeedily as possible to make his own and his mentor's fortune. 
 
 1 4 — 2
 
 2(2 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 Maclntyre Lad received tlie precious talisman as a secret. ITa 
 believed that few people knew of it, that those who did must 
 Ljrow rich by working this most productive vein. He honestly 
 believed in his system, and gave it to Philip as a chart to guido 
 him over the shoals and quicksands in the sea of turf enter- 
 prise to the land of gold on the other side. He had carefully 
 worked out— always on paper, though — every known method of 
 winning money by gambliug, he had seen generations of backers 
 and bettors go, from a late noble marquis with a capital of a 
 quarter of a million, to " Kcady-niuney liiley " and his lucky 
 live-pound note. Before Mr. Maclntyre's eyes all had gone 
 the same Avay. It was only a question of time. Their ruin the 
 philosopher attributed to want of system ; and among all the 
 systems, his own was the best. He had Avaded through all thu 
 " Eacing Calendars" from 1773 to date, had applied his system 
 to every race for a period of ninety odd years, and on paper ho 
 had never broken down, and was the winner of many milliony. 
 He showed his figures to Philip, and completely satisfied him. 
 But Philip, being a genius, Avent to Avork to improve it ; and ho 
 tried, on paper, all sorts of little modifications of his secret method 
 of breaking the ring. Not to go into petty details, he broke the 
 ring in half a dozen different Avays, and became Croesus six 
 times over. The leaves of his pocket-books Avere scribbled over 
 Avith a thousand repetitions and combinations of the same series 
 of figures ; and he argued Avith himself that he Avas not going to 
 gamble — it Avas merely speculation. 
 
 " The mathemateecian, De j\Iorgan," said Mr. Maclntyre, 
 " remarks that a gambler ceases to be such Avhen he makes his 
 stakes bear a proportion to his capital, and takes no hazards that 
 are unduly against him." 
 
 And Philip Durnford's capital left him a large reserve, over 
 and above his working money, for contingencies that might 
 arise. So he started Avith a light heart on his course of specula- 
 tion. Por a few days all Avent Avell. A fortnight brought a 
 change, and shoAved him that j^aper and practice are tAVO mightily 
 different things, and that his system could not be Avorked out, 
 if he had had the pluck to do it. Half his money Avas gone in 
 iblloAving his system. The other half Avas punted aAvay in in« 
 discriminate Avagering on any tip that might turn up trumps.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 2r 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Chacun k son secret. Philip had his, and he kept it ■well. 
 Every young fool who airs his inexperience on the turf — and, 
 for that matter, every old one — has his own way of breaking 
 the ring. How many of these ingenious devices are the same, 
 fate knows and bookmakers may guess perhaps. The infatuated 
 tliemselves guard their secrets more closely than their honour ; 
 and the system, method, modus, martingale — call the thing by 
 what name you will — is never spoken of by the lucky possessors. 
 They are careful over each operation, for fear some inkling of 
 their royal road to fortune should be discovered ; jealous, lest on 
 turning over the leaves of their books some eye, looking over 
 their shoulder, should see their game. Once out, they think, the 
 mischief is done. Everybody will do as they do , Avinniug will 
 be a certainty ; and iu a trice there will be no ring for them to 
 break. The motive is selfish, but easily understood ; for is not 
 the world we live iu selfish, and the least disinterested corner of 
 it a betting-ring? Granted a system thai makes winning cer- 
 tain, and that it is generally known, and there is the end of 
 betting ; and with it your own particular chance of becoming 
 richer than the Piothschilds. Ko wonder, then, that when you 
 have the magic talisman in your pocket you keep it there, 
 jealously buttoned up. That thousands of men have carried 
 such a talisman for turning all they touched to gold, that thou- 
 sands of men have reduced winning on the turf to a certainty — 
 on paper — are matters of common knowledge. That theory is 
 one thing and practice another — iu a word, that the systems 
 do not work to the satisfaction of the owners, it is sufficient to 
 call attention to the fact that there arc as few Kothschilds 
 among us as of old ; or to tlio pockets of the greasy ring-men, 
 still stuffed as full as ever with P>ank of England notes. The 
 common fate of methods based on paper calculations had be- 
 fallen the martingah' wliich Mr. Philip Lurnford had hugged to 
 his heart for half a season. Owing its existence, as Pliilip be- 
 licverl, to the original iutellect of Mr. ^Maclntyre, modified and 
 perfected by his own hand, he felt as certain of the great re- 
 sults to be obtained from working it out as he did that the Eank 
 would change its notes for gold on demand. With his hat jauntily 
 set on his head, a flower in his coat, and the blue satin noto-caso 
 Laura had quilted for him with lier fair fingers in his pocket, crammed
 
 214 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 with bank-notes, he had pnid his guinea, and plunged proudly and 
 defiantly into the Babel of the ring at the Newmarket July. 
 
 Here he was, at the beginning of November, driving down to 
 Kingdon races in a hansom : alone with his thoughts, which 
 were far from pleasant, with his betting-book to remind him of 
 past mistakes and misfortunes, and all the money he had in the 
 world in the inside pocket of his waistcoat — that pocket which 
 was to be found in all his waistcoats, secret and secure, in which 
 he had meant to carry away the spoils he wrested from the ring. 
 
 Down on his luck, and as nearly desperate as a gambler can 
 be who has one throw left, there was this chance for him still — 
 the two hundred pounds he had about him : one month of 
 racing. In that month, with luck, he might turn the two hun- 
 dred into thousands. Without luck — well, it hardly mattered. 
 
 The method had long since been cast aside. He made his 
 bets now without reference to it. He had followed the phantom 
 Chance through seven losing weeks. They had ruined him. 
 There is nothing demoralizes the gambler like a long tide of ill- 
 luck. His judgment leaves him. He can no longer thread the 
 mazes of public form, or make clever guesses at the effect of 
 weights in handicaps. He makes this wager and that, for no 
 reason but that a feather turns the scale. In his mind, the 
 strongest reason why a horse should lose is that it carries his 
 money. He never backs the right tip; and the only consola- 
 tion he has is to quarrel Avith luck, and call it hard names. 
 These had been Philip Durnford's experiences of the " glorious 
 uncertainty of the turf " for seven miserable weeks of the worst 
 season for backers the oldest turfite could remember. Un- 
 dreamt-of outsiders were always coming in first, till the very 
 ring-men avowed that they were tired of Avinning. The slaughter 
 had been great, and the complaints of default were loud and 
 deep. Doncaster had punished some, the first and second Aveeks 
 at Newmarket had settled others. This noble lord's and that 
 honourable gentleman's accounts Avere absent from Tattersall's on 
 settling-day. Backers could not stand against such luck, it Avas 
 said in excuse. There Avas a pretty general stampede for the 
 Levant among the shaky division. But Philip's little account 
 had always been forthcoming till after the Newmarket Houghton. 
 He had taken his shovel, and dug aAvay manfully at his little heap 
 of sovereigns, and paid his debts cA^ery Aveek to time ; but that last 
 Aveek in Cambridgeshire Avas a facer. It had settled him. When 
 he added up his book after the first day of the meeting, he knew
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, 215 
 
 he had ^yagerecl and lost more than he could pay if he sold the 
 coat off his back. Then he smiled the hitter smile of defeat, 
 and, in the language of the sport, " went for the gloves " — that 
 is, he had five days' good hard gambling, Avell knowing that if 
 the result of the week's work was against him he could not 
 settle. So, being desperate, he was foolish, and betted in 
 amounts three times heavier than he was in the habit of doing. 
 
 " Ma boy, take ma word, the captain'sh going for the glovesh," 
 said a discreet Hebrew, placing his dirty jewelled paw on the 
 shoulder of another of his tribe. " I don't bet no more with 
 him. I'm full agen anythink at all," 
 
 '• Vy, K'athan, vy] Misther Vilkins settled for him all right 
 last veek." 
 
 " I'll tell you vy, Jacob, ma boy. Ven I see a young feller 
 as alvoys used to be satisfied vith havin' a pony or fifty on the 
 favourite for a sellin' race a bettin' in hunderds all of a sud- 
 ding, I know vat it means. Look, there's Nosey Smith a layin' 
 him two centuries against Bella. ^Not for me, that's all. ]\Iark 
 me, now, he'll go. And nobody knows nothink about him. 
 I've looked in the peerage : there isn't no Durnford in it as I can 
 find. They'll book anythink to anybody now, bless me if they 
 von't ! Hallo, hallo, hallo ! Who'll back anythink % Any 
 pricesh agen some 0' these runners ! Full, Captain Durnford, 
 sir, agen all the fav'rits." 
 
 For Philip had not done with Bella yet, and asked her price 
 of Mr. ISTathan Morris, diamond merchant, of Bishopsgate Street 
 "Without, money-lender and leg in any part of the world ho 
 might happen to be in. 
 
 And i\lr. ]\Iorris was right. Philip was betting all to no- 
 thing, for if he lost he would not pay ; and he laughed as he 
 pencilled down the name of Bella till two openings of his book 
 Avere lilled v/ith it. Then there was the fun of watching the 
 race, and seeing Bella struggle past the post. 
 
 " Of course," thought Philip ; " beaten by a head just on tho 
 2jOst, by what I always thought was the worst animal in 
 training." 
 
 Then he rode off to while away a few minutes with luncheon 
 — partridge pie, washed down with champagne — coming into 
 the ring again with a smile on his face, and filling more pages 
 of his book with the name of another loser. 
 
 He had no money, but he had credit ; and credit is a very 
 wonderful thing. It is the onlv substitute for wealth. 'J'o borrow
 
 :i6 MY LlTTLh GIRL. 
 
 ^* 
 a quotation from ])efoe — "Credit makes the soldier fight 
 without pay, the armies march without provisious, and it makes 
 the tradesman keep open sliop M'itliout stock. The force of 
 credit is not to be described by words. It is an impregnable 
 fortification either for a nation or for a single man in business, 
 and he that has credit is invulnerable, whether he has money 
 or no." And there is nowhere in the world where credit will 
 do more, or where there is more of it to be had, than in th.e 
 betting ring. It enabled Philip to "keeiDopeu shop withuut 
 goods " till the next settling day. 
 
 That day came, and ]\Ir. Durnford's account was absent fronr 
 the clubs. His name was mentioned pretty often in the course 
 of that Monday afternoon. He was wanted very badly. Then 
 people began to wonder who he was, what he was, why they 
 had booked bets to him. "Well they might wonder. This ten- 
 dency to trust every man who has paid ready money with his 
 bets for one month at most is one of the most remarkable tilings 
 about a professional layer. Very often he does not know the 
 address of his debtor, or even that the name he bets in is the 
 one he commonly makes use of. The layer must pay every 
 week, or his living is gone. The profession is propped up by 
 this solitary kind of honesty. The bookmaker always pays ; 
 but the backer may retire at any moment, as Philip did after 
 going for his gloves without getting them. 
 
 The ring-men used some very bad language when the next 
 Monday after his default came, and there was no news of him, 
 Nobody had seen him "about" that week either. One little 
 man had drawn a fiver of him in the street, having met him 
 casually in Chancery Lane. This speculator took a hopeful view 
 of things, and thought all would be right. You see he was out 
 of the mire. The others swore, and said they should be careful 
 in future whom they trusted, &c, ; but they had often said so 
 before, and it only wanted a young adventurer to pay up regu- 
 larly for three or four weeks, to be able to do Avith them exactly 
 what Philip Durnford had done. 
 
 When the fatal week was over, and he came to reckon up the 
 cost of his recklessness, he wished he had never done it. But 
 it was too late. He was neither more nor less than a welsher. 
 So men would say, he knew. And he bad still left some of the 
 feelings of a man of honour. So, for a day or two, he shut 
 himself up at home — moody, very irritable, and very wretched, 
 but safe. He blessed his stars that only one of thi; pack of
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL 217 
 
 ravening wolves knew liis private address. If he had had the 
 means he would have paid that man, under promise that he 
 would not tell his whereabouts to the rest. 
 
 When, after a day or two had passed, he ventured out, he 
 expected every moment to be stopped, or to meet some emissary 
 from the ring — to be insulted, jeered, hooted at, as a thief and a 
 welsher. But he was safe enough ; the ring-men were plying 
 their busy trade a hundred miles from where he stood. So he 
 got over his fear, and showed his face prett}^ much as of old. 
 Then came the chance of retrieving all. Iviugdon clashed with 
 a popular Midland meeting, !Not three of the bigger men who 
 wanted him would be there. He would go ; but keep out of the 
 ring, and bet in ready money. They could not stop him from doing 
 that ; and he had been very lucky at Kingdon in the summer. 
 
 His hansom drove along the muddy road at a good speed, 
 for he had covenanted to pay the driver "racing price" for the 
 day's job. They passed the last straggling rows of suburban 
 houses and got into the open coun-try of the " way down 
 Harrow-way," halting at all the recognised hostelries on the 
 road. " Half-way houses " the driver called them, where he 
 could just rinse the horse's mouth, and — what Avas equally 
 necessary — his own. Philip drev/ his Dutch courage from a 
 private fountain of inspiration in his breast pocket. An im- 
 pleasant fear of recognition kept him in his seat ; but the honest 
 cabman spent his fare's small silver for the good of the house at 
 every port they put in at. And it is almost superfluous to add 
 they touched at all they passed, or that to the sturdy sons of 
 Eritain this is more than half the pleasure of a day in the 
 country. As Philip furtively peeped out through the oval side 
 windows of his cab, he saw nothing to alarm him. He was re- 
 cognised, too, by a few friends, and by some of the small fry of 
 the professionals. These people, it was plain, had not heard of 
 his little mishap. It gave him courage to go into the ring when 
 he got to the course. He paid his six shillings at the gate, not 
 with the air of the expatriated wretch he was, but more like his 
 former self — the loving patron of a noble sport. He was early 
 in the field. The ring was thin. He mounted the wooden steps 
 of the Grand Stand, and hid himself safely away in the farthest 
 corner of the top shelf. From this eminence he watched and 
 waited — drank in the undulating landscape Avith his ga/.i', or 
 scanned the faces of tlie ring below through liis glass. The 
 clearing bell sounded ; thi; nuniljers of the runners >vero liojsted
 
 2i8 MY I.ITTLF. CTRL. 
 
 on the board — ho ticlcod them off on his card ; the riders' names 
 Avere added to the numbers; the saddling bell rang; the horses 
 streamed out of the enclosure ; the roar of the odds began in 
 the ring down below. He pricked his ears, as the war-horse at the 
 smell of i:)owder, or the veteran hunter at the torgue of the 
 hounds, and forgot his luck as he strained his ear to catcli, in 
 the roar of the Label, a notion of Avhat it was they were making 
 favourite, and how the market was going. 
 
 " How do they bet :" he asked, as one after another pushed 
 up the steps to where he stood. 
 
 He was satisfied the worst favourite could win at the weights, 
 if it was only trying. To assure himself of this, he edged and 
 dodged his way through the ring out to the lists. Not a hun- 
 gry creditor to be seen : only the small scoundrels who infest 
 the metropolitan gatherings were assisting at Kingdon. The 
 big rascals Avere away, a hundred and twenty miles off, in the 
 Midlands. 
 
 He had begun to feel safe, and confident in his judgment, 
 when he saw some well-known sharps putting down the money 
 in small sums at the lists on his own selection. 
 
 " She'll win," he said, with an excited chuckle, as he pressed 
 forward in the crowd with as springy a step as the mud round 
 the boxes permitted. 
 
 " Good goods — the old mare is," he heard an ex-champion of 
 England whisper in the ear of a sporting publican. 
 
 " Going straight 1" inquired the confidant, putting his dirty 
 hand before his greasy mouth. " Party got the pieces on ]" 
 
 " Hold yer jaw. '£r 'ead's loose — that's enough for you ; be 
 quick and back her, before it's blown on." 
 
 Philip profited by what he had overheard, rushed to the 
 nearest list, wrenched a crumpled fiver from his inside pocket, 
 and reached up to the man in the box. 
 
 " Corinthian Sal !" 
 
 The fist of the burly ruffian seized his note, squeezed it up 
 and shoved it into his bag, calling to his clerk behind — 
 
 "Fifty to five— Corinthian Sal." 
 
 " Eight !" 
 
 " Here's your ticket." 
 
 Philip took it, and in trying to get away from the list-man's 
 stand he was met by a hurrying crowd. There was a rush from 
 the ring to back the good thing, outside. Eut the men who 
 wanted to do it were well knowx. In an instant tlie pe.ncil was
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 210 
 
 run through the "10" before the name of Corinthian Salon 
 all the lists in the gambling thoroughfare. 
 
 In vain the excited regiment from the ring plunged through 
 tlie mud and mire, proffering their money to the list-keepers. 
 They were answered everywhere, " Done with." The secret 
 was out. The little Selling Plate was squared for the seven- 
 year-old daughter of Corinthian Tom. 
 
 " Another ramp ! And I've just laid fifty to five agen her," 
 groaned the man Philip had bet with. 
 
 " Ain't they hot on these selling races ?" 
 
 " He's a hot member as I've laid it to. These swells don't 
 come outside unless they know something." 
 
 When Philip managed to get back to his old stand, he met 
 with a friend or two who wanted to hear " what he had 
 done," and whether he " knew anything ;" and he had the 
 pleasure of telling them he was "in the know," appearing 
 to be much wiser than he really Avas, and letting them think he 
 had backed the mare for a good stake. 
 
 When ]]e saw her canter past the post, hands down, an easy 
 winner, he inwardly cursed his luck at having won when, com- 
 paratively speaking, he had "nothing on." 
 
 " Just my luck," he said, as he pocketed the fifty-five pounds 
 he had drawn ; " but let us hope it has taken a turn." 
 
 He patronised the refreshment booth, drinking some cham- 
 pagne with his friends ; and then turned his attention to the 
 next event, reduced to a match, as only two of the seven horses 
 entered came to the post. The talent were some time in making 
 a favourite. It was even betting between the two weedy screws 
 that cantered down to the starting-post. Philip, thiukhig it 
 prudent to keep for the present out of the ring, for fear of any 
 little contretemps that might arise from meeting somebody who 
 wanted him, went out to the lists, and at last betted the fifty 
 pounds he had won, in several small bets, posting the money. 
 He backed the favourite, laying fifty to forty on it — and lost. 
 
 Is it necessary that I should ask my reader to follow the for- 
 tunes of Pliilip through the two days' racing at Kingdon % To him 
 who is initiated in themystories of the turf my narrative will be in- 
 telligible, but probably uninteresting, for it is a tale ho knows by 
 heart. To the uninitiated this chapter must be to a great extent 
 unintelligible, therefore uninteresting. But the exigencies of my 
 history — as will be seen from wliat is to follow — seem to demand 
 that 1 should give a brief outline of Pliilip Duruford'.s doings
 
 220 MV UTTLE GIRL. 
 
 on this last apiienvauco of his in the channed circle devoted to 
 the interests of dishonesty and dirt. Apologising, let nic com- 
 ply with the necessity, ollering only, as some sort of excuse, the 
 plea that I draw from the life. 
 
 After losing the fifty pounds he had won, Philip had still his 
 little capital in his pocket intact. Three succeeding races re- 
 lieved him of three-fourths of it. 
 
 " Wliat forsaken luck !" he laughed, bitterly, being desperate. 
 " Fifty left ! One more flutter, 1 suppose, and then- " 
 
 "Hallo, old Durnford !" a friendly voice sounded in his ear. 
 " AVell, how are they using you, old man — eh'? I have just 
 landed again." 
 
 " I should say I had the devil's own luck," replied Philip, 
 " except for the curious fact that fellows say that indiscriminately 
 of the best luck and the worst." 
 
 " Well, we'll say you have the devil's worst luck, then." 
 
 They chatted till the numbers of the next race were run up. 
 
 " The good thing of the day," cried Philip's fiiend. " I know 
 three or four of the clever division that have come down on pur- 
 pose to back this. It was backed down to level money this 
 morning in town," 
 
 " We shall get no price about it," said Philip. 
 
 " I'll see what they offer. Shall I do anything for you T 
 
 Philip hesitated — only for a moment. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 *' I'm going to put the money down upon it, I can tell you." 
 
 " Put on a century for me." 
 
 Tlien he stole out to the lists and emptied his pockets. Thrj 
 odds he took against Triumpher were six to four. With the 
 hundred his friend had put on by this time, he stood to win 
 nearly two hundred pounds. AVith a beating heart he made for his 
 place of vantage on the top of the wooden steps. As he ran in 
 at the ring-gate he was stopped by a man who had often seen 
 him bet, but with Avhom he had no dealings before. 
 
 " What do you want to do, Captain Durnford % Let me have 
 a bet with you this time — come." 
 
 " Triumpher'?" said Philip, raising his eye-brows in a careless 
 way, and chewing the end of his pencil. 
 
 " Fifty to forty, sir." 
 
 " No." And he made a move to go on, feeling sure the odds 
 Avould be extended, 
 
 ".Sixty to forty, sir I"
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 221 
 
 *' Xot good enough." 
 
 " Here, I won't be be't by yon," cried another ring-man. " I'll 
 lay the gentleman eighty-five to seventy." 
 
 " All right," said Philip. 
 
 "Twice, sir?' 
 
 •' Twice." 
 
 As he asked the man's name and wrote it down in his book, 
 there was a general hoarse laugh among the bookmakers, for they 
 saw intuitively Avhat he had failed to see — namely, that he had 
 refused six to four and taken a fraction over four to three and a half. 
 But the laugh, when Philip had left them, Avas turned in quite 
 the opposite direction, when an acquaintance called out to the 
 man who had done the clever tiick — ■ 
 
 " So help me, you've gone and done it, you ha\e !" 
 
 •' Ha, ha !" laughed the layer. 
 
 " The Cap'u ain't paid for a fortni't. Now !" 
 
 The " Ha, ha !" now became " Oh-h, oli-h !" 
 
 "Pll off the bet. Where is he T 
 
 But Philip had altered his mind and was gone right away across 
 the running track to the other side, opposite the stand. He was 
 sitting out — dangling his legs over the white railing, and looking 
 at his muddy boots. Oh, the exquisite pleasure of seeing the 
 flag drop — the runners go down into the dip — come sweeping up 
 the hill ! 
 
 Puined or made ! His heart sank. 
 
 " Curse the boy ! why does he not bring the horse out of the 
 ruck ? He's shut in." 
 
 Hope at zero. Puiued. 
 
 " Xo, by Jove, he's got him out ! He's done it ! Hur-ray-y-y I" 
 
 Up went his hat, high in the air. 
 
 " Triumpher !" 
 
 Yes, the judge sends up "No. 21," and Phil drove home 
 nearly happy, with a mind full of resolutions to win on the 
 morrow. 
 
 "Wednesday morning broke in happy uncertainty as to whether 
 to be wet or fine. But by twelve o'clock in the day the rain 
 fell fast. But nothing short of tlie crack of doom — hard 
 frost excepted — will stop a race-meeting. All the difference 
 the weather apparently made to Pliilip Avas that, instead of 
 spending two .sovereigns in going down by road, he spent 
 two .shillings in going to Kingdon by rail. Wrapped in hia 
 mackintosh from head to foot, he felt in belter heart than ou
 
 222 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 the day before, and all weut on Avell till he was recognised on 
 the road and insulted by one of his forty-seven creditors for 
 debts of lionour. 
 
 " Well, what will you do T asked Philip, angrily. 
 
 " You show your face in the ring, and you'll see what I'll do. 
 Call yourself a gentleman — I call you. a welsher." 
 
 lie shouted the last word, and as there were a lot of people 
 about Philip rushed for a fly, and swore at the man for not 
 driving on in a moment. He did not pay for admission to the 
 ring. He knew the man would keep his word, so he played the 
 undignified part of an outsider, and was, besides, in constant 
 dread of being hooted by his enemy. There is no charge easier 
 to bring, or more difficult to rebut, than the charge of " welshing" 
 on a racecourse, and the mob has a nasty habit of hu-nting 
 the victim half-naked into the nearest pond, and hearing the 
 evidence some other day. This unpleasant practice made the 
 young man careful whom he met. Altogether things were un- 
 pleasant. There were seven races on the wet card. They were 
 run in a pouring rain. There was no trusting to form, for 
 the horses could not act in the wet, and all calculations were up- 
 set. Of the first four races on the card, Philip won two and 
 lost two. Then he sat out and looked on once without a bet — 
 sad, weary, and dripping. 
 
 On his fancy for the last two races he staked all the money 
 he had in the world — and lost it. 
 
 " Well, old fellow," said an acquaintance whom he met on the 
 platform at King's Cross, seizing him by the shoulders and giving 
 him a friendly shake, " if you've been backing horses in red mud 
 you've come off a winner and no mistake — you've got plenty of 
 it sticking about you. What a day it has been !" 
 
 Philip muttered " Damnable," in an undertone, and getting 
 into a cab directed the man to drive him home. As they left 
 the station yard, he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out 
 the only coins he had left. They were just enough to pay hia 
 fare. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Some of my readers — I am writing for both Avorlds — have very 
 likely been hanged. They will remember that on the morning 
 of the day for which this unpleasant operation — surrounded by 
 everything most likely to increase the unavoidable discomfort—
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 223 
 
 was fixed, tliey slept sweetly and soundly, awaking early in the 
 morning with dreams of childhood's innocence. This was the 
 case with Philip on the morning after all this disaster had fallen 
 ii^Jon him. He awoke at twelve from a dream of perfect peace 
 and happiness — awoke smiling and at rest. Suddenly, the 
 thought of all his miseiy fell upon him, and he started up wide 
 awako and wretched. He could not lie any longer, but got up, 
 dressing hurriedly and nervously. All, everything, gone : more 
 than all. Dishonour before him and ruin already upon him. 
 In this evil plight, what to do % He thought of Arthur ; but 
 he could not bear to go and tell him, liis younger brother, the 
 story of his ruin. And then he looked back, and saw with what 
 fatal fully he had gone deeper and deeper, hoping against hope, 
 living in the fool's paradise of a gambler. 
 
 He went downstairs, and found Laura, fresh and bright, read- 
 ing quietly in the window. She looked up, rang the bell, and 
 sat down again. No word of welcome for him, none of re- 
 jjroach ; for, as her husband grew colder, the young wife re- 
 treated more and more within herself. Laura's fiice has changed 
 in the last three months. The old look has passed away, and 
 another has taken its place. It is a sad expression, an expres- 
 sion of thought and reflection, that sits upon her face. She has 
 found out her great and terrible fault. Between herself and 
 Philip there is nothing in common ; and she trembles, thinking 
 of the future that lies before, and a life spent as these last three 
 months have been. For she has no friends, no visitors, no ac- 
 quaintance. No one but Philip and ]\Ir. Maclntyre ever speaks 
 to her. She is alone in the world. And yet she knows in her 
 heart, that there is one friend to whom she may go, with whom 
 she AviU And forgiveness. Of that she is certain. Philip's 
 breakfast was brought up. He sat down, exasperated with him- 
 self, with his wife because she took no notice of him, with 
 everything. He poured out a cup of tea, and looked at it. 
 Then he broke into a fit of irrepressible wrath. 
 
 " Damn it all," he said, " the tea is cold." 
 
 His wife looked at him in surprise. It was the first time hf 
 had ever lost his temper before her. 
 
 " Philip ! Why, it is just made." 
 
 To prove his words, he tasted it, and scalded his lips. Then 
 he pushed the tray back, swearing again. Laura watched him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " 1 will have no tea and trash. Give me some brandy.*'
 
 224 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 '• Not ill the moiuiug. Philip, you are very strange. Aro 
 you ill r 
 
 He went to the cellaret and helped himself, saying nothing. 
 
 Just then the maid came, bearing a small blue paper — a mis- 
 sive from the butcher. 
 
 ''•Philip, give me four pounds, please. The man wants his 
 mouey." 
 
 " I have no money." 
 
 " IMary, tell the butcher to call again to-morrow," Laura said, 
 Hushing with shame. " What is the meaning of this, Philip f 
 
 " iS^othing. If there were, you would not care — you would 
 not understand. Do you care anything at all for what concerns 
 me ? Have your ever cared ]" 
 
 *' At least, I may know if it is anything in which I can 
 help." 
 
 " You cannot help. You can only make things worse. If 
 you loved me, you might. But, there, what is the use of 
 talking]" 
 
 She was looking quite coldly in his face. Love? — of course 
 she had never loved him. Put why — why did not conscience, 
 who so often slumbers when she ought to be awake and at work 
 — why did not conscience remind him then, even then, of all the 
 girl had given to him, and all of which he had robbed her 1 
 He might have remembered her sweet and innocent trust ; 
 the confidence which came from perfect purity of soul ; the 
 nights when he had awakened, her head upon his breast, his 
 arms round her neck, to listen to her sweet breath rise and fall, 
 to catch the murmur of her dreams, and, for very sliame's sake, 
 he might have thought of the friend from whom he had torn 
 her — the disgraceful lies and deceits with which he had sur- 
 rounded her. But he thought of none of these things. He 
 thought only that, at all risks and hazards, this at least must be 
 put an end to. 
 
 " "What is it, Philip 1" she asked, with frightened eyes. 
 " I have been thinking," he said, lookiug on the carpet, and 
 lighting a cigar with trembling lingers, " for some time, that we 
 should come to an understanding." 
 " What about ]" 
 
 " About everything — our marriage especially." 
 I believe that when he got up that morning nothing was 
 farther from his thoughts than this villany. But a drowning 
 man catches at a straw j and the ruined man saw that by get-
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 225 
 
 ting rid of Laura he sliould at least be free to act. The poorer 
 of impecuniosity to make men do vile and abominable things 
 has never been properly stated by poet or novelist. In the 
 Lord's Prayer, after the petitions for bread and forgiveness, 
 conies the equally important one that Ave may not be led into 
 temptation — amongst other things, by an empty purse. 
 
 Laura suspected nothing, understood nothing. 
 
 " I told you two months ago, Laura, that perhaps you might, 
 some time or other, make another attempt to recover Mr. Venn's 
 friendship. I think the time has come." 
 
 " I may write to him, Philip 1 You mean it % — you really 
 mean if?" 
 
 " I think I would not write to him, if I were you, because 
 you might mislead him on one or two important points. I think 
 you had better go and see him." 
 
 " Mislead him % How am I to mislead him T 
 
 He looked up and met the clear, deep eyes of his wife, and 
 his own fell. His voice grew husky. 
 
 " When you met me — that is, Avhen I took you to the lodgings 
 of the man in Iveppel Street — " 
 
 " Where we were married T 
 
 " Where, Laura — there is no use hiding things any longer — 
 where the man pretended to marry us." 
 
 (She looked full at him, unable to take in, all at once, the 
 whole force of his words. 
 
 Philip, the fatal shot once fired, felt emboldened to proceed. 
 But he w^as very pale. 
 
 " Maclntyre was not a properly qualified clergyman. Heliad 
 no power to marry us. He says he is a clergyman of the Scotch 
 Church. If that is any consolation to you, believe it. The man 
 is an accomplished liar; but he may sometimes speak the truth. 
 We are no more married, Laura, than if we had never met." 
 
 " You knew tliis all along, Mr. Durnford T 
 
 " All along. I should liave married you regularly, because I 
 was so infatuated with your beauty ; but you insisted on being 
 married on that particular Wednesday or no other. It was not 
 altogether ray fault. I tliought perhaps — " 
 
 " Yes," said Laura, sitting down. 
 
 Keither spoke for a space. The cigar went out between Philip'.^ 
 lips, and these trembled and shook. His face was white, with a 
 look of terror : a man might have it when ho auddenl\^ realises 
 that all tho nobleness ha.s gone out of him. 
 
 15
 
 226 MV LITTLE CTRL. 
 
 Presently lie moved forward a step. She started back, cry- 
 ing— 
 
 " Don't toucli me — don't come near me !" 
 
 " Laura, in spite of your coldness — though you have never 
 loved me as I once loved you — I should have kept this secret, 
 but for one thing. I am utterly ruined. I not only have no 
 money, but I owe hundreds of pounds more than I can pay, and 
 I shall be a dishonoured man, I must leave the country if I 
 cannot raise the money. We must part." 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, "we must part. Why did we ever 
 meet ? By what cruel mockery of fate did you ever cross my 
 path ? Part ! Man, if you were to touch me, if I were to feel 
 your breath upon me, I should die. You, who for five months 
 have lived with this shameful lie upon your conscience — you 
 who called yourself a gentleman — you who mocked at the poor 
 man's sins and sufferings — you ! Is every gentleman like this ?" 
 
 He did not answer, looking down upon the hearth-rug. There 
 were, then, some remains of shame upon him. 
 
 Laura poured out a glass of water and drank it. Then she 
 took off her wedding ring, kissed it, and laid it gently on the 
 table. 
 
 *' Holy symbol," she said, " I must not wear you any longer. 
 Why did you find me out to ruin me, Mr. Philip Durnford ? 
 Are there not enough poor women crying in the world, but you 
 must bring sorrow and shame to another % And — and — oh, 
 God ! is heaven so full that there is no room in it for me?" 
 
 Then she turned upon him like a tigress, so that he shrank 
 back and cowered. 
 
 " You, for whom I prayed night and morning. You, that I 
 thought all nobleness and honour ; so that 1 laid bare all the 
 secrets of my soul to you, and told everything that was in my 
 heart ! I am ashamed when I think that I have so talked with 
 you. I am more ashamed of tliis than of anything. And, oh ! 
 Avhat Avill Mr. Venn say when I go back to him, and tell him 
 all the shameful story ? How shall I tell it him — how shall I 
 tell it him % Philip Durnford, keep out of his way, and tell that 
 other man, your accomplice, to keep out of his way and hide 
 liimself, or it may be worse for him. I don't want any punish- 
 ment to fall on you — except, I suppose, God does sometimes 
 make wicked people feel their wickedness. But nothing can 
 make their victims again as they have been. When your turn 
 comes, Philip, when you go from bad to worse — when you find
 
 JIfV LITTLE GIRL. 227 
 
 yourself at last upon your death-bed, with tlm behind you, yoy 
 will think of me — you will think of me." 
 
 Philip was a little recovered by this time. 
 
 " Of course," he said, lightly, " I expected a little unpleasant 
 ness at first. You will see, when we get older, that I could not 
 act otherwise." 
 
 " As a gentleman — no," 
 
 " I will not be irritated," he went on, being now as calm as if 
 he were doing a virtuous action — " I will not be irritated. The 
 sale of this furniture " 
 
 " Thank you — you are thoughtful." 
 
 Then she left him, and went to her own room, where she 
 locked the door and threw herself upon the bed. 
 
 Philip, left alone, wiped his forehead and breathed more freely. 
 One source of expense was gone, at any rate. There was com- 
 fort in that thought — a ray of sunshine in the tempest of his 
 mind. As for what might be said or thought of him, he was pro- 
 foundly indifferent. Only it occurred to him that the news 
 might have been broken in a different manner, less abruptly, 
 through a third person, by letter. However, it was done, and 
 nothing could undo it. Misfortune to some men is a kind of 
 Ithuriel's spear : it reveals the real nature of a man — 
 
 " No falsehood can endure 
 Touch of celestial temper, but returns 
 Of force to his own Ukeuess." 
 
 Then the bravo man becomes a coward, the large-hearted man 
 mean, the godly man ungodly, the virtuous man vicious, the 
 noble a lache. The women of the family generally have the 
 best opportunities of finding out the truth ; but they cover it 
 up, hide it, and go about flaunting their colours of loyalty to the 
 great and good man whom all the world admires ; and, after the 
 first agony of shame, fall into that cynicism which sits so ill on 
 woman's nature. As for the men, I think their thoughts may 
 arrange themselves in the form of a Collect, a prayer for every 
 moruiug of the year, as thus : " Lord, the helper of sinners as 
 well as of saints, let not the smugness of our reputation ever de- 
 crease ; but replenish us, above all things, with the bulwarks of 
 wealth and honour, so that the virtues with which we are 
 credited may never be called into exercise." And tliere are 
 some — Philip Duruford was one — who deliberately believe 
 themselves tube chivalrous, delicately honourable, brave, manly, 
 
 lij— 2
 
 228 MV LITTLE CTRL. 
 
 iiud great; though all the Uiiie every thought and every action 
 might go to prove the' contrary. The mirror in which men 
 see themselves — what we call conscience — is distorted ; and 
 Avhile the real man performs duties and absurdities in folly and 
 sin, the mirror shows another Sir Galahad, marching, Avith lofty 
 crest, along the narrow path of honour, while in the sunshine 
 glow the battlements Avhich guard the Holy Grail. 
 
 Such was Philip in his mirror. All of a sudden, wlien Laura 
 left him, there was an instant flash of lightning in his soul, which 
 showed him a thing he was never to forget, the real crea- 
 ture he was. No Sir Galahad, but a mopping and mowing antic, 
 crawling ignobly down the slope of Averuus. He started to his 
 feet, and stood for a moment staring into space. Then he seized 
 the brandy bottle, and drank a wine-glassful ; and behold Sir 
 Galahad again ! — only with a sort of blurr and haze around his 
 noble form, evermore to grow more blurred as the memory of 
 this guilt eats into his soul. Perhaps this illusory image will 
 some day be wholly gone, and his real self be seen with clearer 
 eyes. Then may he cry aloud to be delivered from the body of 
 this death, and God's punishment be npon him — the punish- 
 ment of forgiveness. Is there no punishment in repentance and 
 self-abasement % Cannot revenge itself be satisfied when the 
 sinner is prostrate, crying, from shame and remorse, " Lord, I 
 have sinned — I have sinned T 
 
 Laura, in her bed-room, sat silent for a while, trying to think. 
 Then she fell on her knees and tried to pray ; but no words 
 came. Only as she knelt a thought came across lier soul, which 
 was, perhaps, the answer to her prayer. For she arose swiftl}^ 
 and began to undress herself. Everything she had on she tors 
 off and threw from her, as if it had been a shirt of JS'essus. 
 Her earrings, her jewels, the cross round her neck, she laid on 
 the table ; and put with them her watch and chain, all her little 
 trinkets — all but a single little cross with a black ribbon, which 
 she laid aside, for Mr. Venn had given it to her. And then she 
 opened all her drawers, took out the contents — the trousseau that 
 Philip had given her — piled them all in a heap, and trampled 
 on them with her bare little feet. And then, out of the lowest 
 division, she took the dress she had worn when she was married : 
 all that she had on that day was lying folded together, even to 
 the stockings and the little boots. She put them on hurriedly : 
 the dress of blue merino stuff; the little hat with an ostrich 
 feather, Mr. Venn's last gift ; the ivory cross and tlie locket he
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 229 
 
 had givL'u her, the brown cloth jacket, tlie belt with the great 
 Bteel buckle, and the new pau' of gloves — the last she had ro 
 ceived from him. In the pocket of her dress was her purse, and 
 in it two pounds — ]\[r. Venn's two pounds. 
 
 Then she took her jewel-case, placed in it all the tilings that 
 Philip had given her, and descended the stairs. He was sittin"- 
 tliere, just as she had left him half an hour before : her hand- 
 some husband, her knight, and lord, and king. He for whom 
 she had left the noblest of friends, to cleave to hiui. All the 
 nobleness was gone out of his face. As she looked on him, 
 .she wondered where it had been ; and she pitied him — yes, she 
 pitied him — for his baseness. 
 
 He looked up, and made a motion with his lips as if he would 
 speak ; but no words came. She placed the jewel-case on the 
 table gently. 
 
 " You will hnd my dresses upstairs, Mr. D urn ford. You can 
 sell them for something, I dare say. I am come to return you 
 your other presents. There is the watch you gave me at Vieux- 
 camp, with a pretty speech about its lasting as long as your 
 love — you remember it, I dare say. Here is the chain. You 
 said that love's fetters were all golden. It was a very pretty 
 thing to say, was it not ? Here are the bracelets, and all the 
 rest. They will do for your next victim. 
 
 " After the next mock marriage, try to undeceive the victim a 
 little less suddenly and harshly. Let her know it in some way 
 a little different to this. 
 
 " I wish you had died first, Philip. I wish you were lyiug 
 dead at my feet, and that I were crying over your dead body, 
 believing you to be good and true. jSI"ow there is nothing to 
 lament. Put how much worse for both of us ! The last 
 iiicmory I shall carry away with mo is of a coward and a liar. 
 .V gentleman ! Look in the glass at your own face." 
 
 It was now, though she did not know this, the face of a negro, 
 with protruding lips, lowering eyebrows, and black cheeks. 
 
 " Have you more to say V asked Philip, hoarsely. 
 
 " I go as I came," she said. " AVhatever I brought with me I 
 take away, but nothing more. Stay, this is my own penknife." 
 
 She took a little white-handled thing from the iidvstand, and 
 ))ut it into her i)0cket. It was the slightest action in the world, 
 but it wrung Philip's heart as nothing yet had wrung it. 
 
 " Kow tliero is nothing left to remind you of me," she said. 
 " Mr. Venn will help me, I go ])ack to hiui."
 
 230 iWF LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 He did not speak. 
 
 '' Farewell, Philip." 
 
 She turned to go. As she touched the handle of the door, 
 her husband fell forward on his knees before her, and caught her 
 by the hand, with tears and sobs. 
 
 " Laura, Laura !" he cried, " forgive me. All shall be a3 it 
 was. We will be married again. Forgive me, Laura, I am 
 mad this morning. Only stay." 
 
 But she slipped from him, and was gone. 
 
 After all, the memory of her husband was not altogether that 
 of the hardened wretch she miu;ht have thought him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 About two o'clock Mr. Maclutyre called upon his patron, and 
 found him in a state of mental irritation which indicated the 
 necessity of prudence and tact. He was sitting where Laura 
 had left him, glowering over the fire — her bracelets and trinkets 
 on the table ; and the black cloud upon his face, with this dis- 
 order, was quite sufficient to teach the student of human nature 
 that something had happened. A carious phrase this — if we 
 may be allowed a digression. It surely indicates a strong belief 
 in the malignity of fate, when the phrase, " something has hap- 
 peuetl," means misfortune ; as if nothing was ever given unex- 
 pectedly except kicks and butfets. So far as my own experience 
 goes, the voice of the people is right. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre assumed an expression designed to illustrate 
 the profound sympathy working in his breast, took olf his hat, 
 and sat down in silence. 
 
 " What's the matter, Phil T after a pause. 
 
 Philip made an impatient gesture. 
 
 "Mrs. Durnford " 
 
 " Damnation !" cried Philip, starting to his feet, and walking 
 backwards and forwards. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre was silent. Presently, preserving the same 
 sympathetic look, he rose, and moving softly — after the manner 
 of one who respects trouble — he proceeded to the well-known 
 cellaret, whence he drew a decanter of sherry. Helping himself 
 to a glass, he drank it off with a deep sigh. Then he shook his 
 head solemnly, and oliered the decanter to Piiilip. 
 
 *' L*xiuk .1" he cried. " It's all you think of. Is there a
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 231 
 
 misfortune in the world that you would not try to cure with 
 drink?" 
 
 " None," said Maclntyre — " I think there is none. Drink 
 makes a man forget everything. But what is it, Philip % What 
 has happened?" 
 
 " Why have you not been near me for a week T 
 
 " Because I have been busy about my own affairs. What 
 Juis happened, then V 
 
 " I have been losing about as fast as a man could lose for 
 seven or eight weeks — " 
 
 " Eh, man ! luck will—" 
 
 " I have no luck but the devil's, I suppose. Listen : you 
 blew the spark into a flame — you and your wonderful secret 
 were at the beginning of it. ' The mighty lever that can make 
 us meellionaires.' You recollect f 
 
 " I can't but say I do." 
 
 " Well, the lever's broke into little bits, that's all. I owe 
 more hundreds than I can tell you over what I can pay. I have 
 not bothered to add up the sum total of the book over the 
 Houghton meeting. I can tell you this, though : before King- 
 don I had forty-seven creditors ; now, I suppose, I've got three 
 or four more. They'd like to meet me, I have not the least 
 doubt. They won't. I'm scratched for all my engagements. 
 Broken down badly. It is not one leg in my case, it's all 
 four." 
 
 He laughed. His mind was easier since the anxiety of how 
 he should find the money to pay with had been removed. Ho 
 had decided not to pay : been desperate and gambled without 
 much hope of paying ; come off second best at the game, and had 
 not paid. His desperation had brought some sort of relief with it. 
 Only the reckless man can laugh as he did. Mr. Maclntyre, 
 now many degrees removed from the feeling of recklessness, saw 
 no cause for making merry, and opened his eyes as wide as it 
 was possible to do, patting on his most sympathising mask, at 
 the same time tliat he ejaculated a pious — " Hear that now !" 
 as his young friend's narrative proceeded. 
 
 " See there," Philip continued, tossing liis betting-book across 
 the table to Mr. Maclntyre, "turn over tlio pages, and satisfy 
 yourself There is a line scored through the wins. You won't 
 find many. I backed fifteen horses in tlie last two days at 
 Newmarket without .-^coring om; win." 
 
 "I doubt," said Mr. Maclntyre, shaking his head, and
 
 2j2 J/V LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 lianding back the book — "I doubt you did not keep to the 
 seestem. Ah, now " 
 
 " I did not. Nobody ever did keep to a system. They n-.ean 
 to at tho start; but they forget they even meant, till they 
 come to add up a losing account. I thought when you saw 
 what a succession of facers backers have had, you would have 
 guessed what was the matter." 
 
 Here he picked up a newspaper a week old, and read — " The 
 complaints of absent accounts were loud and deep, and no won- 
 der. Even bookmakers don't like to be shot at ; and two noble 
 lords, besides a baker's dozen of ' untitled noblemen,' have gone 
 in the last few weeks." 
 
 " ' Untitled noblemen,' Maclutyre, that's for me. After that 
 awful j\Ionday came, I was frightened at my own shadow for a 
 few days, and hardly dared to look into the paper of a morning. 
 I expected to find my name at the head of tlie sporting intel 
 ligcuce, or in the agony column with the people wanted. They 
 don't do tliat, I find : but one fellow has written, after calling 
 about twenty times at the club, to say he shall post me at Tat- 
 tersall's. ]\Iuch I care if he does. It will be a poste restante, 
 but I am not likely to be called for." 
 
 " Ye don't know that," said Maclntyre, wisely wagging 
 his head. 
 
 " I do," said Philip, witli his bitter, scornful, hollow laugh. 
 " All is lost — honour, money, all. If I raked together every- 
 thing I have in the world, I don't suppose I should be able to 
 pay a shilling in the pound. But this is not all. I've had 
 another loss," he went on. " I told that girl the Avhole truth, 
 and she has left me." 
 
 " Is she gone % I am sorry," said Maclutyre. " I've always 
 been vera sorrv for the poor little bonnie thing." 
 
 " She is gone, and will never come back to me. So that is 
 finished. Let us talk about other things. I suppose, Maclutyre, 
 that the marriage was all a farce T 
 
 The reverend gentleman took two bits of paper — the fiimous 
 marriage certificates — from his pocket, and handed thcin to 
 Philip. 
 
 " The mock certificates," he said. " Yes, Philip, you can do 
 what you like with them. Best tear them up." 
 
 Philip threw them into the fire. 
 
 " But you told me—" 
 
 ** Eh, now ] Don't let us have a blethorin' about wha*; I told
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 233 
 
 you. You were in one of your moral moods that day, you see ; 
 and T always suit my conversation to circumstances. I just 
 thought it best to make the most of what we did. Perhaps I 
 was never an ordained clergyman at all. Perhaps I pretended. 
 I have preached though, on probation. It was at Glasgie. They 
 said I wanted Unction. Eh, sirs, what a man I might have 
 been with Unction !" 
 
 Philip took him by the shoulders, and held him at arni'ti 
 length. 
 
 " j\laclntyre, you are a precious scoundrel. I am bad enough, 
 God knows; but not so bad as you. I have the strongest desire 
 at this moment to take you by the throat, and throttle the lit'o 
 out of you." 
 
 The philosopher looked up for one moment in alaruj, but 
 speedily smiled again. 
 
 "You will not, Phil. First, because it would be murder, 
 and you would not like to be hanged. Second, because you 
 would not be such a fool as to hurt the only man who has it in 
 his power to help vou." 
 
 " You !" 
 
 " And third, because your wrath is like a fire of chips. It 
 burns out as soon as it is lighted." 
 
 Philip let him go. 
 
 " If you are the only man to help me, why the devil 
 don't you, instead of drinking sherry and telling lue what a liar 
 you are?' 
 
 " I'm going to," said the little man, sitting down with an air 
 of great dignity, and beginning to tremble, because he was at 
 last going to play his great card. " I'm going to. Sit down, 
 Phil, and listen. Let us first face the position. What is it T 
 
 " Ruin and disgrace." 
 
 " For want of a few hundreds, which I will put into your 
 hands at once, with plenty more to the back of them." 
 
 " Go on, man. Are there anv more lies at the bottom of 
 all this?" 
 
 " Do not pain me unnecessarily, Philip. You will be sorry 
 afterwards. This is a very grave and serious matter. Do you 
 remember a conversation I had with you after your father's 
 death V 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " I hinted then at the pcssession of certain documents, which 
 might or miglit not be found useful in pioving you the heir to 
 certain property."
 
 234 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Go on, Macliityre, Do get ou faster." 
 
 " I afterwards obtained those proofs. During all the years 
 of my wandering, I have kept them releegiously in my pocket- 
 book, in the hope that they might one day be of use in restor- 
 ing you, my favourite pupil, to your own." 
 
 He dropped his voice from nervousness. Suppose, after all, 
 the plan should fail ] It seemed to Philip that his accents 
 trembled with emotion. 
 
 "The papers prove you beyond a doubt — I mean, mind, 
 beyond a legal doubt — to be the sole heir of your father's 
 property, the estate of Fontainebleau, in the Island of Palmisle." 
 
 " Arthur's estate ! I will not believe it." 
 
 " Do not, if you prefer to believe to the contrary. It brings in 
 at present about £4,000 per annum, clear profit, in good years. 
 There is not a mortgage on it, and it is managed by the most 
 honest man in all the island. Philip, I offer you this — not in 
 an illegal way, not in a way of which you will hereafter be 
 ashamed, but as a right, your right. I offer you fortune, escape 
 from all your troubles ; and Philip — not the least — I oiler you 
 legitimacy." 
 
 " The proofs, Maclntyre — the proofs." 
 
 " Wait, wait. Pirst read and sign this document. It is a 
 secret agreement. It is not possible to receive the sudi named 
 by any legal procedure — I trust entirely to your honour. And 
 if you do not obtain the estate, the agreement is not worth the 
 paper it is Avritten on." 
 
 Philip read irt. It was a paper in which he pledged him- 
 self to hand over to Maclntyre, as soon as he got the Fontaine- 
 bleau estate, the sum of .£5,000. 
 
 " It will be a cruel thing to turn out Arthur," he said. 
 
 " You can settle with all your creditors," said Maclntyre, 
 significantly. 
 
 "At the worst, I can but starve," said Philip. 
 
 " Hoots toots !" said the philosopher. " I've tried it : you 
 would not like it. Of course you will not starve. Sign the 
 paper, and we will proceed." 
 
 Philip took a pen, signed it, and tossed it back. 
 
 Maclntyre folded the document, and carefully rejjlaced it 
 in his pocket-book. Then he took out three or four papers, 
 wrapped in a waterproof cover. They were clean enough, though 
 frayed at the edges, and the ink was yellow with age. He 
 handed I hem solemnly to Philip. Three of them were letters
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 235 
 
 written by George Durnford, begiuiiing "My dearest wife," 
 and ending with "Your most affectionate husband, George 
 Duinford." 
 
 " Obsairve," said Mr. MacTntyre, " The dates of all are hejore, 
 that of his marriage with Mdlle. Adrienne de Eosnay. The 
 letters themselves are not sufficient. Look at this." 
 
 It was a certificate of marriage between George Durnford and 
 Marie no other name. 
 
 " And this." 
 
 The last paper purported to be a copy of a marriage register 
 from the lioman Catholic chaplain of St. Joseph. To it was 
 appended a statement to the effect that the marriage had been 
 privately solemnised in Mr. Durnford's house, but that the 
 register was duly entered in the church-book. 
 
 Philip's eyes flashed. 
 
 " If you had told me that you were yourself the Eoman 
 Catholic priest, I should not have believed you. Maclntyre, it' 
 those papers are what they pretend to be, I am a legitimate sou." 
 
 " Of course you are, I've known it all along. But I waited 
 my opportunity." 
 
 " Who are the witnesses to the marriage?" asked Phili]). 
 
 " See those signatures. I am one. I was present on the 
 occasion. The other is Adolplie, brother to Marie the bride. 
 The clergyman is dead, and I suppose the other witness, by tliis 
 time. But you can inquire in Palmiste, if you like. The ways 
 of what we call Providence are obscure. They may appear to 
 be winding. They are, in reality, straight." 
 
 Philip made an impatient gesture, and he sto])ped. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre had played his last card, his King of Trumps, 
 and it looked like winning. He breathed more easily. 
 
 " I believe, Maclntyre," said Philip, coolly, " that there 
 is not a single thing in the world that you would not do for 
 money." 
 
 " There is not," replied the tutor, witli readiness. " There is 
 nothing. And why not ? I look rcjund, and see all men en- 
 gaged in the pursuit of wealth. They have but one thought — 
 to make money. I, too, have been possessed all my life with 
 an ardent desire to be rich. But furtune has persecuted me. 
 Ill-luck has dogged me in all that I have tried. I am past titty 
 now, and have tjut a lew years to live. To have a large fortune 
 would bring with it no enj'j} merit that I any longer grtiatly care 
 lor. Bat to have a famuli one would meau case, res|JOctabiliLy,
 
 236 A/y L/TTLE GIRL. 
 
 comfort for my declining years, nurses to smooth my pillow, con- 
 siderate friends. This is what I want. This is what you will 
 give me. I have looked for it all these years, and bided my 
 time. With my five thousand pounds, which is two hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year, I shall go to some quiet country place, 
 and live in comfort. My antecedents will be unknown. I shall 
 be Kespectable at last." 
 
 The prospect was too much for him, philosopher that he 
 was. He went on, in an agitated voice, walking up and down 
 the room — 
 
 " Money ! Is there anything in the world that money will not 
 procure % Is it friends % You can get them by the bribe of a 
 dinner. Is it love % You can buy the semblance and win the 
 substance. Is it honour % You can buy that too, if you have 
 got enough money. Is it power.'? Money is synonymous with 
 power. Is it comfort % Only money will buy it. Is it health ? 
 You may win it back by money. Is it independence '? You 
 cannot have it without money. j\Ioney is the provider of all." 
 
 " It won't help you to get to heaven." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Without it I am — I am damned if you 
 will get to heaven." 
 
 "A curiously involved expression," said Philip, looking at the 
 man with astonishment. 
 
 "Answer me this, Phil. Did you ever hear of a poor man 
 repenting, unless it was when he was going to be hanged T 
 
 " I really have not given the subject any consideration." 
 
 " You never did. It is only the rich who have leisure to 
 repent. What is a poor man to think about but the chance of 
 to-morrow's dinner % Great heavens, Phil, when I think of how 
 wretchedly, miserably, detestably poor my life has been, my 
 wonder is, not that my life has been so bad, but that it has not 
 been worse. Do you know what grinding poverty is? Do you 
 know what it is to be a poor student at a Scotch Univairsity ? 
 Do you know what it means to take up a sacred profession 
 which you are not fit for — to disgrace yourself and lose self- 
 respect before you are five and twenty — to be put to a tliousand 
 shifts — to invent a hundred dodges— to lose your dignity as a 
 man — to be a parasite, and fail in that — to take to drink because 
 the years of your manhood are slipping by, and a miserable old age 
 is before you % Tell me, can you guess what all these things mean 1 
 Youth ! I had no youth. It was wasted in study and poverty. 
 I dreamed of love and the graces of life. None came to me.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRI^. 237 
 
 No womftn has ever loved rae. Xot one. I liave always been too 
 poor even to dream of love, Philip, I like you for one reason. 
 You have kicked me like a dog. You have called me names. 
 You despise me. But you and I are alike in this, that we owe 
 the world a grudge. I rejoiced when I saw you ruining your- 
 self. I stood by at the last and let it go on, because I knew that 
 every hundred pounds you threw away brought me nearer to my 
 end. And that is the five thousand pounds that you will give me." 
 
 Philip said nothing. He saw in part what this man was 
 whom he had believed to be a simple common rogue ; saw hira 
 as he was — pertinacious, designing, cynically unscrupulous. He 
 recoiled before a nature stronger than his own, and felt abashed. 
 
 "The money," Maclntyre went on, "will not comeabit too soon. 
 I am nearly at the end of the hundred pounds I had. Arthur 
 told me I should have another fifty, and then no more. What 
 should I do when that was gone ? You remember what I was 
 when you met me in the street % — a poor famished creature, on 
 one-and-threepence a day. A few more weeks would have 
 finished me. Even now the efiects of that bitter winter are 
 on me, and I wake at night with the terror upon me that those 
 days are coming back — that I shall have to return to the two- 
 penny breakfast, and the fourpenny dinner, and the miserable 
 lodging where I sat at night, gloomy and drinkless. Money ! 
 He asks me if I would do anything for money. I, with my 
 memories ! Philip, I swear there is no act of dishonesty I Avould 
 not commit to save mj'self from this awful dread of destitution 
 that hangs over me day and night. After my miserable life, 
 compensation is due to me. I say, sir, it is due." 
 
 His face grew black and loAvering. 
 
 " If I am not paid what is owing to me, I shall take what I 
 can get. For the forced hypocrisies of my youth, for my servile- 
 manhood, for my ill-fortune, my wretched condition of last year, 
 1 swear that compensation is duo to me. Honesty ! The wise 
 man guides himself by circumstances. Well, I've prayed — yes, 
 you may laugh, but I have prayed till my knees were stiif — for 
 some measure, even tlie smallest, of success in the world, for 
 just a little of that material comfort which makes Hie tolerable. 
 As well pray for the years to roll back as for fate to be changed. 
 Whatever I do henceforth I claim as my right. It is my com- 
 pensation for the sufferings of the past." 
 
 He sat down. Philip noticed how shaky ho was, how his legs 
 tottered and the perspiration stood in great beads upon his nose
 
 238 JffV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 — the feature wlicre emotion generally first showed itself with 
 this philosopher. But he answered him not a word. 
 
 " Go now," he said, " and show these papers to Arthur. He 
 ought to see them." 
 
 Maclntyre put on his hat. 
 
 " Don't come back here," said Philip. " Find me at the club. 
 I should choke if I slept a night in this house." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 When Arthur heard Maclntyre's story, he was amazed. 
 
 " Why did you not tell me all this before 1" he asked, at last. 
 " You have known it all these years — why did you not tell it 
 when my father died % Let me look at the letters again. They 
 are in my father's handwriting. Is there some villainy in this T 
 
 " The extract from the register, ye'U obsairve," said the philo- 
 sopher, passing over the injurious nature of the last words, " is 
 certificated by a firm of respectable solicitors, and enclosed to 
 me by their agents in London." 
 
 " Why not tell the story before ?" 
 
 " Loard, loard ! it is a suspicious world. You will remember, 
 Mr. Arthur, that I was once violently assaulted by your brother?" 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " It was because I hinted at this secret. For no other reason. 
 Therefore, as I was not personally interested in either of you getting 
 the money — though I certainly always received great consideration 
 from Philip — I held my tongue. The time has now come, when 
 poor Phil is ruined." 
 
 "Ptuiued! how T 
 
 " He has lost his money on the turf. He has now nothing. 
 This being the case, I found it time to interfere. Here are my 
 papers — here my proofs. It's vera hard for you, Mr. Arthur, 
 after so many years o' the pillow o' luxury, and ye will com- 
 mence to remember some of tlie maxums — " 
 
 "What does Philip say?" 
 
 " He told me to bring you the things, and tell you the story." 
 
 " It seems incredible — impossible. And yet the letters and 
 the certificate." 
 
 " You can fight it, Mr. Arthur, if you please. You will have 
 to put me in the box \ and I shall, most reluctantly, have to ra- 
 present to the world the secrets of your father's life."
 
 31 V LITTLE GIRL. 239 
 
 Arthur recoiled in dismay. 
 
 " It is not a question of fighting. It is a question of doing 
 what is right. If only your story is true. Pray, Mr. Mao 
 Intyre, what is the price you have put upon it 1" 
 
 He smote his chest. 
 
 " Go on, Arthur, go on. You into whose young mind I 
 poured treasures of philosophy. Insult your aged and poverty- 
 stricken tutor — and a Master of Arts of an ancient and — " 
 
 " You sold me an address." 
 
 "Pardon me. I borrowed forty pounds of you, and, with a 
 kindness which I regret not to see rated at its real worth, I 
 gave you Miss Madeleine's address. I hope you have made good 
 use of it." 
 
 " What does it matter to you, sir, what use I have made 
 
 of it r 
 
 " ^ot at a', not at a'. Let us come back to our business. 
 The story is not mine alone, Arthur. It rests on the evidence 
 of the Church. Man tells lies. Church registers are infallible. 
 I suppose that Marie died in England before the second mar- 
 riage — " 
 
 " Mr. Maclntyre, do you want me to wring off your neck f 
 
 " The facs of the case — the facs of the case only. Your elder 
 brother, sir, received my communication without any of the 
 manifestations of temper which you have shown. Naturally, 
 there is a difference between you." 
 
 " You should have told us ten years ago. You should have 
 told us even three months ago. Why did you noti" 
 
 " To begin with, I saw no reason for speaking at all, till my 
 friend, as well as old pupil, lost his money. This was yesterday." 
 
 "And why next?" 
 
 " Because I did not choose." 
 
 This was the only outward mark of resentment at Arthuv'.s 
 6np])icions which the sage allowed himself. 
 
 He gave a long sniff of satisfaction, and went on — 
 
 " There may be a weakness in the evidence. The law might 
 be evaded by a crafty counsel. You can fight the question, if 
 you like. But the rif/ht of the case will remain unaltered. 
 Artliur Durnford, vou are only the second son of your 
 lather." 
 
 Artliur was silent for awhile, leaning his head on his hand. 
 
 " Come into the City with me. Do .you object to bring your 
 papers to my lawyer's i"
 
 240 M V LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " iS^ot at a', not at a'. Let us go at once," answered Ma« 
 Intyrc, apparently iu great good lumiour. " And don't be over 
 much cast down, Arthur, at this temporary revairso of circum 
 stances. Phihp will give you enough to live upon. If not, 
 there are several lines of life open to you. You may be a pri- 
 vate tutor, like mo. Tlien, indeed, my example will not havo 
 been wholly in vain." 
 
 He pursued this theme as they drove into the City in a cab, 
 illustrating his position by reference to passages in his own life, 
 wherein he had imitated the magnanimity of Themistocles, the 
 clemency of Alexander, the continence of Scipio, and the gene- 
 rosity of Ca3sar. 
 
 " Poor I may be," he said, "and certainly am ; but at least T 
 can reflect — the reflection alone is worth a bottle of Isla whisky 
 — on temptations avoided and good effected. I forgive you, 
 Arthur, for your hard words ; and remain, as I always havo 
 been, your best friend." 
 
 Arthur answered little, and that in monosyllables. He was so 
 much pre-occupied, that the man's prattle dropped unheeded on 
 his ears. 
 
 What was the right thing to do? 
 
 The lawyer heard what Arthur had to say, read the documents 
 carefully — from time to time casting a furtive glance ou Mac- 
 Intyrc, who sat with an air of great dignity, and even virtue, in 
 his countenance, and occasionally rubbed his nose. 
 
 " You are the only surviving witness, Mr. Maclntyre?" 
 
 " I am," returned our Alexander. " That is, the only one, I 
 believe, surviving. * Flesh is grass.' The priest was younger 
 than myself; but, you see, he is gone first. Adolphe might be 
 found, perhaps, though I think he is dead too." 
 
 " It is now twenty -seven years since this marriage, according 
 to your certificate, was contracted. Would you kindly tell us 
 more about it V 
 
 "With pleasure. It took place in Mr. Durnford's own house 
 at Fontainebleau, in the dining-room. You remember our lessons 
 — those delightful lessons — which used to take place in the din- 
 ing-room, Arthur? It's vera sweet to recall old days. It was in 
 the evening. Marie left her mistress's house in the afternoon. 
 No one knew where she had gone except myself. I helped her 
 to escajDe." 
 
 " Oh !" said the lawyer, " you acted as — as the uncle of 
 Cressida. It was a creditable position for you to occupy."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 241 
 
 "Perhaps," said Maclntyre, with all that -was left of his 
 power of blushing mantling to his nose — " perhaps. The 
 necessities of the stomach have on several occasions obliged me 
 to take part in actions of which my conscience disapproved 
 The needy man has no choice. I approve the better cause, even 
 when fate, armed with the weapon of hunger, has obliged me to 
 follow the worse. In the words of the Latin poet — I hope, sir, 
 you have not entirely neglected the Humanities — ' Dum meliora 
 probo — ' " 
 
 " My dear sir," interrupted the lawyer, "pray get on with 
 your story." 
 
 " Marie required a good deal of persuading," he went on, 
 gaining courage as he began to unfold his web of fiction. " Mr. 
 Durnford, a young man at the time, had conceived a violent 
 passion for her. She was as white as a European, and had no 
 marks at all of her descent, except her full black hair. Her 
 mother, indeed, was a mulatto ; and perhaps her father was a 
 white man — I don't know. On the evening when I drove her over 
 to Fontainebleau, I had got Father O'Callinan to ride up in the 
 afternoon. He knew what he was to do. It was promised to 
 Marie ; and there in the sitting-room, Avith myself and Adolphe, 
 a half-blood brother of Marie, who was sworn to secrecy, the 
 marriage was performed, and these papers signed. A year and a 
 half later, after her boy was born, Marie went away to Europe, 
 and ^Ir. Durnford married Mademoiselle Adrienne de Rosnay." 
 
 " And pray, how did the papers come into your hands V 
 
 Maclntyre for a moment hesitated, and a violent effusion of 
 Ted mounted to his nose. 
 
 "After the death of Mr, Durnford, I went through his 
 papers." 
 
 " As a legally appointed agent T 
 
 " Ko. As a confidential friend of the family, in which I had 
 been a tutor for many years," said j\laclntyre. 
 
 "In other words, you ransacked my father's desk?" asked 
 Arthur. 
 
 "Do not put an injurious construction on the proceeding," 
 said ^Maclntyre. " I searched the drawers for some papers of 
 my own, and found not only my own private documents, but 
 also these letters." 
 
 " Oh !" said the lawyer. " Dear mo ! Would you be good 
 enough to step outside ] Stay, though, what has become of — of 
 Marie V 
 
 16
 
 242 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " She went to Europe, and was lost sightof. I suppose she died." 
 
 "Thank you," said the lawyer, opening the door. "You Avill 
 find the papers in the next room. Mr. Thompson, pray givo 
 this gentleman the Times. Now, Mv. Diirnford, this is an ugly 
 case. Tell me what you know of this man." 
 
 Arthur told him everything. 
 
 " He is evidently a rogue. And I believe that the whole 
 thing is a forgery. Do you know your father's handwriting 1" 
 
 " Yes, the letters are his." 
 
 *' Well, well, it may be. Still, observe that in the only place 
 where the word Marie occurs, the v/riting looks to me uncertain, 
 and the Avord laps over beyond the line. It may possibly have 
 been put in afterwards. Are you sure that the dates are in the 
 same writing as the letters f 
 
 " They look so. Besides, there is the church register." 
 
 " Eegisters have been tampered with, especially in novels. 
 But what does the man mean by it all : the secrecy for ten years 
 — the suddenness of the revelation 1 What does he get for it ?" 
 
 " Philip, I am sure, would not pay for his secret." 
 
 " Humph ! I don't know. The church register is the only 
 thing to fear. Fight it, Mr. Durnford." 
 
 " It is not the Avinning or losing," Arthur replied. ** That 
 seems the least part of it." 
 
 The lawyer stared at him. 
 
 *' To Philip it mear.s legitimacy. He must fight." 
 
 " My dear sir, it may also mean legitimacy to you." 
 
 " I think not. I am quite sure that my father would not 
 have married a second time, except with the clearest proof of his 
 wife's death. That is to me a conviction. I have nothing to 
 fear on that ground. But there is another thing. How can I 
 drag my father's life and character into open court 1" 
 
 " Would you sacrifice everything for the mere sake of hiding 
 scandals five and twenty years old 1" 
 
 " If they aie my father's — yes." 
 
 " Well, well — let us see." 
 
 He went into the outer office and requested permission to see 
 the papers again, holding them up to the light to see the water- 
 mark. Mr. Maclntyre watched him steadily, with a twinkle in 
 his eye distinctly resembling a wink. The lawyer returned the 
 papers and went back. 
 
 " He's a crafty rascal, at least. The water-marks are all right. 
 Mr. Durnford, there is villany in it. Do nothing rashly."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 243 
 
 ** Philip will press on the case. I only begin now to under- 
 stand what it may mean to him — what the past has been for 
 him. I shall not fight with my brother." 
 
 "You will acknowledge everything?" 
 
 " Xo," said Arthur, straightening himself, as one who is doing 
 a strong thing, " I shall hide everything. I may be a coward, 
 but I idll not have my father's name hawked about in public, 
 and the story of his youth — and — and — perhaps his sins, told 
 to the whole world. Let Philip have all the money. I retire. Let 
 Philip have all the money. I shall not starve, I dare say." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense. As your lawyer, I protest against it. 
 My dear sir, the time for Quixotism has passed away. People 
 will ask questions, too. What will you say V 
 
 " Nothing. Let them ask Avhat they please. The secret is 
 mine — and Philip's — and this man's. Not one of us will speak 
 of it." 
 
 " As for Mr. MacTntyre, certainly not — provided his silence is 
 bought. Will your brother buy it T' 
 
 " I shall not ask. I should excuse him if he did." 
 
 " Take advice, Mr. Durnford, take advice." 
 
 " I will take advice. I will put the whole facts into the hands 
 of a third person, and be guided by the counsel I get from her." 
 
 " If it is a lady," the lawyer returned, laughing, " I give you 
 up. But come and see me to-morrow." 
 
 Arthur went out by the private door, forgetting all about I\rr. 
 Maclntyre, who still sat behind the Times, waiting. The time 
 passed on — an hour or two — before the lawyer came again into 
 the outer office. Perhaps he kept his man waiting on purpose, 
 after the sweet and gentle practice of a Bismarck, " letting him 
 cook in his own juice," 
 
 " What ! — you there still, Mr. Maclntyre 1 I thought you 
 gone long ago, with Mr. Durnford. Come in again — come and 
 have a glass of sherry. Now, then, sit down — ^it down. We 
 are men of business here, and shall soon understand each other. 
 You will find that, Mr. Maclntyre, if you are a judge of sherry, 
 and I have no doubt you are a very excellent judge — " 
 
 " Pretty well— pretty well. I am better at whisky," 
 
 "Aha! very good — very good, indeed. Eeminds mo of a 
 thing I once heard said. But never mind now. Let me give 
 you another gla.ss. Dry, you observe, but generous. A fat 
 ■wine. A wine with bone and muscle. I knew you'd like it." 
 He sat down oppo.site his visitor, clapped him on the knee, and 
 
 IG— 2
 
 244 ^fy LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 laughed. " And now let us talk about this alFair which you 
 have been the means of bringing to light." 
 
 " Under Providence." 
 
 " Quite so. Under Providence, as you say. You know, I 
 i'eel for Arthur Durnford's position in this case." 
 
 " I am but an instrument," said ]\[aclntyre, with a solemn 
 face and another pull at the sherry — " a very humble instru- 
 ment. But life is so. The moral philosopher has often called 
 attention to the curious way in which our sins become pitfalls 
 for our children. I could give you some striking passages in- 
 directly bearing upon the point from Stewart and Eeid. But 
 ]ierhaps, Mr. — I forget your name — you are not a parent V 
 
 He crossed his legs, and brought the tips of his fingers 
 together. 
 
 " Another time, my dear sir, another time. By the way, is 
 it not ratlm' unusual for an Englishman to marry a mulatto T 
 
 "Most unusual. Nothing ever surprised me so much. I have 
 often obsairved, in my progress through life, that — " 
 
 " Yes. The circumstance will tell in court." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre visibly started. 
 
 " You will go into court 1" 
 
 " Doubtless," returned the lawyer, watching his man — in 
 whom, however, he saw no other sign of emotion. " Doubtless 
 — your own evidence will be the main chain, so to speak. I 
 hope you don't mind cross-examination." 
 
 "When a medicine, however disagreeable, has to be taken, 
 it must be taken." 
 
 " Quite so. They will probably inquire into all your ante- 
 cedents — eh ? — ask you all sorts of impudent questions — ha ! 
 ha ! "Whether you ever got into trouble 1 We, the lawyers for 
 our side, will make it our business to hunt up everything about 
 you." 
 
 " What trouble T 
 
 " Into the hands of the law, you know — eh % Oh, most 
 absurd, I assure you. I remember a similar case to this, when the 
 principal witness was obliged to confess that he had sold his in- 
 formation. The case was lost, sir — lost by that simple fact. 
 iNow, you see, what an ass that man was ! Had he gone to the 
 lawyers on the other side, a respectable firm like ours — had he 
 come to me, for instance, in a friendly way, and said, ' My dear 
 sir, I have certain papers — I am a needy man. There they are. 
 "We are men of the world.' Had he, in fact, behaved as a man
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, 245 
 
 of sense, he would have been, sir — for in losing the case he lost 
 his reward — he would have been" — here the speaker looked 
 sharply in the face of Mr. Maclntyre — " a thousand pounds in 
 pocket." 
 
 He remained stolid — only helping himself to another glass of 
 wine. 
 
 "Very good thing, Mr. — really, I have not caught your 
 name." 
 
 "Xever mind, sir — never mind my name. It is on the door- 
 plate if you wish to read it. But your opinion now as to my 
 man's stupidity T 
 
 "Well, you see — it may be, after all, a question of degree. 
 I am myself induced to think, that if you had ofiered him ten 
 thousand, he might have accepted. Money down, of course." 
 
 The cool audacity of this indirect proposal staggered the law- 
 yer. He put the stopper in the decanter of sherry, and rose. 
 
 '•'I should like to see you again, Mr. Maclntyre." 
 
 '•' jNIr. Arthur has gone to see Philip. Do you knoAV Arthur 
 Durnford, sir?" 
 
 " I believe I do." 
 
 " Xot so well as I do. I will tell you something about him. 
 He is ready to do anything that he thinks honourable, even to 
 strip himself to the last shilling ; and he is jealous that no word 
 should be breathed against his fother. He is now gone to con- 
 sult Miss Madeleine. I knou' what her advice will be." 
 
 "WelU" 
 
 " And do you know Philip ? IS'o — not so well as I do. I 
 left him a ruined man. That you know, perhaps. He will do 
 anything for money when it is wanted to save his honour. He 
 Avants it now for that purpose. And he would do anything in 
 the whole world to remove the stain of illegitimacy and black 
 blood. The latter is impossible. The former can now be ar- 
 ranged. Ten thousand pounds, sir? Good heavens! If an 
 estate is worth more than four thousand pounds a year, and if 
 you have got three times ten thousand accumulated — Do you 
 know the story of the Sibyl, Mr. — really, I forgot your name. 
 Kever mind. You remember tlie story, sir? Probably you had 
 some humanities when you were a boy. She came back, sir, 
 again and again ; and the third time her price was three times 
 that of her tirst." 
 
 " In point of fact, iMr. Jkfaclntyre, you want to sell your in- 
 formutioo for tea thousand poutids. Jt is disgraceful — "
 
 246 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre started and opened his eyes. 
 
 " The absence of the reasoning faculty in England is vera 
 wonderful. Man ! I was talking of general principles. I was 
 giving you my opeenion on the creature that would not sell his 
 information. I would have you to know, sir, that I am not in 
 the habit of selling anything. I am a Master of Arts, sir, of 
 an ancient and honourable Univairsaity — the Univairsity of 
 Aberdeen. And I wish ye good morning, sir." 
 
 He put on his hat, and stalked away with dignity. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Arthur went to Madeleine for advice, being one of those who, 
 when they have made up their minds to a line of action, are 
 not satisfied without being fortified in their design by their 
 friends. 
 
 He called after dinner, and found the two ladies alone — Mrs. 
 Longworthy asleep and ]\Iade]eine reading. 
 
 " Coming in here," he said, in a low voice, "is like coming 
 into a haven of repose. You are always peaceful." 
 
 " Yes — a woman's conflicts are below the surface mostly. 
 And my own troubles lie two miles away, as you know. When 
 are you really going to make up your mind to come and 
 help us?" 
 
 " What am I to do 1 Teach science again %" 
 
 " K'o ; lecture, start clubs, give concerts — you play very well 
 — write tracts, do all sorts of things that will help the people to 
 raise themselves." 
 
 "I am afraid I should not do for it, Madeleine. But I will 
 try to join you. Only first give me your advice on a very 
 serious matter." 
 
 He told his sto/y, 
 
 " Your father married to a mulatto girl 1 Arthur, it is im- 
 possible." 
 
 " So I should have said ; but it seems true. There are the 
 certificates of marriage, duly signed and attested. And not by 
 the man IMacIntyre himself — or we might suspect them — but 
 by a legal firm of Palmiste. You know them. There can be 
 no doubt whatever. And Philip is my brother." 
 
 " I always knew it," murmured Mrs. Longworthy, waking up 
 to enjoy her lazy triumph. '* I told you, Arthur, that your 
 father had no brothers."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 247 
 
 " I suppose," Arthur continued, " that by some accident this 
 mulatto girl, my father's first wile, died early, and that on hear- 
 ing of her death my father married again. But Maclntyre 
 knows nothing of this ; he only knows that Marie — we will go 
 on calling her Marie — went away to England." 
 
 " And the result of the whole?" 
 
 " Would be, if the claim were substantiated, that I have no- 
 thing : I am a beggar. All the estate, and all the accumula- 
 tions, go to Philip." 
 
 " Have you seen Philip T 
 
 ** Kot yet. I shall go and see him in the morning. I have 
 not seen him for more than four months. You know we were 
 three months in Italy. But I have heard one or two stories 
 about him. I am afraid he has lost money betting." 
 
 " What are you going to do ]" 
 
 " The lawyer says fight. What ought I to do, Madeleine ?" 
 
 " Fighting means further exposure of old scandals, and rakin" 
 up private histories which may as well be left buried. Is there 
 no middle way T 
 
 " Kone. Either he is the rightful heir, or I am. To Phil it 
 means not only fortune, but also legitimacy. I know now — I 
 have known for some little time — what it is that has made 
 Phil what he is. It is not the love of that fast life to which 
 he belongs, so much as his constant sense of his birth, and 
 the tinge of the black blood. Can you not understand it, 
 Madeleine 1" 
 
 " But if the certificates are correct, and not forgeries, there 
 can be no doubt whatever of the thing." 
 
 " There can be none — Philip is the heir." 
 
 They were silent for awhile, Mrs. Longworthy only giving to 
 the group that feeling of repose which is caused by the long 
 breathing of one who slumbers. 
 
 " If it will make you work, Arthur," whispered Madeleine, 
 " it will be a good thing for you. Let it go, my friend ; let 
 your brother take it, and raise no further questions about your 
 father's private history. It may be all a forgery, put together 
 by that creature, your Scotch tutor; only be very sure that 
 Philip knows nothing about it. Go out into the world, and 
 work Avith other men. It will be better for you. Or come and 
 work with me." 
 
 " That is impossible, ;Ma(leleine," he whispered — " except on 
 one condition,"
 
 248 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 She flushed scarlet for a momeut, and then she answered 
 diivctly, and to the point. 
 
 " I know what your condition is. We have known eacliothei 
 so long, Arthur, that I am afraid." 
 
 " What are you afraid of?" 
 
 "I am afraid that our old brother and sister feeling may be 
 all that you can have for me." 
 
 " listen a moment, Madeleine. When I saw you first — I 
 mean six months ago — I was afraid of you. You were so 
 queenly, so beautiful, so unlike the child I loved so many years 
 ago. When I came here day after day, and found you always 
 the same — always kind, thoughtful, sisterly — the old feeling 
 arose again, and I felt once more that, as of old, we were brother 
 and sister. But when I was with you abroad, when we were 
 together every day and all day, that feeling died away again, 
 and another has sprung up in its place. Madeleine, I cannot 
 Avork with you as you wish, because I love you. If you were 
 another girl, if I did not know you so well, I should make fine 
 speeches about coming to you as a beggar, now that I have lost 
 all my money. But you do not want these. Let me go, or bid 
 me stay. But, Madeleine, whatever you do, do not let me lose 
 your friendship." 
 
 "You are sure you love me, Arthur?" she murmured, be- 
 tween her lips — her eyes softened, her cheek glowing. 
 
 "Am I sure? Do you know that I have sprung into new 
 being since I found I loved you % My blood flows faster, my 
 life has quickened. I can feel, I can hope, Madeleine, I can 
 work. Before, what was my very existence % It was life with- 
 out life, light without sunshine, work without a purpose, 
 days that brought neither hope nor regret. Do I love you, 
 Madeleine T' 
 
 " Then, Arthur," she whispered, leaning forward so that her 
 lips met his, " I have always loved you. Take me, I am 
 altogether yours." 
 
 It was then that Mrs. Longworthy showed the real goodnesa 
 of her heart. She had been awake for some moments and was 
 taking in the situation with all her eyes. Xow she rose, and 
 gathering her skirts round her, she swept slowly out of tha 
 room, remarking as she went — 
 
 *' You will find me in the dining-room, my dears, as soon as 
 you have done talking." 
 
 They sat and talked together, hand in hand, of the life that
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 249 
 
 they would lead, of the perfect confidence there should be be- 
 tween them, of all high and sweet things that a man can only 
 tell to a woman. Young fellows whisper to each other some- 
 thing of their inner life — it can only be done between eighteen 
 and twenty-two — and even after there is a bond of union be- 
 tween them that is always felt, if not acknowledged. Sometimes, 
 too, at night, on the deck of a ship, when the moonlight is 
 broken into ten thousand fragments in the white track, and 
 the stars are gazing solemnly at us with their wide and pitying 
 eyes, men may lay bare the secrets of their soul. One of the 
 many whom I have known — he is ten thousand miles from 
 here — in my wanderings abroad — I spent six months beneath 
 the same roof with him — was Avont to rise at dead of night, and 
 pace the verandah for an hour or two. If you heard him, and 
 got up to join him, he would talk to you. The memory of his 
 talk is with me still. I remembered it in the morning, but he 
 did not. Which was the real man, which Avas the false, I never 
 knew. One lived by day, and one by niglit. I think the man 
 of the night — he who showed me his thoughts — was the true 
 man. He is the one whom I love to recall. 
 
 While they talked, Mrs. Lougworthy slumbered by the table 
 in the dining-room. 
 
 Outside, Laura was wandering in the cold and pitiless 
 streets. 
 
 At the house at ISTotting-hill, Philip and Maclntyre were 
 drinking together — Philip to drown his excitement, which had 
 absolutely driven Laura, for the time, out of his head ; J\Ir. 
 IMacIntyre, to drown his anxiety. If he lost this stake ! But 
 it looked like winning. 
 
 Between the two were a couple of champagne bottles, emjity. 
 At stroke of ten, Maclntyre rang the bell for tumblers. At 
 twelve, Philip went to bed too drunk to speak. At one, Mr, 
 Maclntyre fell prone upon the hearthrug and slumbered there. 
 In the morning, at seven, he awoke, and finding where he was, 
 got up, rubbed his nose thoughtfully, and went home to Kep- 
 pel Street. 
 
 " It's wonderfu'," he remarked Avhen he got back to his 
 lodgings and sat down to breakfost, " what a restorer is the 
 morning air. "When I go down to Scotland I shall always get 
 up early, to shake off the whisky of the night. Elizabeth, my 
 la-s.sic, I think you may bring nie another rasher of Ijacon/'
 
 25© MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " I GOT this address of yours from Maclntyre," said Arthur, call- 
 ing on Philip at midday. " Why have you been hiding away 
 so long T 
 
 " There has been no hiding," said Philip, half sullenly. 
 
 Then both men paused, thinking of the words that were to 
 be spoken between them. 
 
 Arthur was the first to speak, 
 
 " Of course you know what Maclntyre came to tell me." 
 
 " Of course I know it." 
 
 " Whatever happens, Philip, let us be friends still. If it is 
 clear that my father married — was married — before he married 
 my mother, there is nothing more to be said." 
 
 Both Hushed scarlet. 
 
 " You see, Arthur, I have known since I was fifteen, years 
 old — no matter how — that I am your half-brother. This ques- 
 tion is more to me than property. It is legitimacy." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " But go by what your lawyer advises. Let us make a legal 
 question of it all." 
 
 '• My lawyer says fight." 
 
 " Then fight." 
 
 " Fighting means bringing the private life of our father into 
 public, making known things that ought not to be revealed. I 
 think I cannot fight, Phil." 
 
 " But I mu&t, Arthur." 
 
 " Yes, and I must give way. After all, Phil, it matters very 
 little to me, so far as the money goes. I shall have to work ; 
 but I am a man of very simple habits. You will make a better 
 planter than I. You will go out and do great things for 
 Palmiste." 
 
 " iS'ot I. I fight for my legitimacy. I shall do no great 
 things, either here or in Palmiste." 
 
 " Let me tell you about the property, Phil. jN'o — it is best 
 that you should know. It is a very good property. In ordinary 
 years, when there is no hurricane, it is worth more than four 
 thousand pounds a year. I do not spend one fourth of that 
 amount. There are consequently large accumulations. I should 
 think I am worth thirty thousand pounds — that is, you are 
 worth."
 
 AIV LITTLE GIRL. 251 
 
 " It is not the value of the property — " 
 
 " I know. Still you ought to learn all that is at stake. This 
 is yours, I surrender it all, rather than go to law over our 
 father's grave." 
 
 " I must prove my legitimate birth, if I can, Arthur. Think 
 of it. Think what it is to me, who have all along been 
 weighted with my birth, to be made free — free and equal to all 
 other men." 
 
 " I do think of it. I think a great deal of it. If I were in 
 your place, nothing should persuade me to forego the chance of 
 setting this right. Still, I believe you have always exaggerated 
 the importance of the point." 
 
 " It may be so. I do not think so." 
 
 " And now, Phil, let us talk it over completely, I am in 
 your hands. The whole estate will be yours as soon as the 
 transfer can be made. But you will not let me go quite empty- 
 handed." 
 
 " Good heaA'^ens — no !" cried Philip. " I believe you are the 
 most chivalrous man in the world. Empty-handed ! INo. Take 
 what you will." 
 
 " Give me what you have yourself, and I shall be content." 
 
 " You mean what I had, I suppose. Make it double, Arthur, 
 md I shall be content — content in a way. How is any man to 
 be contented who has the slave blood in his veins % Look 
 here." He pulled his short, curly black hair. " This comes 
 from the negro wool. And look here." He held out his hand. 
 " Do you see the blue below the nails 1 That comes from the 
 negro blood. And look at my eyes. Do you see the black 
 streak beneath them % Kegro blood, I tell you. And genera- 
 tion after generation may pass, but these marks never die away. 
 My fiice, at least, is like my father's. I am more like him than 
 you are, Arthur." 
 
 " You are too sensitive, Phil. Do you really seriously think 
 the old prejudices are founded in reason ? Do you imagine that 
 you are tl)e least worse for having this little admixture of race 
 in your blood T 
 
 " I do," said his brother. '* I know that I am worse. I feel 
 it. When white men are calm, I am excited. "When they are 
 careless about their superiority, I am anxious to assert mine. 
 When they are self-possessed, I am self-conscious. WJieu they 
 are at ease, I am vain. I know my faults. I can do tilings as 
 well as any man, but I can do nothing so well as some men.
 
 252 MY LITTLE GIRL 
 
 That is the curse of the mulatto, the octoroon, or whatever you 
 like to call him. Unstahle as water, we never excel. So far 
 we are like Judah, the son of Jacob, founder, you know, of the 
 celebrated tribe of that name." 
 
 They were silent for a while. 
 
 " Even now I have made myself a greater fool, a greater ass 
 than you would conceive possible. If ever you hear stories 
 about me, Arthur — by Jove, you are sure to hear them !" — he 
 suddenly remembered Venn, and his friendsliip with Arthur — 
 " think that I am more than sorry ; not repentant, because I do 
 not see any good in repentance. Milk that is spilt, eggs that 
 are broken, money that is spent, sins that are committed, are so 
 many faits accomplis. Well, never mind. Let us return to 
 business. You will take the accumulated funds." 
 
 " No ; I will take ten thousand pounds, and I shall be 
 rich." 
 
 " Have what you like. And now take me to your lawyer's, 
 and let us tell him what we are going to do. And if at any 
 moment, Arthur, either now or hereafter, you wish to rescind 
 your transfer, you shall do it, and we will fight. By gad, the 
 prodigal son always gets the best of it ! The gpod young man 
 toils and moils, and gets nothing. Then, you see, the scapegrace 
 comes home. Quick, the fatted calf — kill, cook, light the fire, 
 make the stuffing, roast the veal, broach the cask, and spread 
 the feast." 
 
 So he passed, in his light way, from repentance to cynicism, 
 happy at heart in one thing — that now he could face his 
 creditors and meet his engagements. 
 
 It was a week after this that Maclntyre, who had been calling 
 every day at the Burleigh Club, and at Notting-hill — being a 
 prey to the most gnawing anxieties he had ever known — at last 
 found Philip at home. 
 
 He was greeted with a shout of laughter — not, it is true, of 
 that kind which we are accustomed to associate with tlie mirth 
 of innocence. Perhaps Phihp's joyousness had something in it 
 of the Sardinian character. 
 
 " Come, Prince of Evil Devices, and receive your due." 
 
 " You are pleased to be facetious," observed Maclntyre. 
 
 " Haven't I a right to be facetious % Do not I owe it to 
 you that I have got rid of a wife, and come into a fortune % 
 Sit down, man, and let us have a reckoning. My engagements 
 are met. It is all settled. Artliur retires, and the heir-at-law
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 253 
 
 steps in. liid cf a ■wife — with dishonour saved, and honour 
 gained — what do I owe you % Five thousand is too paltry a 
 sum to speak of." 
 
 Maclntyre turned perfectly white, and shivered from head 
 to foot. 
 
 "The papers are signed — the transfer is completed. I am in 
 possession of the estate of Fontainebleau and fifteen thousand 
 pounds in Stocks. It is your doing, Maclntyre. You shall 
 have the money bargained for. Give me up the agreement." 
 
 He took it from his pocket, and handed it over, Avith 
 trembling hands. He was unable to speak, for very astonish- 
 ment. He grew faint, and staggered against the table. 
 
 Phil caught him by the arm. 
 
 " "Whv, what is the matter, man ] Will you have some 
 brandy f 
 
 " Not now, Phil — not now. Let me sit down a moment, and 
 recover myself." 
 
 Presently he started up again. 
 
 " Xow," he cried — "at once; let me have no delay. The 
 money, Phil — the money ! Let me handle it. Ah ! At last — 
 at last ! I have been anxious, Phil. I was afraid there was 
 some link missing — some possible doubt ; but it is all right. I 
 have won the prize I worked for." 
 
 "You have won the compensation you were talking about 
 the other night." 
 
 "Yes," said the philosopher — "the compensation — ah, yes, 
 the compensation ! It has come." 
 
 " And without any of the little hankey-pankey that the world 
 has agreed to condemn — isn't that so T 
 
 " Surely — surely." 
 
 He looked at Philip with steady eyes, but shaky lips. 
 
 " A righteous man, you know, never begs his bread." 
 
 " I've begged mine like the unrighteous — or next door to it. 
 The next door to it, may be, was not included in the text." 
 
 " Obviously, the inference is that you are a righteous man. 
 But come — one word of explanation first. You know when I 
 met you in the street?" 
 
 " As if I shall ever forget the time." 
 
 " You had those papers in your pocket then V 
 
 " They have never left me since I took them away from 
 Palmiste." 
 
 *' Why did you not produce them at once V
 
 254 'Vy LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Because the risk was too great. I wanted to sell them. I 
 wanted to see how you would take the chance. It was one I 
 <;ould not afford to risk. When I saw you going down hill, I 
 knew that I had only to wait for the end. Everything helped me. 
 You became more and more involved. I became more and 
 more certain ; but it was not till the very end that I dared bring 
 them out." 
 
 " And then you thought you could win f 
 
 " I did. I knew that under the cloud of misfortunes any 
 of the old misplaced generosity to your milksop of a brother 
 would be finally put away and done with, and that the lure — 
 legitimacy and a fortune — would be too much for you to with- 
 stand. I rejoiced, Philip — I rejoiced." 
 
 Philip was silent. By all the rules, he should have kicked 
 this man then and there. But he was accustomed to the calcu- 
 lating and unscrupulous way of the creature. Besides, he half 
 liked him. The very openness of his wickedness was a kind of 
 charm. It was only one more confession — a confession already 
 more than half made. 
 
 " You have won, then. Let that be your consolation. And 
 now tell me, IMacIntyre. Swear by all that you hold sacred — 
 Stay, is tbere anything you hold sacred '?" 
 
 •' Money — I Avill swear by money. Or drink — I will swear 
 by drink." 
 
 " Swear, then, anybow, that you will tell me the truth. Did 
 my father write those letters V 
 
 " He did, Philip — I swear it. He did, indeed." 
 
 Only the smallest suppressio veri — only the dates that were 
 added long afterwards by himself. 
 
 "And the marriage. Is that register really in the church 
 book ]" 
 
 " I swear it is there. Did you not see the attestation of the 
 Palmiste lawyers 1 It is really there !" 
 
 So it was. He might have added, to complete the truth of 
 the attestation, that he had himself placed it there. 
 
 " Then I am the lawful heir. I have not defrauded 
 Arthur." 
 
 " You have not. What does Arthur get out of it ?" 
 
 " Ten thousand." 
 
 " And vera handsome, too. Double of my share. Arthur 
 has done well. ]N'ow give me my money, Phil." 
 
 Philip gave him a bank pass-book.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 255 
 
 " I have paid in to your account at this bank the sum of five 
 thousand pounds — you can see the note of the amount. Here 
 is your cheque-book. Go now, man, and be happy in your own 
 way." 
 
 " Yes, I will go. You are a rich man. I am as rich as I wish 
 to be. My old maxums will no longer be of any use either to 
 you or to me. It pains me only to think that I must not, with 
 my experience, dissemble my convictions and go over to tho 
 other side, preaching in future that honesty is the best policy. 
 I may vera likely give lectures to show how merit is rewarded 
 and steady effort always commands success. Steady effort has 
 been, as you know, of great use to me. Industry is the best 
 thing going. We always get what we deserve. Everything is 
 for the best. Whatever is is right. The prosperous man goes 
 back to the copy-books for his philosophy, and all his reading is 
 thrown away. K'ow, my experience is the contrary. It is only 
 the clumsy sinners who get punished. The innocent man very 
 often receives the flogging. Therein the moral world differs 
 from the natural. For if you run your head against a post, you 
 infallibly get a headache. He who would be rich must also be 
 cautious. If he can escape detection, he will acquire monej^, 
 and therefore happiness. My dear pupil, a word of parting 
 advice." 
 
 " 1^0," replied Phil. " Go. I hardly know whether to thank 
 you or to curse you, I think I must curse you. You have 
 poisoned the atmosphere of life for me. I have got riches with- 
 out enjoyment. I can never be happy again, with the memory 
 of the past — your doing." 
 
 " Poor little leddy," sighed Maclntyre, " I'm vera sorry — 
 I'm vera sorry, indeed, for her hard fate, I wish it had never 
 been done. Eh, Phil — it was an awfu' piece of wickedness — " 
 
 " It was. God forgive us both ! Eut it can never be for- 
 given." 
 
 " I'm vera sorry, Phil. It was a clumsy thing. Bat there — 
 we Avon't talk about it. What was it I was telling you some 
 time ago, Phil ? The poor man never repents — it is only the 
 rich. See, now — I am rich, and I begin to repent at once. Eh, 
 man, it is a terrible time I have before me ! There's just an awfu' 
 heap to repent for. And pocket-handkerchiefs, too, vera ex- 
 pensive. As soon as I get settled, I shall begin. But where % 
 Phil, I think I shall work backwards. It will come easier so. 
 Obsairve. He who tackles his worst foe at once has little to fear
 
 256 MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 from the rest. The drink, and the troubles at Sydney — all these 
 things are venial. But the lassie, Phil, the lassie — Tmust begin 
 my repentance with the lassie." 
 
 " You will never begin your repentance at all. You will go 
 on getting drunk till you die," 
 
 " Philip Duruford," returned Mr. Maclntyre, magisterially, 
 " you pain me. After an acquaintance of nearly twenty years — 
 after all the maxums I have taught you, and the corpus of 
 oreeginal and borrowed philosophy that I have compiled and 
 digested for you — to think that you could say a thing like that. 
 Know, sir, once for all, that the man at ease with fortune never 
 drinks, save in moderation. The philosopher gets drunk when 
 his cares become too much for him. He changes his world 
 when the present is intolerable. Some poor creatures commit 
 suicide. The true philosopher drinks. He alone is unhappy 
 who has not the means of getting drunk. When I was between 
 the boards, I am not ashamed to confess, I used to save two- 
 pence a day. That made a shilling a week. With that I was 
 able to get drunk on Sunday, by taking two pennyworths of 
 gin and porter in alternate swigs. But that is all over. Philip, 
 my pupil, I shall go away. I shall go back to Scotland, among 
 my own people, as an elder of the kirk, which I intend to be. 
 I shall set an example of rigid doctrine, Sabbatarian strictness, 
 and stern morality. After a', it is good for the vulgus — the 
 common herd — to bo kept to strict rules. But drink — no, sir. 
 Intoxication and Alexander Maclntyre have parted company. 
 I'm far from saying that I shall not take my glass, whiles — the 
 twal' boor, especially. That is but natural. But intemperance ! 
 Sir, the thought degrades me." 
 
 He buttoned up his coat, and put on his hat. 
 
 " Farewell, Philip ; you will never see me again. As for that 
 poor young thing — " 
 
 " Do not provoke me too much," said Philip, growing pale. 
 
 " I was only going to say, that if you can take her back it is 
 your duty. I'm vera sorry. She was bonnie, she was kind, 
 she was douce, she was faithful. Ah ! Phil, Phil ! — it is a 
 terrible thing to think of, the wickedness of the world ! I must 
 go away at once, and begin my repentance." 
 
 He shook his head from side to side, seized Philip by the 
 hand, and disappeared. 
 
 And this was the last that Philip Durnford ever saw of his 
 old tutor.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 357 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Leavixg the house, poor little Lollie walked quickly away into 
 the dark JN'ovember mist, and down the road. She had no pur- 
 pose ; for as yet she had but one thought — to get away ; to see 
 the last of a house which had witnessed her shame and suffer- 
 ing ; to take herself somewhere — it mattered not where — till the 
 dull, dead pain in her brow would go away, and she should feel 
 again able to see things clearly — able to go to Mr. Venn and 
 tell him all. As she went along the streets, and passed the lighted 
 shops, it seemed that every woman shunned her, or looked at 
 her in contempt, and every man stared. In all the passers-by 
 she detected the glance of scorn. The very beggars did not ask 
 her for alms ; the crossing sweepers allowed her to pass un- 
 noticed. 
 
 It was only two o'clock, and she had more than two hours of 
 daylight before her. She pulled down her veil and walked on, her 
 fingers interlaced, like a suppliant's, feeling for the lost wedding 
 ring. She passed down the long Edgware-road, which seemed 
 to have no end, and where the noise of the cabs nearly drove 
 her mad. At last she came to the Park, where the comj)arative 
 quiet soothed her nerves. But she walked on, and presently 
 found herself in Piccadilly. She hurried across the road here, 
 and got into the Green Park, which was even quieter and more 
 deserted than the other. And so at last into St. James's, the 
 best of the three, beyond which arose the intolerable noise and 
 tumult of the streets. She sat down on one of the benches. 
 It was the very same bench where she had once sat with Philip, 
 talking over the meaning of love and marriage. Alas ! she 
 knew by this time what one might mean, but not the other. 
 For as she sat alone, and the early evening closed round her, she 
 felt how, through all, her marriage was but a mockery of every- 
 thing — of love, because she never loved him ; of a real ceremony, 
 because the man was no clergyman. How there was no religion 
 in what she had done, no duty, no prudence — nothing but a vain 
 and ignorant desire to please her guardian. And, after all, he 
 had turned her off. 
 
 But as yet she could think of nothing clearly. 
 Two hours since she left him — only two hours ! — and it 
 seemed an age, and the last three months a dream of long ago. 
 And aa she tried to think, the stream of her thoughts would 
 
 17
 
 258 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 rush backwards in her head, as if stopped and turned by some 
 sudden dam. 
 
 Eig Ben struck four. Presently there came to her a police- 
 man, Avith hirsute countenance and kindly eyes. 
 
 " The Park gates shut at half-past four, miss. Don't you 
 think you had better not sit any longer under this dripping 
 tree T 
 
 She got up at once — submissive. Poor little LoUie, always 
 obedient, always douce. 
 
 " I will go, if you like." 
 
 " Hadn't you better go home, miss?" 
 
 She made no answer, but looked at him sadly for a moment, 
 and then, drawing her veil tigliter over her face, Avent slowly 
 through the gates and passed through the Horse Guards. In the 
 Strand, the shops were all lit up and things looked brighter. 
 She went down the street slowly, looking into every window as 
 she passed, trying to think what it was she wanted to buy. 
 Here Avere chains, gold Avatches, and silver cups ; and here — 
 what is it makes her heart leap up Avithin her, and her pale 
 cheek glow? — a tray of Avedding riugs. She hurried in, she 
 held out her fiuger to be measured Avithout saying a word, and 
 pointed to the tray. The ring cost her a guinea, and so she had 
 nineteen shillings left. But she came out relieved of a little of 
 the pain that oppressed her, and went on happier, as if some- 
 thing had been restored to her. 
 
 It was nearly six when she came to Chancery-lane ; and as 
 she saAv the old familiar ugly street once more, a great yearning 
 came over her heart, for was it not the street that leads to 
 Gray's Inn? 
 
 *' I will arise and go unto my father," said the poor prodigal — 
 say all of us, when sorrow and punishment fall upon us. " I 
 ■will go to Mr. Venn," thought Lollie. 
 
 She quickened her step, and came to the familiar portals. K'o 
 one saAv her go in. She mounted the stairs — ah, hoAV often had 
 she run up before ! — thinking what she should say, Alas ! 
 when she got there, the outer door was shut, and Mr. Venn was 
 not at home. 
 
 Then her heart fell; and she burst into low wailings and 
 tears, leaning her cheek against the door, as if that could 
 sympathise with her trouble. It Avas the hour Avhen every man 
 in Gray's Inn was gone to dinner, and no one Avas on the 
 staircase to hear her.
 
 MV LTTTLE GIRL. 259 
 
 She might have known, had she reflected. But she could 
 not think. Time had no more anj'- meaning for her. She 
 thought that Mr Venn was gone away altogether, and that she 
 had no longer a single friend left in the whole world. So, 
 when the paroxysm of tears, the first she had shed, had passed, 
 she crept downstairs again, and turned away to go out at the 
 north gate, by Eaymond's-buildings. Alas, alas ! had she taken 
 the other turning she would have met Venn himself, almost as 
 sad as she was, returning home to his desolate chambers. 
 
 Seven o'clock — eight — nine. The shops are being shut now, 
 and the streets not so crowded. There are not so many carts 
 about, which is good for her nerves. But the rain is pouring 
 upon her. She is somewhere about Eegent's Park — walking, 
 walking still. The rain falls heavily. Her dress is wet through, 
 and clings to her limbs ; but she staggers on, mechanically. 
 
 Hartley Venn is in his chambers, sitting over the fire, 
 brooding. 
 
 Philip is drinking, and playing cards. 
 
 Men pass by and speak to her. She does not hear, and 
 takes no notice. 
 
 Twelve o'clock — one o'clock. The passengers in the street 
 are very few now. 
 
 A rush of many people and of galloping horses. There is a 
 fire, and the cavalcade of rescue runs headlong down the street, 
 followed by a little mob of boys and men. They are always 
 awake, these boys and men, ready for plunder. 
 
 Then silence again. 
 
 Two o'clock. The street is quite empty now. Then from a 
 side street there are loud screams and cries, and a woman rushes 
 int> the road with a wild shriek. She passes close to Lollie. 
 Her face is bleeding, her clothes are torn. She waves her 
 arras like some wild Cassandra, as one who prophesies the woe 
 that shall fall upon the city. But it is notliing. Only the wail 
 of despair and misery ; for she is starving, and her husband in 
 a drunken rage has struck her down and trampled on her. 
 Oh ! brothers and sisters, how we suffer, how we suffer for our 
 sins ! 
 
 Three o'clock. She is in Oxford-street, the stony-hearted. 
 It is quite empty. Not even a policeman in sight. Her eyes 
 are heavy and dim ; her head is burning ; an unnatural strength 
 possesses her limbs ; her shoulders have f dlen forward. Is this 
 Hartley Venn's little girl ? This with the bowed head, tho 
 
 17—2
 
 2^x5 MV LITTLE GTRT.. 
 
 draggled dress, the weary gait ? Oh ! Hartlcj', could yon have 
 seen lier then, it would have been bad for Philip and his tutor ! 
 Bat Hartley is sound asleep, and so is Philip ; so, too, is Mr, 
 IMacIntyre. They are all asleep and comfortable in their beds, 
 and only the tender and delicate girl is wandering about in the 
 night under the rain. 
 
 The city is sleeping. A strange hush has fallen over London. 
 K"ot a sound of a single wheel, not a footstep. The silence 
 strikes her ; for it seems to have come suddenly. She lifts her 
 head, and looks round, with a moan of weariness and agony. 
 
 After her there creeps silently, on bare feet, a creature in the 
 semblance of a man. 
 
 He is tall, nearly six feet high, lean and emaciated. His 
 scanty clothes are rags ; his trousers are so tight that the sharp 
 bones seem projecting through them. His arms are too long 
 for the ragged sleeves of his tattered coat. He has no hat. 
 His face is black Avith dirt, and wisps of a fortnight's beard are 
 sticking in patches over it. His hair is long and matted. His 
 eyes are sharp. It is the wolf of London — the wehv-wolf of 
 civilisation. In what lair does he crouch all day? Where 
 does he hide while honest folk are up and doing? 
 
 She does not hear him as his naked feet press close upon her. 
 As he gets nearer he looks round quickly and furtively, like a 
 beast of prey, before he makes his spring. No policeman is in 
 sight. His long fingers clutch her shoulder, and she feels his 
 quick breath upon her cheek. She starts, and turns with a 
 shriek of terror. 
 
 " Have you got any money?" he hisses. "Give it to me — 
 give it to me quick, or I will murder you." 
 
 She stared for a moment, and then, understanding so much, 
 put her hand in her pocket, and drew out her purse. He looked 
 np and down the street, and then snatching it from her hand, 
 swiftly fled down a court and was lost. 
 
 Then the great, bare street fills her with terror, and she turns 
 out of it. Perhaps there are no wolves in the small streets. 
 
 So, presently, she finds herself in Covent-garden Market. 
 Light, activity, noise. The early market carts are arriving. 
 She goes under the piazza, and, sitting on a basket, falls fast 
 asleep in the midst of it all. 
 
 She sleeps for nearly two hours. Then she is awakened by 
 a rough but not unkindly touch of her arm, 
 
 " Come, young woman, I want my basket."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 261 
 
 iShe sprang to her feet, trying to remember where she was. 
 Two or three people were staring at her. A great, red-faced 
 woman among the rest — a coarse, rough, rude, hard-drinking 
 creature. 
 
 They were speaking to her, but she could not understand. 
 It seemed a dream. 
 
 " Leave her to me," said the woman. " You go about your 
 business, all of you. I know a lady when I see her. You leave 
 her, all of you, to me. Come, my dear, don't try to say a word. 
 Don't 'ee speak now, or else ye'll begin to cry. Wait a bit — - 
 wait a bit." 
 
 She put her arms round Lollie's waist, and half led, half 
 carried her to a coffee-stall, of which, indeed, she was the 
 proprietor. 
 
 " K'ow, me darlin', sit ye down on my seat, and taste 
 this." 
 
 Laura had eaten nothing since breakfast the preceding day, 
 say eighteen hours. The coffee restored her to a sense of 
 reality, for she had fallen into a state almost of coma. She 
 drank the cup, and handed it back to her new friend. 
 
 " J>row, my dear, another — and a bit of bread and butter. 
 Don't 'ee say a word, now, or ye'll begin to cry." 
 
 She took a little bread and butter, and then, overcome with 
 weariness, her head fell upon the tray where the bread and 
 butter stood, and she was asleep again. 
 
 The good soul covered her with a shawl — not the cleanest in 
 the world, but the only one she had — and went on with her 
 early coffee trade. At seven, she awakened her. 
 
 " I must go now, my dear," she said. " I'm an hour almost 
 behind my time, and the childer want me ; but I wouldn't 
 waken you. Are you better now V 
 
 Lollie felt in her pocket for her purse. 
 
 " I remember," she said, " a man robbed me last night of all 
 I had. It was nineteen shillings. Stay," she added, taking off 
 her locket — Venn's present — " take this for your kindness." 
 
 " I won't," said the woman, stoutly. 
 
 " You must. Please take it. I think I should have died if 
 it hadn't been for you. You are a good woman." 
 
 " Don't 'ee, now, miss," she answered, taking the locket — 
 " don't 'ee, now, miss, or you'll cry." 
 
 And then she began to cry herself; and Lollie left her, and 
 slipped away.
 
 262 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 On the Embankment, while the day slowly breaks, and as 
 the light returns, the poor child begins to realise the desolate, 
 ness of her position. She leans upon the low wall, and tries to 
 think Avhat she shall do. Only one thing occurs to her. She 
 must go back to Gray's Inn, and find out where Mr. Venn is. 
 She has no money to buy breakfast, she has nowhere even to 
 sit down ; and her iimbs are trembling with fatigue. She was 
 almost staggering now as she reached the gate of the inn. 
 From the other side of the road, she saw the porter and the 
 people who knew her face standing in the gateway. So she went 
 round by the side entrance ip Warwick-court to the door. This 
 time, at least, she would find him in his chambers. Alas ! no. 
 The door was still shut, as the gate of Paradise was to the Peri; 
 and her courage died away within her. Inside lay Hartley, sound 
 asleep ; for it was but nine o'clock. Then she slowly and sadly 
 descended the staircase. Should she go and ask the porter 
 where he was ? Not yet — presently. She would wait a little, 
 and make one more trial. And so, down Holborn and into 
 Long-acre, with a dazed idea of finding her way to Covent-garden, 
 where there might be another basket to sit upon. 
 
 But as she crawled along, her cheeks blanched, her eyes heavy 
 and dull, neither seeing nor feeling anything, some one passed 
 her, started, ran back, and caught her by the arm, crying — 
 
 " Miss Lollie, Miss Lollie !" And she fell fainting for- 
 wards. 
 
 It was no other than that Mary of whom mention has already 
 been made. ]\Iary the sinful, you know. She was on her way 
 to rehearsal at Drury Lane. Por there was the grandest of all 
 grand spectacles "on," and she was one of the most prominent 
 of the ladies engaged specially — a dignified position nearest to 
 the lights — in the joyous dance of village maidens. She also 
 had to appear as one of the Queen's personal attendants, in a 
 procession which beat into fits any procession ever made on the 
 stage or off it. She was going along with a friend, engaged in 
 the same line, talking of her boy — 
 
 " And the notice he takes — it's wonderful. Only two years 
 old, and he understands everything you tell him. And the 
 words he can say ; and good as gold with it all. I'm making 
 him a little pair of — Oh, good gracious, it's Lollie Colling- 
 wood !" 
 
 She lived close by, in the pleasant seclusion of a two-pair 
 back, King-street, Long-acre.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 263 
 
 The two lifted Laura between them, and half carried her, 
 half led her to the door, and dragged her upstairs, because now 
 she gave way altogether, and lay lifeless in their arms. They 
 placed her on the bed, and waited to see if she would recover. 
 Presently she opened her eyes, gave a dreamy look at them as 
 they leaned over the bed, and closed them again; 
 
 " Who is it T whispered the friend. 
 
 ** Hush ! don't make any noise. It's Mr. Venn's little girl. 
 Oh dear ! oh dear ! and she so pretty and good ! See — she's 
 got a wedding ring on. Go down and get the kettle, my dear ; 
 and go on to rehearsal without me. I shall be fined ; but I 
 kuow who will pay the fine. And bring Georgie up. Perhaps 
 the sight of him will do her good — it always does me ; and 
 come back, my dear, when rehearsal's over — I shall want you." 
 
 She took otf Lollie's hat and jacket, her boots and wet stock- 
 ings, covering her poor cold feet with blankets ; and then 
 smoothed and tidied her hair, hanging dank and wet upon her 
 cheek as if she had been drowned. 
 
 But Lollie made no movement, lying stupefied and senseless. 
 
 Presently came up the other woman, bearing tea in one hand, 
 and little George, making a tremendous crowing, in the other. 
 
 " Is she come to 1" whispered the girl. 
 
 " Ko ; but she will presently. Go you, or you'll be late too ; 
 and don't forget to come back as soon as you can. Where's the 
 sugar 1 Georgie, boy, you've got to be very quiet. Sit down, 
 and play with the spoon, and mother will give you sugared 
 bread and butter." 
 
 The child immediately sat down, and assumed the silence 
 of a deer-stalker. 
 
 " Did you ever see such a boy T his mother went on. " As 
 good as gold. Now the milk; and ask Mrs. Smith to trust me 
 another quarter-hundred of coals. I must have a fire for this 
 poor thing. Tell her there's them as will see it paid." 
 
 She made up the fire, tidied the room, so that it looked 
 at least clean and neat ; and then, pouring out the tea, brought 
 it to the bedside. 
 
 " Lollie, my dear," she whispered — ''Lollie, my little darling, 
 open your eyes. It's only me — it's only Mary, that you helped 
 three years ago. Take some tea, dear; and lie down, and go to 
 sleep, and I'll send for Mr. Venn." 
 
 At this name the girl opened her eyes, and half lifted her 
 head, while she drunk the tea. [iiien she lay back, looked
 
 204 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 round the room, pressed her hand to her head as if in pain, and 
 shut her eyes again. 
 
 She lay like one dead, hut for the light breathing to whicli 
 her good Samaritan listened from time to time. 
 
 At two o'clock the friend came back, and Mary began to hunt 
 about in drawers, in pockets, everywhere. 
 
 " I knew I'd got a piece left somewhere," she said at last, 
 triumphantly producing a piece of note-paper the size of a man'.s 
 hand, the remnant of a quire, the only purchase of note-paper 
 she ever had occasion to make. " I knew I'd got a piece left. 
 But there's no ink. A pencil must do." 
 
 With some pains, for she was not one of those who write a 
 letter every day, she indited a letter to Mr. Venn : 
 
 " Dear Mr. Venn — Come here as soon as you can. If you 
 are out, come when you get back. Never mind what time it is. 
 If it's midnight you must come. 
 
 ♦« Mary." 
 
 " Take that," she whispered, " to Gray's Inn. If he is out, 
 drop it into his letter-box ; if he is in, tell him not to be bring- 
 ing the old grandmother round. Laura don't want to see her, 
 I fancy, so much as him." 
 
 On the bed the patient lay sleeping through all that day ; for 
 Mr. Venn did not come. A sudden shock makes one stupid. 
 So long as it cannot be understood, one can go to sleep over it. 
 It is only Avhen the dull, slow pain succeeds the stupefying blow 
 that we begin really to suffer. Lollie's sleep was what Mr. 
 MacTntyre might have called a compensation due to her. And 
 in her dreams she went back to her husband, and mixed up, 
 with the little house at Notting-hill, her former happiness with 
 Mr. Venn. 
 
 The hours sped, and the afternoon came on. Mary had her 
 dinner, and put something on the hob for Lollie if she. should 
 •wake. Then came tea-time ; but she slept still, and the boy 
 had to be put to bed. Then it was Mary discovered that Lollio 
 was sleeping in clothes wet through and through. 
 
 She half raised her, pulled them off, and laid her back, with 
 her own warm flannel dressing-gown wrapped round her. 
 
 No Mr. Venn. 
 
 Then Mary sat down by the fire, prepared to watch and keep 
 herself awake.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 But where was Vennl 
 
 He was engaged at a funeral ; no other, indeed, than that of 
 Mrs. Peck herself. The old lady was dead — not in consequence 
 of her grand-daughter's elopement ; because, when she found 
 that little difference would he made in the allowance, she was a 
 good deal more comfortable Avithout her than with her. She 
 died of some disease more commonplace than a broken heart, 
 one for Avhich the doctor brought her little phials of physic and 
 Hartley Venn pint bottles of port. As for the disappearance of 
 the girl, that affected her chiefly in lowering the position she 
 had hitherto held in the Eow. The transportation of a son 01 
 the disappearance of a daughter is held in some circles to be as. 
 much a disease as the scarlet fever. It is a thing which hap- 
 pens, somehow, in many most respectable families, and is not to 
 be accounted for or fought against. 
 
 The old woman grew worse instead of better, and presently 
 kept her bed. Then Hartley got a nurse for her, and used to 
 look in once a week or so to see how she was getting on. One 
 day the inevitable message from across the Eiver came to the 
 dame in bed, and she immediately sent for Hartley, in great 
 trouble lest she should have to begin the journey before he ar- 
 rived. But he was in time. 
 
 "Is it about Lollie T he asked, expecting some message of 
 forgiveness or love to the girl. 
 
 " IS'o — no," she answered. " Drat the girl, with her fine 
 learning and her ways ! It's myself this time, ^Ir. Venn, and 
 time enough too, I think. All the things I've seen you give 
 that child, and never a thing for me." 
 
 Hartley almost burst into a fit of laughter, it was so grotesque. 
 
 Here she was seized with a fit of coughing that nearly finished 
 her off altogether. 
 
 " Oh dear, dear ! The time's come, Mr. Venn, -when you can 
 make amends for your selfishness, and give me, something too." 
 
 " My poor soul, haven't I given you everything you want % 
 Do you want more port wine?' 
 
 " Better than that," she gasped. " I want a Funeral. I haven't 
 complained, have I, sir? Xot when I see the child decked out 
 that fine as the theayter couldn't cqunl it, I haven't nuinmired ; 
 because, says I to myself — oil dear 1 oh dear 1 — ^Ir. Venn, ho'a
 
 266 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 a good man, he is. He means it all for the best ; and the time 
 •will come. And now it has come. I want a Funeral, If I 
 was to die to-night/"' she Avent on, " you'd save all the 'lowances, 
 and the port wine. Think of that, now." 
 
 " I don't see what you want. A funeral ?" 
 
 " When Peck died we had a triQe saved and put by. That 
 was fifteen years ago. And we did it properly. His brother 
 came from Hornsey, and his two cousins from Camberwell, and 
 we all went respectable to i'iuchlcy. After the Funeral — it was 
 a cold day — we went to the Crown, and sat round the. fire and 
 cried, as was but right, and drank gin and water hot. Oh dear ! 
 — and we all enjoyed ourselves. Let me. have a Funeral too, Mr. 
 Venn." 
 
 He promised, and she died that very night, chuckling over 
 the great happiness that had come to her. The two cousins 
 from Camberwell, who had not been seen since the demise of the 
 late Mr. Peck, could not be found, but the brother from Hornsey 
 turned up ; and Venn, anxious that the old man should really 
 have a good time of it, went to the funeral himself, and gave 
 him after it more gia and Avater than he could carry. 
 
 The pious act accomplished, he went to the club and dined, 
 going afterwards to Lynn's, where he sat till twelve, discoursing 
 of funeral ceremonies of all nations ; so that it Avas after 
 midnight when he got Mary's missive. He trembled Avhen be 
 read it. The blood rushed to his head, because it could mean 
 but one thing — his little girl. And as he hurried doAvn the 
 streets to her lodging, he could find no formula for the prayer of 
 his hrart, Avhicli Avas for her safety and — for her purity. 
 
 Everybody had gone to bed ; but Mary heard his step at the 
 door, and let him in herself 
 
 " What is it ]" he AA'hispered, as she proceeded quickly to 
 bolt the door again and put up the chain — " Avhat is it, girH" 
 
 " Hush !" she answered. " Pull off your boots. PU carry 
 them. She's up there and asleep." 
 
 He crept up. On the bed there lay, still sleeping, her face 
 upon her hand, her cheek all pale and blanched, her long hair 
 streaming back upon the pillow, Avrapped warm in all Mary's 
 blankets, his Lollie — his little girl. He made a movement 
 toAvards her, but Mary held him back. 
 
 " Xot yet. Wait, She has been sleeping since one o'clock this 
 morning. Let her be. Something dreadful has happened to 
 her. Sit down and Avait.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 267 
 
 " Notice, Mr. Venn. She's got the same clothes on as she 
 used to have. She must have been going back to you. Poor 
 thing ! poor thing ! See here — her jacket, and hat, and blue 
 frock, and all — I know them, every one. And look here." 
 
 Very softly she laid back the blanket which covered her left 
 hand. On the third finger was a wedding ring. 
 
 Hartley bent down and kissed the ring. His tears fell fast 
 upon the little fingers. 
 . " When will she wake T he whispered. 
 
 " I don't know — anything may wake her." 
 
 " I shall stay here," he replied ; and sat down by the bed, 
 in the only chair in the room. 
 
 Mary hesitated a moment, and then lay down on the extreme 
 edge of the other side of the bed. Hartley noticed then that 
 between her and Lollie lay the child. 
 
 In two moments she, too, was asleep ; and the watch of the 
 night began in earnest. Hartley saw how Mary had laid all her 
 blankets and wraps upon his child, and left herself with nothing, 
 not even a shawl. He took off his own great-coat — he was ever 
 a kind-hearted man — and laid it over her shoulders, with a 
 corner of blanket across her feet, and then sat down again, 
 shivering — the fire was quite out, and the room was getting cold 
 — and waited. 
 
 Presently the candle went out suddenly, and then there was 
 darkness and silence, save for the breath of the sleepers. 
 
 The tumult of his thoughts in this stillness was almost more 
 than his nerves could bear. It was not till the girl left him 
 that he had at all realised the hold she had upon his all'ections 
 and her place in his life. He had been very lonely without her. 
 He had longed with all his soul to see her again. There was no 
 moment, now, when he was not ready to forgive everything, nor 
 when his arms were not open to her. The love he had for the 
 girl was the outcome of so many years. She had so twisted and 
 twined the tendrils of affection round him, that when she went 
 away he was like some old tower from which its ivy, the growth 
 of centuries, had been rudely and roughly dragged away. With 
 the child coming every day, full of fresh tlioughts, and eager for 
 knowledge, there was always some compensation for the neglect 
 of the world. Laura was his family : she it was who jjreservcd 
 his life from utter loneliness and disappointment. While he 
 watched the growtli of her mind, he furgot tliat his own was, aa 
 he was fond of calling it, a Wreck. While he listened to her ideas,
 
 268 MV LITTLE GIRL 
 
 he forgot that his own were ruthlessly consigned to waste-paper 
 baskets ; and with her bright face and child-like ways, he had 
 forgotten that he was getting on for forty — a poor man still, and 
 disappointed. 
 
 All these things crowded into his mind as he sat there, and 
 a great hunger seized his heart to have all things back again as 
 they were before. He had been growing weary of late ; the old 
 things ceased to please him ; there was little interest left in life ; 
 he felt himself getting old ; he awoke in the morning without 
 the former feeling that another day would bring its little basket 
 of pleasure ; he lay down at night with the new feeling that 
 here was finished another of those gray-coloured days which go 
 to make up the total of a sad life. Would that all could be as 
 it had been — that the step of the child could be heard again upon 
 the stairs, and the lessons renewed where they left off. But the 
 waters run not back to the mountains. Old Mrs. Peck was lying 
 buried in Finchley Cemetery. Laura was a woman ; a wedding 
 ring Avas on her finger ; her long eyelashes lay wet with tears 
 upon her cheeks — those cheeks that never knew a tear while he 
 was there to ki.ss them. She moaned in her dreams who had 
 once only smiled ; and nothing could come back but the old, 
 old, inextinguishable love. 
 
 So, minute by minute, the slow night passed along. Hartley 
 sat through it motionless, in the dark, catching the breathing of 
 the sleeper, though he could not see her face. After many hours, 
 there came through the window the first faint streaks of a 
 November dawn, growing stronger and stronger. When it fell 
 on little Georgie's face, it half roused him from his sleep, and 
 reaching out his arms to find liis mother, the boy laid his little 
 hand on Lollie's neck, and she awoke. Woke with a start, and 
 a rush of thoughts that made her half sit up and stare at the 
 figure of Hartley, indistinct in the morning gloom, with strange, 
 wild eyes. 
 
 " Where am I % — where am I T she murmured, sinking back. 
 
 Hartley bent over and raised her head, kissing her brow in his 
 quiet, old-fashioned way. 
 
 " Open your eyes, my little girl. You are come home again. 
 Thank God you are come home again," the tears raining thick 
 upon her face. 
 
 She hardly as yet comprehended ; but at last, sitting up in 
 bed, she looked about the room, trying to remember. The bitter 
 knowledge came at last ; and, throwing her arms about his neck, 
 he laid her face against his, crying pitifully —
 
 M V L TTTL E GIRL. 269 
 
 "Oh, :\rr. Venn— Mr. Venn !" 
 
 This -was all her prayer. Hartley could not trust himself to 
 answer. He clasped her in his arms, he held her face to his, 
 and covered it with kisses, he called her a thousand names of 
 Inve and endearment — his child, his Lollie, his little daughter. 
 And then jMary showed herself to be a young woman of really 
 a high order of feeling ; for, awakened by the voices, she got up 
 from the edge of the bed on which she had slept all night, and 
 catching up the still sleeping boy, disappeared to some other 
 part of the house — I fancy to the back kitchen below — and left 
 them alone. 
 
 Presently, as the light grew stronger, Lollie recovered herself 
 a little, and in a quick, nervous way began to tell him her tale. 
 Hartlej'- listened with grinding teeth. She told all — extenuating 
 nothing, hiding nothing, save some of the cruelty of her hus- 
 band's last words. He stopped her then. 
 
 " You wrote to me from the place where you were married, 
 my dear?" 
 
 " Yes. Mr. Maclntyre was to take the letter." 
 
 " And again from Vieuxcamp f 
 
 " I wrote twice from Vieuxcamp." 
 
 "I got no letters at all, poor child — not one. They sup- 
 pressed them all. Go on. It was the day before yesterdaj'. 
 Where did you go when you left him 1" 
 
 " I walked — I don't know. I walked all niglit. You Avere 
 not in your chambers. It rained. I walked about all night. 
 Somebody took away my purse. "What was I to do, Mr. Venn % 
 Where was I to go? A woman in Covent-garden gave me some 
 coffee—" 
 
 " Tell me her name, Lollie — tell me her name." 
 
 " I don't know. She had a stall at the corner of Bow-street." 
 
 " She had a stall at the corner of Bow-street," he repeated. 
 
 *' And she went home at seven o'clock." 
 
 " Home at seven?" he said. " All night, Lollie ? — all the cold, 
 wot, dark night? Oh, child, child, why did you not come to 
 my rooms, and sit on the stairs till I came homo T 
 
 He held her close to his heart. 
 
 "All night — all night ! Lollie, Lollie, my heart is breaking 
 for you. One thing you have foigotten. Tell me the name of 
 your husband." 
 
 " Piiilip Durnford." 
 
 " Arthur's cousin !*
 
 270 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Philip Durnford — Artbur's cousin, of -whom he was always 
 speaking. It seemed a new complication. Venn sat back in 
 his chair, pondering. 
 
 " Promise me something, Mr. Venn," Lollie whispered — 
 " promise me something. Do not harm Philip." 
 
 " Harm him !" he answered, with a fierce light in his eyes. 
 
 " For my sake, do not try to see him. Do not go in his way." 
 
 " My poor child." 
 
 "But promise." 
 
 " Lollie, you ask too much. But what harm can I do him ? 
 I cannot go round to his tent with a knife, as a child of Israel 
 would have done, and stab him till he die. I wish I could. I 
 cannot even ask him to fight a duel. I would if I could. My 
 aim should be steady and my eye straight. Tell me what harm 
 I can possibly do to him. True, I could go to him with a stick, 
 and so relieve myself." 
 
 " No, Mr. Venn, you will not do that." 
 
 " Do not talk about him, child — do not talk about him. Let 
 us talk of other things. And, first, to make you well. My 
 child, how hot your head is. I will go and send a doctor to 
 you. Lie down and sleep again." 
 
 " I should like some tea," she said, sinking back exhausted. 
 " I am thirsty. My hands are burning, and my head swims. 
 Send me Mary, please." 
 
 He hurried downstairs, and brought up Mary ; and then, pro- 
 raising to return in the afternoon, went away to send her a 
 doctor. That done, he returned to his chambers, feeling lighter 
 and happier than he had done for months past. So happy was 
 he, that he set to work and burned no less than three immortal 
 essays, because he suspected that they were deficient in joy 
 and thankfulness — two qualities which he now regarded as 
 essential to a well-balanced mind. That sacrifice completed, he 
 sat down before the fire and fell fast asleep, thinking of how the 
 good old days were to be restored to him. 
 
 When he awoke it was three o'clock, and he had had no 
 breakfast. That was a trifling consideration, because coffee can 
 be always made. He broke bread with a sense of happiness and 
 gratitude that almost made his modest meal a sacrament, and 
 then went back to his patient.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. vj\ 
 
 But on the stairs he was met by Marj". 
 
 " You can't come in, Mr. Venn. Lollie is very ill, and the 
 doctor is with her. Don't be frightened. She's had too great 
 a shock. You may come to-morrow." 
 
 He turned away, all his joy dashed. As he shut the door 
 behind him, he ground his teeth savagely, and stood still for a 
 moment. 
 
 " If my child " — shaking his hand at the silent heavens — "if 
 my little girl does not get better, I will kill him — I will kill 
 him ! A life for a life. I will kill him !" 
 
 Then he wandered about the street, following as nearly as he 
 could the wanderings of Lollie during that night, and trying to 
 imagine where she would stand for shelter. The fancy seized 
 him to find out the man who robbed her. It was from a court 
 on the north side of Oxford-street. He went along, turning into 
 every court he could find, and prowling up and down with a 
 vague sort of feeling that he might see the man, and know him 
 by his long legs, his bare feet, and his crouching like a 
 wolf. There were a good many wolf-like creatures about, but 
 none that quite answered to Lollie's description ; and he de- 
 sisted from the search at last, calling himself a fool, and so went 
 home. 
 
 Then another notion seized him. He ordered the night porter 
 to call him at four o'clock, and so went to bed. 
 
 At four he was awakened, and got up. 
 
 " Most extraordinary." he murmured, shivering, and lighting 
 a candle, " the sensatioii of rising in the night. I quite under- 
 stand now why the labouring classes, who always do it, never 
 take tubs." 
 
 He dressed hastily, and went out into the court. The very 
 last light had disappeared in the square. The last roysterer was 
 gone to bed. The last student had knocked off work for the 
 night. 
 
 " It gives one," he said to himself, "an Antipodean feeling. 
 I feel as if I were on my head. Now I begin to understand 
 why agricultural labourers are never boisterous in their spirits. 
 This is enough to sadden Momus !" 
 
 Not a soul was in Holborn when he passed through the gate. 
 He buttoned his great-coat tighter across his chest, and strode up 
 the street, his footstej^s echoing as he went. 
 
 " I wish it would rain," he said, " then I should understand 
 the misery of it better."
 
 272 MY LITTLE GIRL.. 
 
 lie; left Ilolborn, and passing down the bye-streets, niadfl 
 directly for Covout-gaideu. There he found t!ie market in full 
 vigour — the carts all seeming to come in at the same time. Ho 
 peered about in the faces of the drivers and workmen. 
 
 " An expression of hope," he said, " or rather of expectation. 
 We have had our bed — they seem as if they were always 
 looking for it. Very odd ! Life pulled forward — breakfast at 
 four, dinner at ten, tea o.t two. Bed, if you are a Sybarite, 
 about seven ; if you are a reveller, at nine. Where is my coffee- 
 woman ?" 
 
 He came to a stall, where a fat, red-faced woman was ladling 
 out cups of coffee to an expectant crowd. He stood on one side, 
 and let the crowd thin, and then humbly advanced. 
 " A cup of coffee, if you please, ma'am." 
 She poured it out for him. 
 
 " Drink it, and go home to bed," she said. " You ought to 
 be ashamed of yourself, stayin' out all night this fashion." 
 
 " I am only just out of bed," said Venn, meekly. '' I got out 
 of bed to see you." 
 
 " And pray what might you be wanting to see me for, young 
 manl I don't owe you nothing." 
 
 " On the contrary, it is I who owe you a great deal," he re- 
 plied, sitting on the shafts of her collee-cart, " Tell me, my 
 good soul, you were here the night before last?" 
 " I am here every night." 
 
 " Then you remember the young lady who came here T 
 " I should think I do remember her — the pretty lamb." 
 Venn took her great rough hand in his, and held it. 
 " She gave you a locket. Have you got it with you 1" 
 " Yes, it's in my pocket. Wait a bit — wait a bit. Here it is. 
 What do you want with the locket ?" 
 
 " She has sent me to buy the locket back," he replied, "and 
 to find out where you live. She is with her friends now. You 
 must not ask anything about her — why she was out alone ; but 
 she is with her own friends — those who love her. She is ill too 
 ■ — God help her !" 
 
 " Amen," said the woman, " and good she was, I swear." 
 " As good as any saint. See, give me the locket, and tell me 
 where you live. She shall come soon to see you herself And 
 here is the price of the locket." 
 
 He laid five pounds in her hand. The woman looked at the 
 gold — it was as much as ever she had had in her possession, all 
 at once — and then held out her hand again.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 273 
 
 " If she's poor, take it back, I don't waut it — the Lord love 
 her ! If she's rich, I'll keep it for the chiider." 
 
 " I am rich," said Yenn, " because I have her back. Keep 
 the money. And now, tell me where you live." 
 
 She shook her head again, and turned away. 
 
 " I can't go to bed," he said. " I've had my breakfast too ; 
 what time shall I want lunch, I wonder? Where am I to go now?" 
 
 It was not quite six o'clock. He strolled along the streets, 
 niaking mental observations, watching how the traffic began and 
 how it slowly increased. Then he went on the Embankjnent. 
 
 " I have never yet seen the rosy-fingered dawn. Let us con- 
 template one of nature's grandest phenomena." 
 
 A dense fog came rolling up with the break of day, and there 
 was nothing to see at all. 
 
 " I am disappointed," he said to himself. " From the descrip- 
 tion of that lying tribe, the poets, I had expected a very different 
 thing. Alas ! one by one the illusions of life die away. Let us 
 go and look after our patient." 
 
 The worst was past ; and though Laura was hanging between 
 life and death, the balance of youth and strength was in her 
 favour. 
 
 After a day or two, they allowed Venn to enter the sick room 
 and help to nurse. !N^ever had patient a nurse more careful and 
 attentive. In the morning, when Mary went to rehearsal, and 
 in the evening, when she Avent to the theatre, he took her place, 
 and watched the spark of life slowly growing again into a 
 flame. She was light-headed still, and in her unconscious prat- 
 tling revealed aU the innocent secrets of her life. What revela- 
 tions those are of sick men in the ears of mothers and sisters 
 who have thought them spotless ! 
 
 Venn learned all. He heard her plead with her husband for 
 permission to tell himself, to write, to try and see him. lie saw 
 how, through it all, he himself lay at her heart ; and lastly, he 
 heard from her hps the real and tiuc story of the last cruel blow 
 that drove her out into the street. What could he do to this 
 man ? How madden him with remorse ] How drive him and 
 lash him with a scourge of scorpions ? 
 
 One morning he found her sitting up, half-dressed, weak and 
 feeble, but restored to her right mind. Then Hartley Venn did 
 a thing he had not done for nearly thirty year.s — you so easily get 
 out of the habit at Eton — he knelt down by the bedside, her 
 hand in his, and thanked God aloud for his great mercy. 
 
 18
 
 274 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " When I get well again, Mr. Veuu," whispered Lollie, " wd 
 will go to church together, will we not V 
 
 Then he sat down by her while she told him all the story 
 again, till the tears ran down both their cheeks ; for Hartley 
 Venn was but a gi'Civt, soft-hearted baby, and showed his feelings 
 in a manner quite unknown to the higher circles. 
 
 " l>ut what are Ave to do with you, Lollie T he asked, when 
 he had told all his news — how Mrs. Peck was gone, and there 
 was no house anywhere for her. *• You could not possibly 
 have gone to live with your old grandmother any more. What 
 shall we do for you ?" 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Venn. Do something for Mary. See 
 how good she has been." 
 
 " Mary don't want anything, child. When she docs she 
 knows where to go for help." 
 
 Then he told her all about the coffee woman. 
 
 " I will take you to see her," he said, " as soon as you are 
 well. Here is your locket, my dear, back again. We are to go 
 in the day-time, and I am to prepare her for your visit lirst. 
 But what am I to do with you % Stay. I will go and ask 
 Sukey ? She always knows what ought to be done." 
 
 It was really a serious question. What was he to do with 
 her % He might get her lodgings. But then his own visits 
 would have to be few, so as to prevent talk. He might take a 
 house for her, though that hardly seemed the best thing. But 
 as he walked along to Woburn-place, a brilliant thought flashed 
 across him. Sukey should take her. A comfortable house, the 
 care of a lady, surrounding circumstances not only new, but new 
 enough to have a charm, and a life beyond the reach of any 
 malicious tongues. Nothing could be better. But then Sukey 
 might object. He smoothed his face into its sweetest lines. He 
 would diplomatize. 
 
 Sukey was in a state of great nervous excitement, in conse- 
 quence of having been excommunicated. She was of High 
 Church proclivities, and loved, in moderation, the exercise of 
 those observances appointed by her advisers. Naturally, too, she 
 was fond of the society of her clergyman, a gentleman who held 
 rigid views as to fasting and feasting, observing the periods of 
 the former courageously — but with grief and pain — and the latter 
 with undisguised joy. Both states of feeling he regarded as 
 conducive to a sound spiritual state. And so far he was fol- 
 lowed by Miss Vennj who haLed a vegetable diet as much as she
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 275 
 
 loved a good diuuer. In an evil hour, having been presented 
 wth an Angola cat, she christened it St. Cj'ril. Her director, 
 on discovering this piece of levity, treated it as an offence quite 
 beyond the venial sins common among mankind, and not only 
 ordered her to change the name to Tom, but also enjoined as a 
 penance an octave of cabbage. At this tyranny, her whole soul 
 revolted, and she flew into open rebellion : going over to the 
 enemy's camp, a neighbouring Low Church establishment, where 
 as yet no surplice was flaunted in the pulpit, the Psalms were 
 read, and the service finely rendered. 
 Thereupon she was excommunicated. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 Venn, on the following morning, called upon his sistei*. 
 
 She burst forth with all her tale of trouble as soon as she saw 
 him. Hartley judiciously gave her the reins, only occasionally 
 murmuring sympathetically. 
 
 " Why, Sukey," he said, when she had quite finished, 
 " you can do nothing better than persist. It is the most out- 
 rageous tyranny. And such a beautiful animal, too. St. Cyril, 
 come here. Sh — tsh ! A lovely cat." 
 
 " I thought you hated cats, Hartley." 
 
 " As a rule, I do. But not such a superb creature as this. 
 St. Cyril — what a beautiful name for a cat ! Suggestive of bowl- 
 ings on chimney-tops — I mean, of purrings on the hearth-rug. 
 My dear sister, you have a genius for giving names. When I 
 was a child — when we were children together — you used to call 
 me Billabelub for short, I remember well." 
 
 Sukey began to purr too, falling into the trap baited by 
 flattery as innocently as any creature of the forest. 
 
 " I think I chose a good name, in spite of ]\Ir. De Vere. 
 Take a glass of wine, Hartley, and a biscuit. Why do you call 
 here so seldom V 
 
 " The sheiiy, by all means." 
 
 He poured out two glasses. 
 
 " Hartley, you know I never take wine in the morning." 
 
 ** As it is poured out, you may as well drink it. Besides, it 
 will do you good." 
 
 She drank it, and appeared to like it. 
 
 "But I came to tell you some good news, Sukey," he went 
 
 18-2
 
 2/6 M y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 on, seeing that the momcut had arrived. " ]My littlo girl has 
 come back to me." 
 
 Sukey said notliing, but looked up sharply. 
 
 " Yes. Her liusbaud has ill-treated her." 
 
 " Her husband ! she has a husband, then T 
 
 " Sukey ! "Why, how else should she have left me 1" 
 
 This was a facer. Hartley followed up the advantage. 
 
 " Her husband, it appears — " 
 
 " Who is her husband, Hartley ]" 
 
 " Mr. Philip Durnford, lieutenant in the th liegiment, 
 
 cousin of xVrthur Durnford, whose father used to be a pupil at 
 the liectory. You remember him thirty years ago?" 
 
 "My dear brother. As if I could remember anything so long 
 ago as that." 
 
 " True, I forgot. Philip Durnford, I am sorry to say, is not 
 a good man. He made her conceal the marriage, destroyed the 
 letters she wrote to me, forbade her writing any more, and at 
 last ruined himself and turned her out of doors. Lollie has had 
 a hard time, Sukey." 
 
 ** Where is she now 1" 
 
 " She had nowhere to go, wandered about trying to find me in 
 my chambers, kept on missing me, and at last was picked up by 
 a girl Avhom she befriended two or three years ago, who took her 
 in like a Samaritan, and we nursed her through a fortnight of 
 dangerous illness. She is still almost too weak to be moved." 
 
 " You must see her husband at once." 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 " Then, where can she go 1 Hartley, you must not begin that 
 old business of having her up in your chambers." 
 
 " jSTo, certainly not — that must be put a stop to. I have 
 thought it over. She must go, Sukey " — here he became very 
 impressive — " she must go to the house of some lady, a little, 
 but not too much, older than herself, of a kind and affectionate 
 disposition — my child is dreadfully broken and weak, Sukey — 
 where her wounds may be healed, and we can teach her to forget 
 some of her troubles; where she will have no reproaches, no 
 worries, no hard words." 
 
 ** Where will you find such a guardian f 
 
 "Where? Here, Sukey, here" — he look her fat little hanJa 
 in his — " here, my dear. I know no other woman so good and 
 kind as yourself, and no house which will so entirely fulfil all 
 the conditions as your own."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 277 
 
 " Mine ? Oli, goodness gracious !" 
 
 " Yours, Sukey. For there is, I am quite sure, no one in the 
 ■world whose heart is so soft, and whose house is so comfortable 
 as yours." 
 
 She sat silent. 
 
 " You know Lollie, too. It is not as if you were strangers. 
 Eemember how you used to kiss her when she was quite a little 
 thing," 
 
 " I do," said Sukey. " The child's lips Avere always sticky 
 with jam." 
 
 " They were. And it shows," said Hartley, " the kindness of 
 your heart to treasure up this trifling circumstance. Women 
 alone know how to touch the chords of feeling. She was always 
 extravagantly fond of jam. I remember, too, how you used to 
 spread it for her on bread and butter, careful not to give her too 
 much butter for fear of biliousness. The old days, Sukey, the 
 old days !" 
 
 He was silent, as if overcome. Then he went on — 
 
 " And it is really kind — more kind than I know how to thank 
 you for — to accede at once to my suggestion. I feel as if it 
 came from you. Believe me, sister, I am very grateful." 
 
 He kissed her forehead ; and the caress, so exceedingly rare 
 from her brother, brought a glow of conscious benevolence to 
 Sukey's cheeks. She almost felt as if she had really suggested 
 the step. Then her heart sank again. 
 
 "AY ell, you know, my dear Hartley, I am the last person in 
 the world to think of my own comfort." 
 
 "You are, indeed, Sukey," he murmured, with a glance at the 
 sherry — " the very last. Always self-denying." 
 
 " But what will Anne tliink T 
 
 Hartley rang the bell, and Anne appeared. 
 
 " My sister, Anne — upon my word, Anne, you are getting 
 younger every daj' — wants to take, for a little Avhile, a young 
 lady into the house. iNlrs. Durnford, who is unhappily separated 
 from her husband. You remember her — my ward, Miss (Julling- 
 wood, that Avas ; but she is a little afraid that it will put vuu 
 out." 
 
 Anne looked troubled. 
 
 " Not a young lady who will give trouble or any extra work, - 
 but one who wants a comfortable place, and thoughtful people 
 like yourself about her." 
 
 " if Miss Venn wants it," said Anne, 
 
 \
 
 2 78 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Of course she wants it." 
 
 " Then I'm not the one to make ohjections. And I'm sure 
 the hoiise wants a little brightening up. And you never coming 
 but once in three months, Mr. Hartley." 
 
 " I sJvall come every day now, Anne. But haven't you got 
 Mr. De Veref 
 
 This was the clergyman, with whom Anne did not hold. 
 
 " Mr. De Vere, indeed 1" And Anne retreated. 
 
 " Tfcen we will lose no time," said Hartley. " I don't think 
 you could have her to-morrow ; but the day after, perhaps." 
 
 " The day after ? Oh, Hartley, ivill she be wanting gaiety 
 and fuss, and everything f 
 
 " Lollie 1 My dear Sukey, she wants quiet. But would it 
 not be a nice thing — a graceful thing — if you would bring her 
 here yourself?" 
 
 " If you prefer it, Hartley. Where is she f 
 
 " Where she has been for the last three weeks. With Mary." 
 
 *' Mary has got a surname, I suppose. Pray, what is the pro- 
 fession of Mary 1" 
 
 " Mary — I mean, Mrs. Smith, whose — ahem ! whose husband 
 has gone to — to — " 
 
 " Where is he gone to ?" 
 
 " How should I know where he is gone to?" replied Hartley, 
 a little irritably, for he did not like being off the rails of truth. 
 " Gone to Abraham's bosom, I suppose. So Mrs. Smith, you 
 know, dances at the theatre, and supports her child in a credit- 
 able way." 
 
 " ISTovv, Hartley, I will not — the grand-daughter of a Bishop, 
 and all — go to the lodgings of a Dancing Person." 
 
 Hartley repressed an inclination to refer to the ancestral glue 
 manufactory, and only meekly replied that there was no need. 
 
 " Bring Laura to your chambers the day after to-morrow," said 
 Sukey, " and I will come and fetch her." 
 
 " Do, Sukey, come to breakfast — kidneys, sister. You shall 
 take her away afterwards in a cab. You will be kind to her, 
 Sukey 1" 
 
 " Of course I will Oh, dear ! there is nothing but trouble. 
 Now we shall have to make things ready. Well, go away, now, 
 Hartley — you will only be in the way. I will come at ten." 
 
 Two days afterwards. Hartley brought his ward back again to 
 the old chambers. ]\Iary hucrged and kissed her ; but whcu
 
 3fr LITTLE GIRL. 179 
 
 Lanra promised to call and see her soon, she only shook her 
 head, and said it was better not, and began to cry. And then 
 she went back to her room again, and found it cheerless and 
 dreary indeed. 
 
 Hartley helped Laura upstairs, and installed her in her old 
 place, the old chair by the fire. 
 
 " It looks like what it used to be, LoUie," he said ; " but it is 
 not. It never can be again," 
 
 " Ah, no ! It never can be again. My fault, my fault." 
 
 " Never again, never again. The waters are troubled, dear, 
 and we shall be long in getting them clear. But think no more 
 of the past. You are always my little girl, remember ; and if 
 you were dear to me before, Lollie, when you were but a child, 
 you are doubly dear now, when you come back in your sorrow 
 and trouble. There are to be no more lessons, and talks, and 
 Avalks. I must not see you very often, and never here, because 
 people might talk. But never doubt, my chiW, that I love you." 
 
 He kissed her forehead and caressed her face in his old calm 
 way, while the tears were standing in his eyes. She dropped 
 her face in her hands, and wept unrestrainedly. 
 
 Miss Venn appeared at this juncture. She had walked to 
 Gray's Inn, making up her mind to be kind, but yet severe ; for 
 elopements should always be visited by coldness of manner, at 
 least. Besides, meditation of forty-eight hours had revealed to 
 her the cunning manner in which her brother had entrapped her 
 into a generosity of which she half repented. 
 
 But at sight of her brother's sorrow, and the weak, wasted 
 figure in the chair, her resolution gave way ; and almost before 
 she had got the girl well in her fat, motherly arms, she was 
 crying over her, and kissing her, with a vehemence which did 
 infinite credit to the family. 
 
 Hartley left them, and presently returned with the kidneys, 
 cooked in his bed-room. Nobody could do kidneys so well as 
 Hartley, or brew such splendid coffee. And sympathy brings 
 its own reward in the shape of appetite. 
 
 After tliis, she took Lollie away with her, laid her on the sofa, 
 and, with Anne, made much of her. 
 
 I have only to add that the public appearance of Laura, and 
 the way in Avhich she was carried off by iMiss Venn, entirely re- 
 established her in the eyes of tlie Gray's Inn functionaries, and 
 effectually drowned the voices of those who had said evil thiuLra 
 about her disa[i|;earance.
 
 28o MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Venn went with a troubled mind to find Arthur Durnford. Ho 
 knew nothing as yet of his changed fortunes, and had, indeed, 
 only heard of Philip as a cousin of whom Arthur spoke little. 
 
 "Arthur," he said, shaking his hand, " something has hap- 
 pened to me." 
 
 "A great deal has happened to me," said Arthur, laughing; 
 " but I hope your accident is not so serious as mine. It's a long 
 story. But you shall have it." 
 
 He told all, from the very beginning. 
 
 " I gave up the fortune at once," he said, simply, " because 
 it seemed to me clear and beyond any dispute that my father 
 was actually married to this girl, who must have died in 
 Europe before he married again, and when Philip Avas a year 
 old. He is only two years older than myself I might 
 have fought the case, my lawj'^er said ; but it would have been 
 at the cost of publishing my father's early history, perhaps 
 raking up old scandals — all sorts of things. This I couldn't 
 do; and Philip, who is the most generous man alive, insisted 
 on my having double the sura which my father had given him. 
 You see, my father never intended him to be his heir. Of that 
 I am quite certain. On the other hand, by his will, Philip h 
 the heir. And the decision of the case means legitimacy to him." 
 
 " I see," said Venn — " I see. Nevertheless, I do not believe. 
 This man who supplies the proofs — I will tell you something 
 about him directly." 
 
 " You can tell me very little that I do not know already. 
 Tliat Maclntyre is a scoundrel, an unscrupulous man, bound' by 
 no laws of honour, religion, or morality, I know already — partly 
 from his own confession." 
 
 " He sold his proofs, I suppose?" 
 
 " I suppose so. I have not asked Philip what he asked or 
 got for them." 
 
 " Tell me his address, if you know it." 
 
 " I know the street, but not the number. He is in lodginga 
 in Keppel Street, Eussell Square," 
 
 " Keppel Street? I know it. Yes — Keppel Street." 
 
 Over his face there stole a look of thankfulness, expressed by 
 the movement of his sensitive lips. His colour rose just a little, 
 but he was outwardly calm.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 281 
 
 " You -n^ant to see him T 
 
 " I think I shall probahl}^ call upon him to-day." 
 
 " But what has happened to you, Venn ? I am so full of my 
 own troubles that I am selfish, and forget yours." 
 
 "Mine are not all troubles, Arthur. My little girl has been 
 restored to me." 
 
 Arthur did not dare say a word. He was afraid to ask the 
 question that rose to his lips. 
 
 " Spotless, thank God, and pure. You shall learn, pre- 
 sently, how. But tell me first about this new-found brother of 
 yours." 
 
 " What about him T 
 
 " Is he, for instance, a man of honour V 
 
 " I would stake mj own upon Phil's honour f 
 
 " And truth V 
 
 " Surely, my dear Venn, you have nothing to say or to sus- 
 pect against Philip, have you 1" 
 
 " And a man, you think, of generous leanings, of chivalrous 
 
 feeling, of lofty sentiments, of Well, Arthur, I am going 
 
 to give you a greater shock than the loss of your fortune. Listen 
 to me. I used to tell my child, in a thoughtless way, that 1 
 .should like, above all things, to see her married to a gentleman. 
 She, my innocent and ignorant Lollie, brought up with me and 
 me only, knew nothing about love, marriage, anything else that 
 is common and practical. She and I lived among our books, 
 and fed our minds on the words of old writers. Well — " he 
 paused for a moment. " One night, Avheu she left me, she was 
 insulted in the street. A gentleman came to her help. Of all 
 this she told me. She did not tell me the rest, because he per- 
 suaded her not to — that he met her again, that he told her lie 
 loved her, and begged her to marry him. She thought it would 
 plea.se me. She accepted him to please me. She kept silent to 
 please me. You think it is impossible 1 You do not know how 
 I had kept the girl from knowing the world and its wickedness. 
 The day before the marriage, she told me she had a secret, and 
 Avanted to tell it me. I, though I saw her distress, blinded by 
 my own ignorant conceit, bade her keep her secret, and refused 
 to hear it. The next day she was privately married by a Scotch 
 clergyman — living, Arthur, in Keppel Street." 
 
 "Jleavens, Venn! Do you mean Maclntyro? It was not 
 Philip — it could not be Philip." 
 
 " Was the man ever a Scotch clergyman'?"
 
 282 MY LTTTLE GIRL. 
 
 " "Who can know % He is a mass of lies. He would say so 
 for his own purposes, whether he was or not." 
 
 " And yet you allowed him to take your fortune from you." 
 
 " Not on his own evidence, Venn. But go on." 
 
 " The man who married Lollie took her to Normandy with 
 him. Before leaving the house in Keppel Street, Lollie wrote 
 me a note, telling all. Maclntyre promised to take it himself 
 to Gray's Inn. He never did. "VVhen they got to Normandf 
 she wrote me a long letter — I can fancy what my little girl 
 would say to me in it. Her husband took the letter to the post. 
 It never came. She waited a week, and then she wrote again. 
 Her husband took the letter to the post. The second letter 
 never came. Then her husband brought her back to England, 
 put her in a small house near London, and forbade her to write 
 to me any more. You understand so much." 
 
 " It cannot be Philip," Arthur said, 
 
 " AVait. There is more. This was in June, It is now No- 
 vember. For nearly five months, then, she lived there. She 
 was absolutely alone the whole time. Her husband left her in 
 the morning, and usually came home at night. She dined alone, 
 sat alone, had no visitors, no companions. All the time he was, 
 as I gather, betting on horse-racing, gambling — losing money 
 every day. Once or twice Mr. Maclntyre came to see her. Once 
 her husband had a large party of men in the house. Then he 
 sent her to her own room, and there kept her awake all night, 
 singing and laughing. My little Lollie ! When I think of it 
 all, Arthur, I feel half mad ! Wait, don't speak yet — there is 
 more. It is now ten days ago. He came home very late ; he 
 rose at mid-day ; he cursed at the breakfast ; and then, without 
 a word of regret, without a word to soften the blow, he turned 
 upon his wife, told her that he was a ruined man, that he had 
 nothing left at all, that she must leave him, because they never 
 had been married at all. What do you think of that man, 
 Arthur Durnford ?" 
 
 " Finish your story." 
 
 " She left him — left him with nothing but what she had when 
 she married him. And all that night, that bitter, wiocched, dismal 
 night, with the wild wind and rain driving in her face, the 
 poor girl wandered, wandered in the streets. Think of it, Arthur 
 — think of it ! My little girl walked about the streets all night 
 long — never stopped, never sat down, never ate or drank. All 
 night long — do you know Avhat that means ? The rain beating
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 283 
 
 •jpon her, her Tvet clothes clinging to her, her brain confused 
 and troubled, stupid with suffering ; while the hours went on 
 one after the other, creeping for her, flying for us. Good God ! 
 and I in my warm bed, asleep — unthinking. My dear, my little 
 darling ! If I had but known !" 
 
 He was standing over Arthur, as the latter sat looking at him 
 with pained and troubled face. Venn's eyes were heavy with 
 those tears which do not fall, and his voice was shaken as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "There is more still, Arthur. She Avandered so — where, she 
 does not know. In the morning a woman, a humble child of 
 Samaria, gave her a cup of coffee. I have found that giver of 
 the cup of coffee, Arthur. Then she thinks she sat down, some- 
 where, just before it grew light. And then she began to wander 
 again. From noon till noon, twenty-four hours of walking in 
 the streets. She was to have been — she might have been, 
 Arthur — a mother. Think'of it. Then, if you like it put that way, 
 God was good to her, and sent in her path a girl, a poor starving girl, 
 whom I had helped two years before, at Lollie's own prayer — 
 her own prayer, mind, not any charitable act — when she was 
 ignorant of what the girl had done, what it meant, and why her 
 father had turned her away. Mary found her wandering down 
 the street, and took her home, fainting and weary to death — not 
 knowing what was being done to her. Then she sent to me. 
 Lollie has been ill since. That was to be expected. At death's 
 door. That, too, was to be expected. 
 
 " Xow you know, Arthur, what has happened to me. Is my 
 little girl blameless T 
 
 " Surely, yes, Venn." 
 
 " And the man, Arthur — what is to be done with the man? 
 I made her tell me his name, on tlie promise that I would not 
 harm him. To keep that proniise, it is necessary that I should 
 not see him. But what is to be done Avith the man, Isayl 
 How can we make him feel what he has done? Is there 
 any way — any Avayl I see none. A man Avhose sense of 
 honour is so delicate that you would exchange it for your own ; 
 who is the soul of truth, of honour, of nobility ; Avho is — alas ! 
 alas ! my friend — your brother Philip." 
 
 Then Venn took up his hat. 
 
 " 1 must go now," he said. " Shake hands, Arthur. Tell 
 me agiin you think my little girl is jniro and spotless." 
 
 " Ucfore God I think so," .said Arthur. " fcjho is my sister."
 
 284 ^^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 "Thank you, frieud. You shall see her. JSTow I go. lam 
 bound on a pleasanter journey than when I came here. I 
 am going to pay a little visit. Yes, you are quite right, I am 
 going to Keppel Street, I am going to see the Scotch clergy- 
 man." 
 
 He put on his hat and went away. 
 
 He liad not been gone half an hour before Philip himself 
 came, radiant, happy, light-hearted. Some sinners are so. Then 
 wise men say they live in Fools' Paradise. Perhaps ; but I do 
 not pretend to solve these difficulties. My own idea is that 
 when a man has done such things as ought to take away all his 
 self-respect, there is always some of it left so long as things are 
 not found out. Y"ou can hardly expect self-respect in a gentle- 
 man who has stood in the dock, for instance, and heard the 
 judge pronouncing sentence upon him. But the jury, how 
 eminently self-respectful they are ! One or two even, perhaps, 
 of these might fairly stand side by side with the criminal. So, 
 too — but I am plagiarising from Venn's essay " On Eeing Found 
 Out j" and as the Avorld will perhaps get this work some day, T 
 must stop. 
 
 Arthur looked the criminal, certainly ; for ho fluslicd scarlet, 
 stammered, and refused to notice the hand that Philip held 
 out. 
 
 " I have heard something, Philip." 
 
 " It must be something desperately solemn,, then," said liin 
 brother. "Is it anything new about the — the late business 
 of ours V 
 
 " Nothing. It is much worse than that. jMr. Hartley Venn 
 has been here." 
 
 Philip had, for the moment, utterly forgotten "^'enn's existenee. 
 He, too, changed colour. 
 
 " Well V 
 
 "The rest you know, I suppose. Your wife — " 
 
 "Come, come, Arthur; be reasonable." 
 
 " I am reasonable. I say your wife Good heavens, sir, 
 
 what makes a woman a wife % What are the laws of the country 
 to the laws of honour, honesty, truth % Did you not pledge your 
 faith to her ? Did you not " 
 
 " Arthur, I will not be questioned." 
 
 "Answer me, then, one question. You have done — you, 
 Philip, j'ou — you have done all that Venn has told me. Learn 
 that your Avife, my sistcr-in-Iaic, lyiug ill. She has been closo
 
 My LITTLE GIRL, 285 
 
 to dying. You "U'ill, at least, make her your wife in the eyes of 
 the law r 
 
 " Oh, dear, no," said Philip, lightly. " I do not justify my- 
 self, my dear fellow. Of course it is extremely wicked and im- 
 proper. I am very sorry to hear about her illness. Tell Mr. 
 Venn that no money arrangement that is at all reasonable will 
 be objected to — that " 
 
 "Philip, stop — I won't hear it." 
 
 "Won't hear what % You were not born yesterday, I sup- 
 pose, Arthur % You knoAV that such things are done every day. 
 We all do them." 
 
 "We .all r 
 
 " Yes — ifc all. Bah ! the girl will get over it in a month." 
 
 " And this man is my own brother," said Arthui', recoiling — 
 ** is my own brother !" 
 
 Philip's face grew cloudy. There was no longer anything in 
 him but the animal. 
 
 " Let us have no more of this nonsense," he said, " Tell this 
 man A^enn that he may do Avhat he likes, and go to the devil. 
 And as for you, Arthur " 
 
 " Philip, you are a villain. Leave my room. Never speak 
 to me again. K^ever come here. Let me never see your face 
 any more. You. have disgraced the name you bear. We have 
 been a family of gentlemen for generations. And now you are 
 our representative ! It is shameful — it is dreadful!" 
 
 Philip left him. As he opened the door, he turned and 
 said — 
 
 " When you apologise to me for this language, you may, per- 
 haps, expect to see me again. Till then, never." 
 
 It was a poor Avay of getting off the stage, and Philip after- 
 Avards reflected that he might have finished with at least more 
 fire and effect if he had gone off swearing. Eut the best things 
 always occur to us too late to put them into practice. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 '■' It is indeed a dreadful story," said Madeleine, when Arthur 
 toM her. 
 
 " Wliat is to be done % Advise mc, Madeleine." 
 "Who can advise? Mr. Venn's plan of assuming the mar- 
 riage to be legal, without asking any q^ucstions, and lotting'
 
 286 Afy LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Philip alone altogether, seems the best ; unless, which I very 
 much doubt, we can bring your brother to a better frame of 
 mind. You, of course, have done as much mischief as was 
 possible. Men are always so violent." 
 
 " I told him he was a villain," said Arthur. " It is true. I 
 have never read, never heard, of baser or more cold-blooded 
 treachery." 
 
 " Let me go and see Philip," said Madeleine. 
 
 She went at once to the house at Nottiug Hill. It was now 
 dismantled ; for Philip had sent away everything but the furni- 
 ture of the two rooms in which he lived. There was no one in 
 the place but himself and an old woman. He had never been 
 upstairs to the room which had been Laura's since she left him, 
 
 Madeleine found him, uushaven, in a dressing-gown, smoking 
 a pipe, in gloomy disorder. It was in the afternoon. On the 
 table was an empty soda-water bottle, an empty tumbler, and a 
 brandy bottle. 
 
 Philip, surprised to see her, made some sort of apology for the 
 general disorder, and putting aside his pipe, brushed the hair 
 back from his forehead, and waited to hear what she would say. 
 
 She began by abusing him for living in such a mess. 
 
 '' Why do you do if?" she asked. "Brandy and soda in the 
 day-time — not dressed — rooms in the most dreadful litter. 
 Philip, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 He only groaned impatiently. 
 
 " Is that all you have come to see me for, Madeleine ? Do 
 not worry about the rooms and me. I've got something else to 
 think of besides the disorder of my rooms. You shall blow up 
 the old woman if you like. She is within hail — probably sit- 
 ting with her heels under the grate and her head in the coal- 
 scuttle." 
 
 " I have a great deal more to say, Philip, Pirst of all, do 
 you know that I am going to be your sister % I am to marry 
 Arthur." 
 
 " Arthur is a happy man, Madeleine. I envy him. But he 
 always had all the luck." 
 
 *' Don't call it luck, Phil. But we shall see a great deal more 
 of you, shall we not, when we are married ?" 
 
 " IS'o — a great deal less. I have quarrelled with Arthur," 
 
 '* I know, I know. But hasty words may be recalled, and — 
 and hasty actions may be repaired, Phil, may they not f 
 
 " If they could be undone, it would be worth talking about.
 
 My LITTLE GIRL. 287 
 
 Do not beat about the bush, Madeleine. I suppose you know 
 all about that girl, and are come here to talk to me, and pitch 
 into me. Well, go on. I cannot help what you say." 
 
 " Indeed, I do not come to pitch into you, as you call it, at 
 aU. I cannot bear to think that my own brother, my husband's 
 brother, could do this thing in cold blood. Do tell me some- 
 thing." 
 
 Philip was silent for a while. 
 
 " I will tell you the exact truth, Madeleine. You may call it 
 excuse or defence, or anything else you like. It shall be the 
 exact truth, mind. I would tell no other living soul. I care 
 nothing for what the world says; but I care something for what 
 you think. 
 
 " You cannot understand the nature of a man. You will not 
 comprehend me when I tell you that I was devoured with love 
 for this girl. There was nothing I could not have done — no- 
 thing, mind, to get possession of her. There came a time when I 
 had to marry her on a certain day or not at all. I got the special 
 licence, but forgot all about speaking to any clergyman till it was 
 too late. Then ]\laclntyre pretended that he could marry us — 
 and we were married. A fortnight ago I found myself a ruined 
 man. Worse than ruined, for I had not money to meet my 
 debts of honour. I was on the point of being disgraced. I was 
 maddened by my difficulties. She understood nothing of them, 
 never entered into my pursuits, cared nothing for my life. I was 
 maddened by her calmness. Then I lost command of myself, 
 and told her — what, mind, I did not know till after — that the 
 marriage was a mock one, and — and — Well, you know the rest. 
 That is all." 
 
 " And your love for her, Philip ?" 
 
 " My love % Gone — gone a long time ago. It was never 
 more than a passing fancy, and all this business of the last fort- 
 night put her out of my head entirely until Arthur reminded 
 me of her. She is gone to her friend, guardian — what is it %— • 
 a Mr. Venn, who lives in chambers, and enacts the part of the 
 universal philanthropist. I only keep on in this house, where it 
 is torture to me to live, in order that he may not say I ran away 
 from him. Here I am, and here I shall stay to face him — not to 
 excuse myself, you understand. I stoop to defend my life to 
 you alone." 
 
 " Philip, you are not so bad aa he thinks. Uut I may tell 
 you at once that he will not come. When Laura told him your
 
 288 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 name, she made him at the same time promise tu do you uo 
 harm — to take no revenge on you." 
 
 " I am not afraid of that, Madeleine." 
 
 " No ; but you need stay here no longer. She has gone for 
 the present to live with Miss Venn. I am going to call upon 
 her myself. I am anxious to make the acquaintance of Mrs. 
 Durnford." 
 
 " Mrs. Durnford !" 
 
 " I am told that she is a young lady, very beautiful, very care- 
 fully educated, most sweet-tempered and affectionate." 
 
 " She is all that, Madeleine ; but she never loved me. She 
 was always pining after Mr. Venn. That reminds me — I told 
 you I would give you the exact truth. I destroyed the letters 
 that she wrote to him, without telling her. That was because I 
 was jealous of him. I would have no man in her heart except 
 myself. I am extremely sorry I did that, because it was an 
 error of judgment, as well as a — " 
 
 " A wrong act, Phil, was it not T 
 
 " It was, Madeleine — a dishonourable thing. Have I abased 
 myself enough before you, or do you want more of the confes- 
 sions of a man about town? I have lots more relating to other 
 events in a riotous career. Would you like to hear them % By 
 Jove ! I wonder if the prodigal son ever beguiled the winter 
 evenings, sitting round the fire, with tales of the things he had 
 done % The name of the other son is not given in the original 
 narrative, but I believe it was Arthur." 
 
 " ]!Sro, Philip. I want no more confessions. I want an act of 
 reparation. See, Phil," she pleaded, " God only allows us to be 
 happy in being good. Be good, my brother." 
 
 " I can't, Madeleine. I'm much too far gone." 
 
 " Then undo the evil you have done." 
 
 " How can that be T 
 
 " I know you better than all the rest of them, Phil. I know 
 that you are easily influenced, that you act without thinking, 
 that you are easily moved, that your heart is not selfish. I 
 know that you are repentant in spite of your light words. But 
 think of the girl, Phil." 
 
 " I do think of her. I think of her day and night. I can- 
 not sleep. I cannot do anything. She is always before my 
 eyes." 
 
 " Then marry her, and take her back, if she would come." 
 
 " She would not, Madeleine. There was a look in her eyea
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 289 
 
 when she left me that told me all was over. Xo -womau can 
 have that expression in her face, and ever come back to love and 
 confidence. She Avould never come back." 
 
 " Then marry her, Phil, In the eyes of the law, at least, let 
 her be your wife." 
 
 Philip was silent. 
 
 " I love her no longer," he said. " There can be no longer 
 any question of love between us. Eut see, you shall do with 
 me what you will, J\fadeleine. Ask me anything for Laura, and 
 you shall have it. Keep my story — keep what I have told you 
 to yourself. Do not even tell it to Arthur," 
 
 " Philip, you promise 1" 
 
 " I promise, IMadeleine. Give me your hand. I swear by 
 your hand — because there is nothing I know so sacred — that I 
 will obey you in all things as regards Laura." 
 
 He kissed her fingers. Over his mobile countenance there 
 passed the old expression of nobility, as if it had come back to 
 settle there for good. 
 
 " And Arthur T jSIadeleine began. 
 
 The bright look vanished. 
 
 " Arthur has used words to me — I have used words to Arthur 
 — which can never be forgotten. Tell him so. I desire to meet 
 him no more. Farewell, Madeleine. Write and tell me wliat I 
 am to do, and I will do it. And let us part now, never to meet 
 again. I do not know what I shall do with my future. JNIake 
 ducks and drakes of it, I suppose. But I shall be out of my 
 path. I shall be happy enough. The slopes that lead to 
 Avernus are broad and pleasant. You may hear us singing as 
 we go down them — yon may see us dancing. Oh, it is a plea- 
 sant life, the life I am going to lead. Good-bye, Madeleine." 
 
 She took his hand — his face was clouded and moody ; and 
 then, grateful for the promise she had got, she left him and 
 drove back to her own house. 
 
 And the same day slie, Avith Arthur, made a formal call upon 
 Miss Venn. Sukey, little accustomed to visitors who came in 
 their own carriage, was not above being flattered, 
 
 " We are not come wholly for the pleasure of seeing you, Miss 
 Venn," said Madeleine, " I want to make the acquaintance of 
 my future sister-in-law, Mrs. Duruford." 
 
 " Laura 1" She looked curiously at Madeleine, but it was 
 Arthur who was blushing. " Laura 1 Slio is in her own room. 
 Would you like to go up and see herl" 
 
 19
 
 29C MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " If I might. You are too kind, dear Miss Venn. May I go 
 up by myself, without being announced T 
 
 Sukey took her to the door and left her. 
 
 Madeleine gently opened it. 
 
 On the sofa by the lire, wrapped in a dressing-gown, lay a fair 
 young girl, thin, pale, wasted. Her head Avas lying among the 
 pillows, and she was asleep: 
 
 Madeleine bent over her and kissed her. 
 
 She opened her eyes. She saw a tall and queenly woman in 
 silks and sealskins, and half rose. 
 
 " Don't move, my dear," said Madeleine ; " let me kiss you. 
 I am to make your acquaintance. Shall I tell you who I am ? 
 I am Madeleine de Villeroy, and I used to know your husband 
 when he was quite a boy, jSTow I am going to marry your hus- 
 band's brother, and we shall be sisters. My child, you shall be 
 made happy again. We shall all love you." 
 
 " My husband ? He said — he said — " 
 
 " Forget what he said, my darling — forget all that he said, and, 
 if you can, forgive him. !N"ow, sit up, and let us talk." 
 
 She sat with her for a quarter of an hour, and then went away, 
 promising to call again soon. 
 
 In the drawing-room there was rigid discomfort. For Sukey, 
 the moment she got back, had seized the bull by the horns and 
 attacked Arthur. 
 
 " You are the brother of Mr. Philip Durnford ?" she began. 
 " You are the brother of a bad man — a bad man, Mr. Arthur 
 Durnford. Tell him not to come to this house, for I won't have 
 him. Eemember that — " 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Venn, he will not come here." 
 
 " If he does, Anne will take the tongs to him — I know she 
 will. She did that much to a policeman in the kitchen. Tell 
 him not to come." 
 
 " My brother and I, Miss Venn, are not on speaking terms at 
 present." 
 
 " Indeed. I'm glad to hear it — I'm very glad to hear it." 
 
 Then they both relapsed into silence, and Sukey glared at 
 poor Arthur, by way of conveying a lesson in virtue, till he 
 nearly fell otf the chair. 
 
 Madeleine relieved them ; and after asking Sukey's permission 
 to come again, took away the unfortunate Arthur. 
 
 " Why didn't you ring for the sherry, miss V asked Anne, 
 presently coming upstairs.
 
 MV LITTLE CTRL. 291 
 
 " I gave it hira, Anne — I gave it him •well." Sukey shook her 
 head virulently. " That was Laura's husband's brother. I told 
 him if his precious brother came here you'd go at him — with the 
 tongs, I said." 
 
 " So I would — so I would," said Anne. 
 
 " Sherry indeed ! They are always wanting to drink. We 
 don't drink glasses of sherry all day. I dare say it was sherry 
 <3rove that abandoned brother of his to bad courses. I hope, for 
 that sweet girl's sake, he isn't like his brother. He doesn't look 
 it, Anne ; but you never can tell. They are all alike — waste, 
 drink, eat, and devour. Why isn't the world peopled with 
 nothing but Avomen ]" 
 
 " 'Deed, then, miss," replied Anne, " the end of the world 
 wouldn't be very far off." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Mr. MacTnttre is sitting in his easy chair at home, in those 
 respectable lodgings of his in Keppel Street. He is meditating 
 on the good fortune that has come to him. Perhaps he is too 
 much inclined to attribute his success to merit rather than for- 
 tune ; but in this we may pardon him. It is but two o'clock in 
 tlie day, but a glass of steaming whisky toddy is on the table, 
 and a pipe in his mouth. In spite of the many virtues which 
 adorned this great man, I fear that the love of material comfort 
 causes him sometimes to anticipate the evening, the legitimate 
 season of comfort. 
 
 ^Nursing his leg, and watching the wreaths of smoke curling 
 over his head, he meditated. And if his thoughts had taken 
 words, they would Imve been much as follows : — 
 
 "After all my shipwrecks, beli'ld a haven. I have been in 
 prison. I have been scourged by sclioolboys. I have been tried 
 for embezzlement. I have starved in the streets of London. I 
 have been usher, preacher, missionary, tutor, retailer, sandwich 
 mau. I jiave at last found the road to fortune ; not l)y honest 
 means, but by lies and villanies, by practising on the lionour of 
 others. I have five thousand pounds in the b;ii)k, eleveu pounds 
 ten shillings and threepence in my pocket. Nothing can hurt 
 /ne now; nothing can annoy me but ill-hi^alth and the iiihrniitics 
 of age. I have ten years, at hjast, of life b(ifore me yet. i shall 
 go back to mj' own people. The Jjaillio will hardly refuse to ri;- 
 
 10— 2
 
 292 JllV LITTLE GIRT^. 
 
 ccivo me now that I have money. I shall be respected and 
 
 respectable. ' Honesty is the best policy !' Bah ! it is the maxim 
 of the successful. 1 know better. Cleverness is the best policy; 
 Scheme, plunder, purloin, cheat, and devise. When your fortune 
 is made, hold out your clean Avhite hands, and say — ' Christian 
 brethren, I am a living example that honesty is the best policy.' 
 I shall join this band ; and at the kirk on the Sawbath, and 
 among my folk on week days, I shall be a living sermon to the 
 young of the advantages of honesty. Eespected and respectable, 
 Alexander Maclntyre, retire upon your modest gains, and be 
 happy." 
 
 Just then a knock was heard at the door. 
 
 The visitor was no other than Hartley Venn. He had strolled 
 leisurely from Arthur's lodgings, smoking all the way, with a 
 smile of immeasurable content, and a sweet emotion of anticipa- 
 tion in his heart. Having once ascertained the address of the 
 philosopher, he lost no time in making his way to the street. 
 On the way he stopped at a shop and bought a gutta-percha 
 Avhip, choosing one of considerable weight, yet pliant and elastic. 
 
 "This," he said to the shopman, "would curl well round the 
 legs in tender places, I should think T 
 
 " I should think it would," said the man. 
 
 "Yes ; and raise great weals where there was plenty of flesh, 
 I should say. Thank you. Good morning. It will suit me 
 very well." 
 
 He poised the instrument in his hand, and walked along. 
 When he got to Keppel Street, he showed his knowledge of 
 human nature by going to the nearest public-house, apd asking 
 for Mr. Maclntyre's number. The potboy knew it. 
 
 Hartley presented himself unannounced, and with a bow of 
 great ceremony — one of those Oriental salutations which were re- 
 served for great occasions : he had not used it since his last inter- 
 view with the Master of his college. 
 
 " I believe I have the honour of addressing Mr. Alexander 
 Maclntyre," he began. 
 
 The tutor confessed to owning the name, and began to feel a 
 little uneasy. However, he asked his visitor to take a chair. 
 
 " Thank you — no, Mr. Maclntyre. Shall we ,:ay the Reverend 
 Alexander Maclntvre T 
 
 " We will not. The business I have to transac b will not detain 
 me long, and will be better done standing. Y0.1 are, I believe, 
 acquainted with Philip Durnford ]"
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 293 
 
 "lam. May I ask — " 
 
 "Presently — presently. You are likewise acquainted with 
 Mrs. Philip Durnford?" 
 
 It was Maclntyre's chance, but he neglected it. 
 
 " The young person calling herself Mrs. Philip Durnford has, 
 I believe, run away from him." 
 
 Yenn gave a start, but restrained himself. 
 ■ *' One more question. You have often, I doubt not, reflected 
 on the Avisdom of that sentence of Horace, which might be in- 
 spired were it not the result of a world's experience. In that 
 sense, too, you would perhaps urge, and very justly, that it might 
 be considered as divine, since experience is a form of revelation. 
 I offer you a paraphrase, perhaps too alliterative — 
 
 * Lightly the sinner leaps along the way, 
 
 Lamely limps after he who bears the cane ; 
 Yet, soon or late, there comes the fatal day 
 
 When stick meets back, and joy is drowned by pain.'" 
 
 " Go on, sir," said Mr. Maclntyre, seriously alarmed, " and 
 let me know your business. "Who are you % What have you to 
 do with me % I have never set my eyes on you before." 
 
 "Do not let us precipitate matters. Patience, Mr. Maclntyre, 
 patience. Although you have not seen me, you have perhaps 
 heard of me from Mrs. Philip Durnford. I am her guardian. 
 My name, sir, is Hartley Yenn." 
 
 The philosoi^her, among whose prominent defects was a want 
 of physical courage, fell back in his chair, and began to perspire 
 at the nose. 
 
 "Having learned from my ward the focts of the case — that 
 you exercised jjractices undoul)tedly your legal right in Scotland, 
 and married her to Durnford by a special licence in this very 
 room ; also that you suppressed the letter she sent me ; and 
 further, that you have been the prime agent and adviser in the 
 Avhole of the business — it was but natural that I should desire 
 to make your acquaintance. In fact," he added, with a winning 
 smile, " I really must confess that I had imagined your breed to 
 be now totally extinct — gone out with the Pegent, and liclonging 
 cliiefly to the novels of his period. For this mistake I huiuMy 
 lieg permission to apologise. I obtained your address partly from 
 Arthur ]Jurnford, an admirer of yours — I wish I could say fol- 
 lower — and partly fmm ilie potboy wlio supplicjs your modest 
 wants. I hope you will remember the claims of gratitude which
 
 294 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 that potboy will hencefortli have upon you. I had a struggle in 
 my own mind — havhyj/. (/.ioiMriiii^ov ; for while I ardently desired to 
 converse with you myself, I had yet a feeling that the — the 
 pecalty should be left to some meaner person. But I bore in 
 mind the distinction of rank. You are, I believe, a graduate of 
 some University ]" 
 
 " Sir, you are addressing a Master of Arts of the Univairsity 
 of Aberdeen." 
 
 " Aberdeen is honoured. I wish we had had you at Cam- 
 bridge." 
 
 Venn took the riding whip in both hands, passing his fingers 
 up and down tenderly. MacTntyre saw now what was coming, 
 and looked vainly round the room for a means of escape. Be- 
 fore him stood his tormentor. Behind the tormentor was the 
 door. It is cruel, if you are to hang a man, first to stick liim 
 on a platform for an hour or so and harangue him ; but perhaps, 
 in the cases of lighter punishment, the suspense should be con- 
 sidered a part of the suffering. This was in Maclntyre's mind, 
 but he did not give it utterance, sitting crouched in the chair, 
 looking at the whip with a terrible foreboding. 
 
 Venn went on moralising in a dreadful way, suggesting the 
 confidence of one Avho knows that his game is fairly caught. 
 
 " The chastisement I am about to bestow upon you, Mr. Mac- 
 Intyre, is ludicrously disproportionate to the olieuce you have 
 committed. You will reflect upon this afterwards, and laugh. 
 On the highest Christian grounds, I ought, perhaps, to forgive 
 you ; and I dare say I shall, if I know how, after this interview. 
 On the other hand, I have little doubt that the slight horse- 
 whipping I shall give you will be considered by the powers 
 leniently, perhaps even approvingly. Let me for once consider 
 myself an Instrument." 
 
 He raised his whip above his head. Maclntyre crouched 
 down, with his face in his hands. 
 
 " I beg your j)ardon," said Venn, pausing. " I have some- 
 thing else to say. You will remark that I have passed over the 
 question of disgrace. No disgrace, I imagine, could possibly 
 touch you, unless it were accompanied by severe personal discom- 
 fort. It is this curious fact — by the way, do you think it has 
 received the attention it deserves? — which leads me to believe in 
 the material punishments of the next world. You will remark — • 
 I do hope I make myself sufficiently clear, and am not tedious." 
 
 " Ye are tedious," groaned tUe philosopher, looking up.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 295 
 
 " I mean, there comes upon a man, in the development of a 
 long course of crime and sin — say such a man as yourself — a time 
 when no disgrace can touch him, no dishonour can be felt, no 
 humiliation make him lower than he actually is. He has lost 
 not only all care about the esteem of others, but also all sense 
 of self-respect. He is now all body and mind — no soul. 
 Therefore, Mr. Maclntyre, when a man reaches this stage, on 
 which I imagine that you are yourself standing now, what is 
 left for him ? How, I mean, can you get at him % I see no 
 way of attacking his intellect, and there remains then but one 
 way — this !" 
 
 Quick as lightning, with a back stroke of his hand, Venn sent 
 the whip full across Maclntyre's face. He leaped to his feet 
 with a yell of pain and fear, and sprang to the door. But Venn 
 caught him, as he passed, by the collar; and then, first pushing 
 the table aside, so as to have a clear stage, he held him firmly 
 out by the left hand — Mr. Maclntyre was but a small man, and 
 perfectly unresisting — and with the right administered a punish- 
 ment which, if I were Mr. Kingsley, I should call grim and 
 great. Being myself, and not Mr. Kingsley, I describe the 
 thrashing which Mr. Venn administered as at once calm, judi- 
 cial, and severe. A boatswain would not have laid on the cuts 
 with more judgment and dexterity, so as at once to find out all the 
 tendei places, and to get the most out of the simple instrument 
 employed. 
 
 But it was interrupted ; for, hearing the door open, Venn 
 turned round, and saw a lady standing in the room watching 
 him. He let go his hold, and Maclntyre instantly dropped 
 upon the floor, and lay there curled in a heap. 
 
 A lady of middle age, Avith pale face and abundant black 
 hair, dressed in comely silks. For a moment, Venn thought ho 
 knew her face, but dismissed the idea. 
 
 " j\Ir. Maclntyre 1" she asked, hesitatingly. 
 
 " He is here, madam," replied Hartley, indicating with the 
 whip the recumbent mass beneath him. 
 
 The lady looked puzzled. 
 
 " I am extremely sorry your visit should be so ill-timed," said 
 Hartley, politely. " The fact is, you find our friend in the re- 
 ceipt of punishment. His appearance at this moment is not 
 dignified — not that with which a gentleman would prefer to seo 
 a lady in his rooms. Perhaps, if your business is not urgent, 
 you would not mind pobtpunin^' your cull till to-morrow, when
 
 296 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ho may be able to receive you with more of the outward sem- 
 blance of self-respect. We have not yet quite finished." 
 
 " Don't go," murmured the prostrate sage. 
 
 Venn spoke calmly, but there was a hot flush upon his checks 
 which spoke of intense excitement. 
 
 " Pray, madam, leave us for a few moments together — I am 
 still in high spirits." 
 
 " I prefer ye in low spirits." 
 
 This was the voice of Maclntyre, lying still crouched with 
 his face in his hands. 
 
 " Really, sir," said the visitor, "I think I ought to remain. 
 Whatever Mr. Maclntyre has done, you have surely punished 
 him enough." 
 
 " I think not," said Venn. "As you are apparently a friend 
 — perhaps a believer in Mr. Maclntyre — I will tell you what 
 he has done." 
 
 He told her in a few words. 
 
 The lady looked troubled. 
 
 " The other one, you observe^ madam, a young fellow of six 
 and twenty, had still some grains left of morals and principle — 
 they Avere sapped by Mr. Maclntyre ; he had still the remains 
 of honour — they were removed by Mr. Maclntyre; he still 
 called himself a gentleman — he can do so no longer, thanks to 
 Mr. IMacIntyre. Do you want to hear more T 
 
 " And the girl — where is she T 
 
 " She is with me, madam. She is my ward." 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, Mr. Maclntyre' would get up, if he were 
 assured that there was no more personal violence intended." 
 
 Mr. Maclntyre shook a leg to show that he concurred in this 
 i^rojDosition, and was prepared to listen to these terms. 
 
 " Get up," said Venn, sternly. 
 
 He slowly rose, his face and hands a livid mass of bruises and 
 weals, and staggered to his feet. His coat was torn. His eyes 
 were staring. His face, where the whip had not marked it, was 
 of a cold, white colour. He stood for a moment stupidlj^ gazing at 
 Venn, and then turned to the lady. For a moment he gazed at her 
 indifl'erently, then curiously, then he stepped forward and stared 
 her in the face ; and then he threwnip his arms over his head, and 
 Avould have fallen forward, but Venn caught him, as he cried — 
 
 ■" T^Iarie !" 
 
 They laid him on the floor, and poured cold water on his 
 forehead. Presently he revived and sat up. Then they ga'V'Q
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 297 
 
 him a glass of brandy, which he drank, and staggered to his 
 feet. But he reeled to and fro, like unto one who goes down 
 upon the sea in a great ship. 
 
 " It is Marie," said the lady. " It is more than five and 
 twenty years since we met last. You were bad then — you are 
 worse now. Tell me what new villany is this that you have 
 committed T 
 
 , " Marie !" he began, but stopped again, and turned to Venn. 
 '•' Sir, you do not understand. Some day you will be sorry for 
 this outrage npon a respectable clergyman, who cannot retaliate, 
 because his clcith forbids. Let me go and restore myself." 
 
 He slipped into the back room, his bed-room, and they saw 
 him no more. Had they looked out of the window, they might 
 have seen him slip from the door, Avith a great-coat about him, 
 and a carpet-bag in his hand, his face muffled np and his hat 
 over his eyes. He got round the corner, and calling a cab, 
 drove straight to his bank. 
 
 " Can I help you in any way, madam T 
 
 " I called here to ask for the address of a Air. Philip Durn- 
 ford." 
 
 " That at least I can procure for you. For ■Mr. Philip Durn- 
 ford is none other than the man of whom I have spoken," 
 
 She sat on a chair, and answered nothing for awhile. 
 
 He, Avondering, looked on silent. 
 
 " Oh, there must be a mistake. Pliilip would never do it. 
 Oil, Philip, my son, my son !" 
 
 The words seemed extorted by th'j ogouy of sharp pain. 
 
 " Your son T cried Hartley. 
 
 '•'Ay, my son. Let the world know it uuw. Let it be pub- 
 li.^lied in all the papers, if they Avill. My son, my son !" 
 
 Then she seemed to regain her composure. 
 
 " Sir, you have the foce of a gentleman." 
 
 " That must be the Bishop's doing," muniuired Venn, " not 
 the glue man." 
 
 But .she did not hear him. 
 
 " You may, perhaps, keep a secret — not altogether mine. I 
 am Madame do Guyon — yes, the singer. I am a native of 
 Palmistc. Philip Durnford is my .son." 
 
 Venn .sat down now, feeling as if everything was going round 
 with him. 
 
 And here, hit inc liaish olf with Mr. Maclntyre, from wlium I 
 am loath to part.
 
 298 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 His lodgings knew him no more. Tlie tliiuii,.s he left be- 
 hind paid for the rent due. He drove to the City, drew out 
 all his niouey in drafts on an Edinburgh bank, and went 
 down to Scotland that very night by the limited mail. As aoon 
 as his face was restored to its original shape and hue, he went 
 to his native town and took a small house there, after an inter- 
 view with the Baillie, his cousin, who, fnidiiig that he liad a 
 large sum to deposit in the bank, received him witli cordiality, 
 and even afFectiou. 
 
 He lives there still, respected by the town, as is right for one 
 who left the country and returned with money. He is con- 
 sulted on all matters of finance, speculation, education, doctrine, 
 morals, and church discipline. He holds views perhaps too rigid, 
 and his visitations on minor olfeuces are sometimes more severe 
 than the frailty of the flock can altogether agree with. He is never 
 seen drunk, though it is notorious that he drinks a good many 
 tumblers of toddy every evening. He spends {he morning in his 
 garden — a pursuit which has always attracted great men in re- 
 tirement ; and on wet days in his study, where he is supposed 
 to be elaborating a grand work on metaphysics. In conversation 
 he is apt to deal too exclusively Avith principles of an abstract 
 nature \ and his friends complain that, considering he has been 
 so great a traveller, he tells so few tales of his own experiences. 
 Palmiste Island he never mentions. As for the story of his 
 life, no one knows it but himself, and no single episode has ever 
 got down to his native town. In all probability he will go on, 
 as he said himself, respected and respectable, till the end — a 
 living example of the truth of the proverb that " Honesty is the 
 best policy." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Marie, when she told George Durnford that she had a great 
 voice, spoke less than the truth. She had a magniticent voice ; 
 a voice that comes but once or twice a century ; a voice that 
 history remembers, and that marks an epoch in the annals of 
 music. "With the money that Durnford gave her, she devoted 
 herself to its cultivation. She did not hurry. In Italy she 
 studied long and diligently, until, at the age of six-aud-twenty, 
 she was able to make her lirst apj^earance in London. She liad 
 hoped to please her old lover, and interest him in her success ;
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. ig^ 
 
 but he answered hardly any of her letters, and only coldly ac- 
 quiesced in her schemes for the future. For George Durnford's 
 love had long disappeared. from his heart : it vanished when ho 
 married Adrienne. He looked on poor Marie as a living witness 
 of a lime that he repented. He wanted, having assured her 
 against poverty, neither to hear from her nor to see her again. 
 He was fated not to see her ; and when she wrote to him, tell- 
 ing of the great success of her first appearance, he tore the letter 
 into shreds, and inwardly hoped that she would never como 
 back to Palmiste. It is not exactly cowardice, this sort of 
 feeling, nor is it wholly shame. It is, perhaps, the feeling that 
 prompts one to put av/ay all signs and remembrances of sickness 
 and suffering. We do not like to be reminded of it. There are 
 thousands of respectable, godly, pure-minded fathers and hus- 
 bands who have a sort of skeleton in the closet, hid away and 
 locked up, as it were, in their brain, not to be lightly disturbed. 
 In providing for Marie and taking charge of her son, Mr. Darn- 
 ford had done, he thought, enough. There was no longer any 
 possibility of love — let there be no longer any friendship. And 
 so her letters worried and irritated him, and his answers grew 
 colder and shorter. From time to time he read in tho 
 papers of her success. Madame de Guyon appeared at the 
 Italian Opera. She was described as of French descent — ■ 
 some said from Martinique ; none thought of Palmiste. She 
 was said to be a young and strikingly beautiful widow. Her 
 reputation was absolutely blameless ; her name Avas widely 
 spread about for those graceful deeds of charity which singers 
 can do so well. And when, after a few years of the theatre, sho 
 Avithdrew altogether from the stage, and it was stated that hence- 
 forth she Avould only sing at oratorios and at concerts, everybody 
 Baid that it was just the thing that was to bo expected of a singer 
 80 good, so charitable, and so pious. 
 
 He once wrote to her, advising her to marry again ; nor did 
 he ever understand the bitter pain his letter caused her. 
 
 For women are not as men. It seems to me that women can 
 only give themselves wholly and entirely to one man. To other 
 men they may be thoughtful, and even tender; but'one woman 
 is made for one man, and when sho loves she loves once and for 
 all. ^larie had told her old lover that sho loved him no moro 
 — that what had been could never come again. It was not true. 
 What had been juight at any time liave como over again. 'Jliu 
 old idol of her heart was not shaUurcd. It was erect, and
 
 3O0 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 stronger than ever — strengthened by the thought of her boji ; 
 fostered by the memories -whicli ran like a rivulet tlirough the 
 ■waste and loneliness of her life, filling it with green things and 
 summer flow rs ; and held in its place by that constancy of 
 •woman which is proof against time, and circumstance, and ab- 
 sence, and neglect. George Durnford loved her no longer. He 
 did not, it is true, understand her. That magnificent nature, 
 which had been like some wild forest plant, unchecked in its 
 luxuriance, when he knew it best, was developed by training 
 and sorrow to one of the most perfect types of womanhood. 
 "What more splendid than the full maturity of her beauty when 
 she swept across the stage % "What more perfect than the full 
 rich tones of a voice that thrilled all listeners as she sang % And 
 Avhat — could he only have known it — more precious than the 
 riches of the thoughts which welled up in her mind with no 
 listener to impart them to, no husband to share them 1 But 
 George Durnford died ; and only when she heard of his death 
 was she conscious of the space he occupied in her mind. She 
 saw it in the papers ; for no one wrote to her, or knew of her 
 existence. Then she got the Palmiste papers, and read first of 
 his funeral, and the fine things that were said about him, and 
 then of his will ; and next she saw the names of the two boys as 
 passengers to England. And presently she began to live again, for 
 she hoped to meet her boy, and, after many days, to reveal hfrself 
 to him, and get back some of the love she lavished upon him in 
 imagination. She did not hurry. She prefeired, for many reasons, 
 to bide her time, First, because she thought him ignorant of his 
 birth ; secondly, she thought that it would be better to wait till 
 lie was a man, and could better bear Avhat would certainly be a 
 bitter blow — the stigma of liis birth ; and, lastly, she was afraid. 
 George Durnford had said but little about him. He was grow- 
 ing tall and handsome ; he was strong and clever ; he was a bold 
 rider and a good shot. All this she learned from his letters, but 
 nothing more. In the last letter he had ever written to her, he 
 mentioned that Philip v/as going into the army. And after some 
 time she bought an Army List, and read with ecstasy the name 
 of her son in the list of ensigns. She never attempted to see 
 him, but she saved her money — she had made a good deal of 
 money by this time — and laid it out juiliciously for the future 
 benefit of her son. If Philip had only known ! 
 
 She lived in her own house, near Pegent's Park, Avhere she 
 saw but few friends, and those chiefly of her own profession.
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 301 
 
 Her life was not dull, hoTvever. It was brightened by the hope 
 that lived in her. Morning and evening she prayed for her 
 son ; all day long she thouglat about him ; at night she dreamed 
 of him. She pictured him brave, clever, and handsome ; she 
 made him her knight — young Galahad, without stain or blemish 
 of sin ; and she trembled at the thought of meeting him — not 
 for fear he might fall beloAv the standard she had set up, but for 
 fear of her own unworthiness. She was to go to him, some day, 
 with the bitter confession of his mother's sin. She was to say, 
 " You are separated from other men by a broad line. They may 
 rejoice in their mothers — you must be ashamed of yours." She 
 was to ask him, not for that love and respect which wives can get 
 from their sons, but for love, and pity, and forgiveness. She was 
 to blight his self-respect and abase her own. ISTo wonder that she 
 hesitated, and thought, year after year, that there was time enough. 
 
 But one daj'-, looking at the familiar page in the Army List, 
 she saw that her son's name was missing, and on lookino; through 
 the Gazeitc, she found that he had sold out. This agitated 
 Jier. Something must have happened. He had abandoned his 
 career. He might have married. How could she face his wife ? 
 Or he had met with some misfortune. How could she ascertain 
 what ? She did not know Avhat to do or to whom to apply. The 
 Aveeks passed on. She was in great anxiety. At last, unable to 
 bear any longer the suspense of doubt, she went to a private 
 inquiry office, and set them to work to find ]\Ir. Durnford's ad- 
 dress. It was quite easy to ascertain Avhere ho had lodged 
 before he sold out, but impossible to learn where he was now ; 
 only the lodging-house people gave the address of his friend, 
 Mr. Maclntyre, and his cousin, Arthur Darnford. This was all 
 .she wanted. Of tlie two, she would first try Maclntyre. She 
 knew him of old. He was unscrupulous, she well knew, and 
 still poor, as she suspected. She would bribe him to give her 
 Philip's address, unless he would do it for nothing. 
 
 All this is by way of explanation of her sudden appearance 
 at a moment so inopportune, when dignity was utterly out of 
 the question, and her old acquaintance showed to such singularly 
 small advantage. 
 
 The shock 01 Venn's intelligence was for the moment too nmch 
 for her. 
 
 " I fear I have hurt you," said Hartley, " Pardon me, I was 
 careless of my words. Did I understand him rightly ? Ho said 
 that— that "
 
 303 MY LITTLE GTRL. 
 
 " "Where is he ?" asked Marie. " Bring him here." 
 
 Venn opened the door of the bed-room and looked in, but no 
 one was there. 
 
 " He is gone, madam. Pray let me be of assistance to you. I 
 can give you Mr. Durnford's address. It is at JSTotting-hill that 
 he lives." 
 
 " Stay. First, the young lady you spoke of, sir — your ward. 
 Could i see her 1" 
 
 Venn hesitated. 
 
 ** She is ill — she has just lost her husband. "Would it do any 
 good if you were to see her ?" 
 
 IMarie looked him straight in the face. 
 
 " I have not seen Philip Durnford for twenty-five years, and 
 I am his mother." She blushed like a girl. " It is twenty- 
 seven years ago," she murmured. " I'am a native of the Pal- 
 miste Island." 
 
 " Good God !" said Venn, thinking of Arthur. 
 
 " I put my story into your hands, though I do not even know 
 your name. You may, if you please, publish to the world the 
 shame and disgrace of a woman that the world has always be- 
 lieved pure and good. But I think you will not do that." 
 
 " 1 1'! cried Venn. " Great heavens ! why should I ? My 
 name is Venn, Madame de Guyon. My father was Mr. George 
 Durnford's tutor, and I am a friend of Arthur Durnford. My 
 Avard — the little girl that I brought up and made a lady of — is 
 the grand-daughter of my old laundress. Your son made her 
 acquaintance — and — it is best to let you know the whole truth 
 — made her promise to hide the fact from me ; brought her here 
 to these very rooms, one evening six months ago, Avhen Mac- 
 Intyre married, pretended to marry them — I don't know which. 
 Then he took her to France. She will tell you the rest, per- 
 haps, herself." 
 
 " Advise me what is best to do," said Marie, in deep distress. 
 " Oh, sir, if I have but found my son to lose him again !" 
 
 " At all events, you shall see his wife," said Venn. " You 
 will be very kind to her 1 Yes, I see you will. But there are 
 other complications." 
 
 Then he told the story of the transferred property, just as he 
 had heard it from Arthur an hour before. 
 
 " But I Avas never married," said Marie, simply. 
 
 " Then Mr. Maclntyre, who is really a scoundrel of quite the 
 ancient type, and, as one may say, of the deepest dye, has been
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 303 
 
 forging the letters ; and we shall, perhaps, have the pleasure of 
 seeing him in the felon's dock before long." 
 
 " Promise me again," cried Marie, alarmed, " that you will 
 keep my secret, whatever happens." 
 
 " I have promised already," said Yenn. " Xot even Arthui 
 Durnford shall hear a word. But it seems a pity to let the Mac- 
 Intyre go." 
 
 " Then take me to your ward," Marie asked him, 
 
 " She is staying at my sister's house. Do not tell my sister, 
 if you see her, anything. She is a most excellent woman, 
 Madame de Guyon, and as silent as death on unimportant 
 matters ; but in the matter of secrets I believe she is too con- 
 fiding. She imparts in confidence all that is entrusted to her in 
 confidence, and considers she has kept a secret when she has 
 not proclaimed it at church. Just now, however, she is not 
 likely to be inquisitive, because she is greatly excited at being 
 excommunicated." 
 
 " Excommunicated !" 
 
 " Yes ; she gave her cat the name of St. Cyril. On her refusal 
 to change it, her clergyman, who holds rigid views, has excom- 
 municated her. It is the greatest excitement that has ever 
 happened to her, and she attends all those ordinances of religion 
 from which she is debarred by her own director at an adjacent 
 Low Church, where the clergyman parts his hair at the side, 
 wears long whiskers, and reads the prayers with solemnity and 
 eftect. Eut I beg your pardon, Madame de Guyon, for inflicting 
 these family details upon you. Let me get a cab for you." 
 
 He returned in a few minutes, and they drove to ^liss Venn's 
 house. His sister was out. As he afterwards learned, there had 
 been a prayer meeting at the Evangelical clergyman's school ; 
 and as nothing irritated the Eev. ]\Ir. De Vere so much as a 
 public prayer meeting, she went there ostentatiously. By the 
 greatest good luck, he was passing as she went in, and saw her, 
 so that she enjoyed her meeting extremely. 
 
 Laura was lying on a sofa, reading. Her pale cheeks bright- 
 ened up when Hartley came in. 
 
 " What is my Avard doing]" he asked. "Not reading too 
 long, I hope. I have brought you a visitor, Lollie. ]\Iadame de 
 Guyon, this is my ward, Mrs. Philip Durnford." 
 
 Laura looked appealingly at Hartley ; but was more astonished 
 when Marie went .struighL to the sofa, and kneeling down, took 
 her face iu her hands and kisised her, with tears in her eyes.
 
 304 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " I had better leave you, Madame do Cay on, I think," said 
 Yeun. " I shall wait in the dining-room for you." 
 
 Left alone, Marie began to tremble. 
 
 " My dear, I ought not to have kissed you. I ought, first, to 
 tell you who I am." 
 
 " Who are you T asked Laura. '* I am sure, at least, you are 
 very kind." 
 
 " ?dy dear child, I hear that you have suffered. I want, if I 
 can, to soothe your sorrow, and, if it be possible, remove it." 
 
 " Ah, no one can." 
 
 " We shall see. Have you patience to listen to the story of a 
 woman who has also suffered — but through her own fault ; while 
 you have only suffered through the fault of others?" 
 
 She told her own story. Hoav poor and ignorant she had 
 been ; how George Durnford had made her proud and happy 
 with a love of which she realised all the passion and happiness 
 and none of the guilt ; how he had told her, one day, that it 
 Avas to be in future as if they had never met ; how he had taken 
 her boy, at her own request, and given her money to come to 
 England ; and how she had studied long and hard, and learned 
 to make the most of a gift which is granted to few. And then 
 lier voice softened as she told how she had made fame and got 
 fortune and toiled on companionless, cheered by the hope tiiat 
 some day she might find her son, and pour into his heart some 
 of the love with which her own was bursting. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " I found not my son, but his evil 
 adviser — not his friend — Mr, JNIacIntyre. And my son is ^o\\\ 
 husband." 
 
 Laura buried her face in her hands. 
 
 " Yes, I know it all. Mr. Venn has told rae. Only, dear, you 
 are not to blame. You are a wife — I never was. Let me find in 
 you Avhat I have lost. If I cannot win my son, let me win a 
 daughter." 
 
 " Oh, madame," Laura replied, stroking back the thick brown 
 hair that covered her face, "you are a ladj'^, I am only a poor 
 girl. How Philip could ever love me — he did love me once — I 
 do not know. I am only Mr. Venn's little girl, and you are the 
 only lady, except j\Iiss Venn and IMadeleine, who has ever 
 spoken to me at all." 
 
 '^' My dear, and I was only a singer at the theatre." 
 
 " But you. are a great singer. And I — oh, madame ! — ^nd 
 what will Philip say %"
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 305 
 
 " Wc will not care what Philip says." 
 
 "And then — oh ! I am so unhappy !" 
 
 And she began to cry. 
 
 Marie cried too ; and the two found consolation in the usual 
 way. 
 
 Then Laura began to whisper. 
 
 "You have had some comfort — you had a child," 
 
 '• We will get you back your husband. Philip cannot be very 
 bad, dear. He loved you once at any rate.*' 
 
 She brightened up ; but the moment after fell back upon the 
 sofa, and burst into fresh tears. 
 
 " I shall never get him back. I could, never see him again. 
 You do not know what he called me — me, his wife. I am his 
 wife, am I not ? I could never look Mr. Venn in the face again 
 if I were not." 
 
 " Yes, dear, you are his wife, surely you are. But I will go 
 and see him." 
 
 " Take Mr. Venn with you. Let him speak for me." 
 
 " Would it be wise % No — I will go alone. If he will not 
 hear me, he will certainly not hear Mr. Venn. And now I must 
 go. But, dear, my heart is very heavy. I am oppressed with a 
 sense of coming evil. Tell me — if Philip, if my son, should not 
 receive me well, if, after all these years of forbearance, he greets 
 me with coldness and distrust — oh, tell me what he is like !" 
 
 Laura told her as well as she could. 
 
 " But Philip is passionate," she concluded, " and I think he 
 has lost some money lately, and Mr. Maclntyre makes him do 
 reckless things." 
 
 " I can manage Mr. Maclntyre," said Marie. " Besides, he is 
 not likelv to forget the lesson Mr. Venn has taught him to-day." 
 
 " What was that T 
 
 Marie told her of the scene she had witnessed. 
 
 Laura, usually the mildest of her sex, set her lij)s together, 
 and clasped her hands. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad — I am so glad ! AVas he hurt ] Did ho 
 ciy ? Tell me all over again," she said. 
 
 Marie only smiled. 
 
 " Let me finish, dear. I have only one proposition to make 
 to my son. If he will not agree to that, I have one to mako to 
 you." 
 
 "What is that r 
 
 "Would you like to go back to Philip?" 
 
 20
 
 3o6 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 She clasped her hands, and began to think. 
 
 " He was so cruel. If I only could. If he would only take 
 me. But I am his wife." 
 
 " And if he Avill not, will you come with me, child ? My 
 heart is empty, I long for some one to love. Come with me, 
 and be my loved and cherished daughter." 
 
 Laura threw her fair young arms round her neck, and Marie 
 kissed her passionately. 
 
 " I must go now," she said, after a few minutes. " I do not 
 think I can go to your husband's — to my son's house to-day. I 
 must wait till to-morrow. Write down his address, dear, on my 
 tablets. And now, good-bye. Ask Miss Venn to let me come 
 to see you. Tell her only that I am your husband's old friend ; 
 and remember to keep my secret till I see you again." 
 
 She went away. Presentlj' came back Miss Venn, in a high 
 state of exhilaration at the discomfiture of the Eev. Mr. De 
 Vere, who, seeing her open act of rebellion, must have gone 
 home, she concluded, in a furious state of indignation. This, 
 indeed, the reverend gentleman had actually done. And she 
 called loudly for St. Cyril — her cat — and sat down and made 
 herself comfortable ; and gave her brother a comfortable little 
 dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 " We have not had a Chorus for a long time," said Venn. " All 
 these excitements have been too much for us. Sit down, Arthur. 
 Jones, consider this a regular night." 
 
 " I have been reading," said Jones, presently, " with a view 
 to understanding the great secret of success, some of the poetry 
 of the period. And I beg to submit to the Chorus a ballad 
 done in the most approved fashion of our modern poets. May 
 I read it 1 It is called ' The Knightly Tryste,' or, if you will, 
 * My Ladye's Bidding,' which is more poetical : — 
 
 " Between the saddle and the man, 
 Ah me ! red gleams of sunlight ran ; 
 He only, on his Arab steed, 
 
 Left all the streaming winds behind. 
 Sighed, ' Well it were, in time of need, 
 A softer place than this to find.' 
 
 "The twinkling milestones at his side, 
 Flashed for a moment as he passed ;
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 307 
 
 Small thouglit had he of joy or pride, 
 
 Groaned only, * This can never last.' 
 And more and more the red light ran 
 Between the saddle and the man, 
 
 ** ' Woe worth the day, ' he gasped by times, 
 ' My lady fair this fancy took ; 
 And devil take her prattling rhymes 
 About the willows and the brook. 
 For this I suffer what I can, 
 Between the saddle and the man.' 
 
 " Still rode the knight : the dewy beads 
 Stood on his brow, but on he spurred ; 
 
 Ere compline bell doth ring it needs 
 He meet the lady by her word ; 
 
 And great discomfort then began 
 
 Between the saddle and the man. 
 
 " There came a moment — o'er a gate. 
 
 Five-barred, close shut, the destrier flew ; 
 
 He also — but his knees, too late, 
 Clutched only mosses wet with dew. 
 
 Ah me ! the ever-lengthening span 
 
 Between the saddle and the man." 
 
 Jones read and looked round for applause. None followed. 
 
 " It won't do, Jones," said Venn — " it won't do. You had 
 better stick to the old school. The grotesque and the unreal 
 ■won't last. "Write for posterity, if you must write poetr3^" 
 
 " I don't care so much for posterity as I did," said Jones. "I 
 want things that pay. JM'ow, I really think an able editor ought 
 to give something for those lines." 
 
 " Low and grovelling aim ! Look at me — I write for nothing 
 but the praise of my fellow-countrymen, as soon as I can get 
 published." 
 
 " I sometimes think," Jones continued, " of taking up the 
 satirical line. Are you aware that there is not such a thing as a 
 satirist living % We want a Boileau. The nation asks for a man 
 of sense. Sometliing must be done soon." 
 
 For once Jones looked melaucholy. 
 
 •' What is it, Jones T asked Venn. " IMore disappointments. 
 Itcmember the banquet of life, my boy T 
 
 " I do," said Jones, with an effort to smile. " In the worda 
 of Hannah More — 
 
 " 'For bread and cheese and little case 
 Small thanks, but no repining, 
 Btill o'er the sky they darkling lie — 
 Clouds — ,\i(Ii no silver lining.' 
 
 20—2
 
 3o8 J\/y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Come," lie went on, " the chorus is unusually dull and silent. I 
 ■will sing you a song made for the occasion— 
 
 *' I am an inifortunatc man, 
 
 Bad luck at my elbow doth sit, 
 Let me tell bow my troubles began. 
 If only my feelings permit. 
 
 " The spoon that my young lips adorn'd. 
 In infancy's hour was of wood, 
 No freaks, then, of fortune I mourn' d, 
 And for pap it was equally good. 
 
 " To school I was sent, and the first day . 
 I was caned with the rest by mistake ; 
 But each morning that followed, the worst day 
 Seemed still in my annals to make. 
 
 *' For I laughed when I should have been weeping, 
 I cried when I ought to have smiled ; 
 And the painful results still are keeping 
 Their memory green in this child. 
 
 •* The other boys sinned at their leisure, 
 
 They could do what they liked and escape ; 
 But I, for each illicit pleasxire. 
 Still found myself in a new scrape. 
 
 •' Now in London I linger, and sadly 
 Get shoved on my pathway by fate. 
 Hope dances before me, and madly 
 Shows fruits that are only a bait. 
 
 " For I am an unfortunate man ; 
 
 But fate, which has taken the rest. 
 Has given, to console when she can, 
 Good spirits still left in my breast." 
 
 " That's not very good, Jones," said Lynn. " What has put 
 you into this dejected and miserable frame, unfit for the society 
 of a decent and philosophical Chorus % First you read a bad 
 poem, and then you sing a comic song." 
 
 " A letter I got this morning," he answered, with a groan. 
 " Let me talk, you fellows, and I'll tell you a story. Call it a 
 vision if you like — a vision of two lives. 
 
 " The two lives were once one. They thought the samo 
 thoughts and had the same ambitions. They had the same 
 chances, they Avon the same successes, dreamed the same dreams. 
 1^0 two friends were ever so close, for the two minds were one, 
 and dwelt in the same body. I saw in my vision that there 
 came a time — the boy Avas almost grown to the age of manhood 
 — when the two separated. It Avas at OxforU that this disunion
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 309 
 
 first took place. And iu my vision it seemed to me that the 
 cue whicli remained in the boy was as myself, and the other — 
 that other self Avhich I might have been." 
 
 Jones paused, and pondered for a few moments with grave 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, I — that is, the one that remained behind — was seized 
 with a kind of madness of vanity. All my noble dreams, all 
 my thoughts of Avhat might be, gave way to a desire to amuse. 
 I, that is, of course " 
 
 " Go on saying I, without apology," said Venn. 
 
 " Well, I succeeded in amusing the men of my college. I 
 succeeded as an actor — I think I was a good mimic. I sang, I 
 made verses, I wrote little plays and acted them. I went every 
 day to wines, suppers, and breakfasts. I was, of course, tremen- 
 dously poor ; and, like most poor idiots, did no reading what- 
 ever. Meantime, my old friend was very differently occupied. 
 I used to see his calm, quiet face — like mine in features, but 
 different in expression — in hall and chapel. He was a student. 
 He came up to Oxford with ambitions and hopes that I sliared ; 
 but he kept them, and worked for them. Mine, with the means 
 of realizing them, I had thrown away. I used to look at him 
 sometimes, and ask mj^self if this was the friend who had once 
 been the same as myself, like the two branches of an ecLuation in 
 Indeterminate Co-efficients." 
 
 " Jones," said Venn, " don't be flowery, pray don't. We are 
 not mathematical men." 
 
 " The time came when we were to go into the schools. I, my 
 friends, in my vision, was plucked. He, in my vision, got a 
 Double First. Curiously enough, in reality I xms plucked in 
 Greats — for divinity. HoAvever, after this we took paths even 
 more divergent. He stayed behind to try for a Fellowship, 
 which he easily got. I went up to London to try to get my 
 daily bread in any way, however humble. He entered at the 
 bar — it had always been our ambition to become Fellows, and to 
 enter at the bar — I became a drudge to an army cram coach, who 
 paid me just enough to keep me going. 
 
 " He, too, a year or two later, came to London. How long is 
 it? I think it is ten years since we took our degrees — and read 
 law. Presently he was called — I saw his name in the Law 
 List — and began to get practice. \, like a stone, neither grew 
 ijor moved. 
 
 " The time goes on ; but the two lives are separated, never
 
 3IO AJV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 again to meet. He is on the road to fortune and fame. He -will 
 make his mark on the history of his country. He will — that is, 
 after all, the cruellest part of the vision — he will marry Mary. 
 For while the boy was growing into manhood, there came to live 
 iu the village where his father, the vicar, lived, a retired officer;, 
 with a little daughter eight years younger than the boy. The 
 boy, who had no playfellows in the village, took to the child, 
 and became a sort of elder brother to her. And, as they grew 
 up, the affection between the two strengthened. Mary was 
 serious beyond her years, chiefly from always associating with 
 her seniors. When she was twelve, and the boy eighteen, she 
 could share his hopes, and could understand his dreams. She 
 looked on him as a hero. Like all women with those they love, 
 she could not see his faults ; and when he disappointed all their 
 expectations, and came back from the grand University that 
 was to make so much of him, disgraced instead of honoured, 
 loaded with debt, instead of armed with a Fellowship, she it 
 was who first forgave him. 
 
 " He could not forgive himself. He handed her over mentally 
 to his old friend, and left her." 
 
 " But he will see her again," said Arthur. 
 
 " I think never. He has had his chance that would have 
 made them both happy, and he threw it away. My friend, 
 however, who must be making a very large income by this time 
 at the Chancery bar, who writes critical papers in big words in 
 the Fortnightly, whose book on something or other connected 
 with the law is quoted by judges — he will doubtless marry her, 
 and then they will be happy. But I — I mean the ego of my 
 vision — shall go on struggling with the world, and rejoicing ovei 
 small sacrifices, resigned to great disappointments, till the end 
 of the chapter. I shall contemplate the visionary happiness oi 
 my alter ego — with Mary, whom I shall never see again. He 
 will be Lord Chancellor ; and, if I live long enough, when I 
 die I shall think of the great works that he has done, and 
 thank God for his excellent gift of a steady purpose and a clear 
 brain." 
 
 Jones was silent for a few minutes. 
 
 "You were talking about women the other night — three 
 months ago. It makes me angry to hear theories of women. 
 I beg your pardon, Venn, for criticising your trumpet-noses ; 
 and yours, Lynn, for getting savage over your world of the 
 future. Women are what men make them ; and if my Mary
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 311 
 
 had married the future Lord Chancellor, there would have 
 been no nobler woman in the world, as there is now none 
 more tender-hearted and forgiving. But — oh dear me ! — ii 
 women are frivolous, it is because they have nothing to do. To 
 make them work is to unsex them ; to put them through a 
 Cambridge course of mathematics is so ludicrously absurd in its 
 iiselessness, that we need no vision of an impossible future world 
 to show us its folly." 
 
 " And suppose, Jones," said Arthur — " only suppose that 
 Mary marries the ' I ' of your dream T 
 
 '' I can't suppose it. He cannot drag her down to his own 
 leveL" 
 
 " But she may raise him to hers." 
 
 Jones sighed. In his vision of the two lives he had revealed 
 the story of his own, which Venn already partly knew ; and 
 the dignity of sorrow for a moment sat like a crown on his 
 forehead. But he shook it off", and turning round with a cheer- 
 ful smile, adjusted his spectacles, and concluded his observa- 
 tions : 
 
 " My own verses again — 
 
 '* Gone is the spring with wings too light, 
 
 The hopeful song of youth is mute, 
 The sober tints displace the bright, 
 
 The blossoms all are turned to fruit. 
 I, like a tree consumed with blight, 
 
 Fit only for the pruner's knife, 
 Await the day, not far away, 
 
 Which asks the harvest of a life. 
 
 " And, for the past is surely gone. 
 
 The coming evil still unseen, 
 I think of what I might have won, 
 
 And fancy things that should have been. 
 And so in dreams by summer streams. 
 
 While golden suns light every sheaf, 
 I take her hand, and through the land, 
 
 My love makes all the journey brief." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Madame de Guyon sought her son's house at noon the next 
 day. She was ill with a long night's aux'oly, and her face, 
 usually so calm, looked trou))Ie(l and haggard. 
 Philip was at home, and wuu!d see her.
 
 312 MY LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 Tlie moment lon.fj looked for was come iit last, aud she 
 trembled so much that she could hardly mount the steps of the 
 door. He was sitting iu the dismantled room of the little cot- 
 tage at Nottiug-hill, but rose to receive his visitor. 
 
 She drew her thick veil more closely over her face, and stood 
 looking at her own son Avith a thousand emotions in her breast. 
 
 Her own son — her Philip ! A man now, whom she had last 
 seen a child of four years old, Avheu she took him out of his cot 
 at Fontainebleau. A tall and shapely man, with a face like 
 that of George Durnford, only darker, and eyes that she knew 
 for her own — large, deep, lustrous. She gazed at him for a few 
 moments without speaking or moving, for her heart was too 
 full. 
 
 Philip set a chair for her. 
 
 " Madame de Guyon?" he asked, looking at the card. "May 
 I ask what gives me the honour of a visit from — I presume you 
 are the lady whose name " 
 
 " Yes, I am the singer. I come," she went on, with an effort, 
 ** from your wife." 
 
 Philip changed colour. 
 
 "Your wife, Philip Durnford, whom you drove away from 
 you three weeks ago. You will be sorry to learn that she is 
 very ill — that she has been dangerously ill." 
 
 " Tell me," he stammered, " she is not — not dead T 
 
 " ]SI"o ; grief does not kill." 
 
 «' Where is she ?" 
 
 ** She is at present under the charge of Miss Venn, the sister 
 of her guardian." 
 
 The old jealousy flamed up again in his heart. 
 
 " Then she may stay there. She always loved him better 
 than me. I hardly understand, however, what my private affairs 
 have to do with Madame de Guyon." ■ 
 
 " I will tell you presently. First, let me plead for this poor 
 girl." 
 
 " I am, of course, obliged to listen to all that vou have to 
 say." 
 
 " I know the whole story, the pitiful, shameful story. I know 
 how, influenced by that bad man, you went through a form of 
 marriage which is illegal ; how you gambled away your money ; 
 how, when you were ruined at last, you let her go from your 
 doors, with more than the truth — more than the cruel truth- 
 ringing in her ears, disgraced and ashamed,"
 
 MV LITTLE GLRL. 313 
 
 " More than the truth f ' 
 
 " Yes, more ; for the man was once an ordained minister of 
 his own church, and the illegality consisted only in the place 
 where he married you. Philip Durnford, she is your wife." 
 
 He answered nothing. 
 
 " I do not ask you to take her back ; that cannot be yet. I 
 say, only remove the doubt that may exist ; and, as soon as she 
 is strong enough, make her yours in the eye of the law as well 
 as of God." 
 
 " Why do yoxi come here ? What have you to do with me T 
 
 She laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 " Philip Durnford, for the love of all that you hold sacred, 
 promise me to do this. Do not tell me that you — you, of all 
 men in this wide world, purposely deceived the girl, and are not 
 repentant. Oh, Philip — Philip !" 
 
 He started. Why should this woman call him by his Chris- 
 tian name % Why should she throw back her veil, and look at 
 him with her full black eyes filled with tears % 
 
 " You lioA married her. You meant to marry her. Do not 
 let me believe you to be utterly base and wicked. Do this, if 
 only to undo some of the past. Then let her stay on with 
 her friends — deserted but not disgraced. Think of it, think of 
 it. The girl was innocent and ignorant. She knew nothing of 
 the world — nothing but what one man had taught her. She had 
 no circle of friends, no atmosphere of home to teach her what 
 life means. She fell into your hands. You loved her — I know 
 you loved her " 
 
 " She never loved me." 
 
 " I want to move your heart, Pliilip Durnford. Think of 
 those in the world who love you, to whom your honour and 
 good name are dear." 
 
 She sighed and went on — 
 
 "There must be a way to touch your heart. Think of the 
 days you had her with you — men have said that for the sake of 
 those early days, when their wives Averc to them as angels, they 
 love them for the rest of their lives, long after they have found 
 them women, full of faults, and lower than themselves — when 
 you read that poor child's thoughts, bared before you, and you 
 only — when out of all her thoughts there was not one that sho 
 was not ready to confess to you — when you took her out of the 
 Bolitude of maidenhood, and taught her the sweet mystery of 
 companionship. Philip Durnford, can the Church devise any
 
 314 ^f^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 form of words, any holy ceremony, any oaths or sacraments that 
 ought to he more bindiug than these things? Can any man 
 have memories of greater tenderness, innocence, and purity than 
 you have of poor Laura? Not a common, untaught girl, of 
 whom you might have been tired in a week ; hut a girl full of 
 all kinds of knowledge, trained and taught. J^o one knows the 
 story hut Mr. Venn and myself, and — and the other man. The 
 fault may be repaired." 
 
 " Arthur knows it, Madeleine knows it, all the world knows 
 it by this time. We waste time in words. I loved her — I love 
 her no longer. I am ashamed for my folly, ashamed, if you 
 will, of the evil temper which made me tell her all. If no one 
 knows, why not let things go on as they are ? We are both 
 free." 
 
 " You are neither of you free ; you are bound to each other. 
 Since her departure, you have obtained possession of Arthur 
 Durnford's estate." 
 
 " My estate, if you please. I was prepared to prove it mine 
 in a court of law." 
 
 " I think not, because I could have prevented it. The estate 
 is not yours by any legal claim." 
 
 " Upon my word, Madame de Guyon," said Philip, " you 
 appear to know a great deal about our family history." 
 " I do know a great deal." 
 
 " But I prefer not to discuss the details with you. I return 
 to what I said before. Let things past be forgotten." 
 He waived his hand impatiently. 
 
 " Let us dismiss the subject, And now, Madame de Guyon, 
 pray gratify my curiosity by telling me how you became mixed 
 up in the affair at all." 
 
 " Let me say one word more." 
 
 " Not one word. I have, I confess, those qualms of regret 
 v/hich some people attribute to conscience. I am extremely 
 sorry that I have made her unhappy. I do not justify any part 
 of my conduct. Mr. Maclntyre did, it is true, endeavour to 
 persuade me that the marriage was legal. I was madly in love, 
 and tried to believe him. Of course, it was not legal. This is 
 not a thing that can be said and unsaid. It is a fact. Facts 
 are stubborn things, as you know. The history of her life, to- 
 gether Avith the overpowering affection she has for the other man, 
 are nut calculated to make me desirous of turning into an indis- 
 sjluble contract what was really no contract at all. If slid 
 wants money -"
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 315 
 
 " She would, rather die than take money from you." 
 
 " In that case, I think there is nothing — really nothing- 
 more to be said." 
 
 " Oh, Philip Durnford ! is Heaven's wrath — ?" 
 
 " Come, Madame de Guyon — let us not go into theology. 
 "We met ; I loved her ; I deceived her ; Avas partly deceived 
 myself. I did not meet with any love from her. I lost my 
 money on the turf. I lost my temper Avith her. We quarrel. 
 She goes away. I sit down and do — nothing. The religious 
 jjart of the matter concerns me only. Eeligious matters do not 
 trouble my head much. I am a man of the world, and take 
 things as I find them. Things are mostly bad, and men are all 
 bad. Que voulez vous T 
 
 Good heavens ! And this man — this libertine — was her own 
 »ion, and she was sitting there listening in silence ! 
 
 But the time Avas coming to speak. 
 
 " I cannot believe you are speaking Avhat you think. You 
 cannot be so bitter against the Avorld." 
 
 " Perhaps I have cause." 
 
 " You have not, Philip Durnford. I know your whole his- 
 tory — yes, from your childhood. There are few alive — unless 
 it be that man Maclntyre — Avho know the secret of your 
 birth." 
 
 " There, at least, I have no reason, to be ashamed. My 
 mother was married to my father." 
 
 She bent her face forward, and Avas silent for a moment. 
 
 " Suppose she was notl" 
 
 •' But she Avas. I have legal proofs. They are in my 
 desk." 
 
 He grcAv impatient. 
 
 "What is this? What does it mean? You come to me, 
 knowing all about me ; you interfere in my most private rela- 
 tions. Tell me, I ask again, Avhat it means?" 
 
 " I Avill tell you," she said. " It is a bitter thing to tell — it 
 is a bitter time to have to tell it. I have prayed and hoped for 
 five and twenty years, and now I find you — ah me ! — so change(} 
 from the Pliilip of my dreams." 
 
 His face grew Avhite and his hand shook, for a strange fore- 
 boding seized him. But he said notliing. 
 
 " Tiiere Avas once," she Avent on, the tears falling fast through 
 Ikt A'eil — " there Avas once a rich man and a poor handmaid(iu. 
 He Avas kind and generous, and she loyed him. They had a
 
 3i6 MV LITTLE GLRL. 
 
 pon. The time came •when the ■vvickedness and folly were to 
 cease. He married, and sent her away — not cruelly, not with 
 harsh words, as you sent Laura awaj'-, but kindly and consider- 
 ately. She knew it must come. She was one of the inferior 
 race, with the old slave blood in her veins. The English gen- 
 tleman could never marry her, and she knew it all along. She 
 could hope for nothing but his kindness for a time, and look 
 for nothing but a separation. She was ignorant and untaught. 
 She felt no degradation. That was to come afterwards — to last 
 through all her life. Her lover practised no deception, made 
 her no false promises." 
 
 " Go on," he said, hoarsely, when she stopped. 
 
 " He married. The mulatto girl went away. With his 
 money she learned to sing. She is living now, rich and of good 
 name. IS"o one knows her past. Philip Durnford, she never 
 married your father, and you are her son." 
 
 She raised her veil, and looked him straight in the face. He 
 gazed at her, white and scared. 
 
 " And you T 
 
 She fell at his feet crying — 
 
 " Oh, Philip — Philip ! I am your guilty mother. Forgive 
 me — forgive me !" 
 
 And she waited for his words of love and forgiveness. 
 
 Alas ! none came. After a Avhile he rai:;ed her, and placed 
 her in a chair. 
 
 His lips moved, but he could not speak. When he did, his 
 voice was hard and harsh. 
 
 "You say that you are my mother. I must believe you. 
 That I am still illegitimate'? That, too, I must believe. The 
 letters and church register — " 
 
 " They are forgeries." 
 
 " They are forgeries — I believe that too. Arthur and I have 
 been tricked and cheated. And so what next?" 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " See, now, I am an unnatural son, perhaps ; but I am going 
 to take a common sense view of the matter. Let everything be 
 as it was before. Por all these years I have had no mother, I 
 cannot now — not yet, at least-^feel to you as I should. Go to 
 Arthur — I, too, wUl write to him — tell him what you please. 
 If I were you, I should tell him nothing. And let r:s part. I 
 am ruined in fortune, and unhappy in every relation of life. 
 Eutwe should neither of us be happier if I were to go home with
 
 M Y LITTLE GIRL . 317 
 
 you, and fall into false raptures of filial love, I am unkind, 
 perhaps ; but I am trying not to deceive you in any respect. 
 My motlier, we have met once. We are not acting a play, and 
 I cannot fall into your arms and love you all at once. I am 
 what my life has made me. I belong to another world — ■ 
 diflerent to yours. I have my habits, my prejudices, my 
 opinions — all bad, no doubt, but I have them. Let me go on 
 my road. Believe me, witli such a son you would be miserable. 
 Let us go on keeping our secret from the world. Xo one shall 
 know that Madame de Guyon has a son at all, far less such a 
 son as myself." 
 
 For aU answer she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed 
 him again and again. The tears came into his eyes, and for a 
 moment his heart softened, and he kissed her cheek. Then the 
 frost of selfishness fell upon him again, and he grew hard and 
 cruel. 
 
 " Let us part," he said. 
 
 " Philip," she moaned, " God punishes me very hard. But 
 it cannot be that you should suffer for my faults. God only 
 grant that you never feel the agony and suffering that you have 
 caused two women who love you." 
 
 '•' The agony and suffering," he answered, lightly, " may be 
 put at the door of our modern civilisation. I am sure you will 
 both feel, after a while, that I have acted for the best. Let us 
 part and be friends. Sometimes I will come and see you." 
 
 " I am your mother still. You can say and do nothing that 
 I would not forgive. When your heart is softened, you will 
 come back to me. Stay" — she bent forward with fixed eyes, as 
 of one who looks into the future — " I feel it. The time is 
 not far off when you will lie in my arms, and cry for shame and 
 sorrow. I cannot make it all out. It is my dream that comes 
 again and again. I see the place — it looks like George's room. 
 And now — now all is dark." She closed her eyes, and then 
 looked up with her former expression. " And now, farewell — ■ 
 Laura is my daughter." 
 
 He hold out his hand. She drew her face to him, and kissed 
 him on the brow. Then she let down her veil, and went 
 away. 
 
 Hour after hour passed, but Philip still sat in the desolate 
 room whence he had driven away tb'^ angels 0^ his life.
 
 3 1 is MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 A MONTH passed by, and no message or letter Avas sent to Philip, 
 He, now quite gone back to the old life, spent his days chiefly 
 at the Burleigh Club, in the customary unprofitable pursuits of 
 ii man about town. This is not an improving course ; and every 
 day found him more ready to keep what he had got, whatever 
 might be the truth. His mother? And if she were his mother, 
 what duty did he owe to her % When the new year came round, 
 he was curious to learn if the usual two hundred pounds would 
 be paid into his account. It was not. Then he was quite 
 certain about the sender. It was Madame de Guj'on. Another 
 thing bothered him. Nothing could be ascertained as to Mr. ]\Iac- 
 Intyre's whereabouts. !N"o notice given at the lodgings. He 
 had quietly disappeared. One thing was ascertainable, however : 
 he had drawn out the whole of his money in bank-notes and gold. 
 
 " Come with me," said Venn, after telling Arthur what he 
 had learned — " come with me, and see Madame de Guyon. She 
 would like it." 
 
 Arthur went. Madame de Guyon received him with a curious 
 air of interest. 
 
 "You are like your father," she said; "but more like poor 
 Adrienne, your mother. May I call you Arthur? You know 
 the whole sad story, Arthur. At this length of time, thinking 
 what I Avas, in what school brought up, how utterly ignorant, I 
 have brought myself to look upon the past as few women with 
 such a memory could. I can now, as you see, even talk about 
 it. Have you seen Philip lately T 
 
 " I never see Philip at all." 
 
 " I am sorry. !Mr. Venn has told me all the story. I am 
 permitted to see my son's wife. I even hope that she may come 
 to live with me. But this estate must be given back. It is not 
 Philip's. Cruel as the blow would be, I would even consent to 
 go into a court and relate my own history, if necessary, rather 
 than let this wrong be done you." 
 
 "Philip has offered to restore the estate," said Arthur; "but he 
 may keep it. Be at ease, madame ; there will be no steps taken, and 
 Philip may enjoy what the forgeries of Maclntyre havegiven him." 
 
 "I am glad. Put yourself only in my place, Arthur. After 
 twenty-five years of effort, I am rich, I am looked up to, I have 
 A good name."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 319 
 
 ** Indeed you have," said Arthur. 
 
 « What if all were to be lost at a blow t 
 
 '* It shall not, niadame — it shall not be lost at all. Keep 
 ■what you have, the reputation that is your own. Eest assured 
 that none of us will ever harm it." 
 
 "What Marie said about her reputation was less than the truth. 
 Of all great singers none had become so widely known for her 
 thousand acts of charity and grace ; none had a better name : 
 none lived a life more open and observed of all. Eut she was 
 not satisfied with this. She wanted to have, if she could, the 
 /riendship of Madeleine and the love of Laura; 
 
 She wrote to Madeleine : — 
 
 " You know all my life — its beginning and its progress. You, 
 a girl of Palmiste, can understand what I was thirty years ago, 
 when I was sixteen years old. I was born a slave, white as I 
 was in complexion. My mother Avas a slave, and therefore I 
 was one. My people were forbidden to marry by law — God's 
 laws set aside for man's purposes. They could not hold pro- 
 perty ; they were not allowed to wear shoes ; they were publicly 
 flogged in the Place ; they were not allowed to read and write. 
 When I was eight years old, the emancipation came. But 
 though we were free, the old habits of slave life rested with us. 
 Think of these, if you can, for you are too young to know much 
 about what we were. Think of what you do know, and then 
 ask what punishment I deserve for two years of sin. Believe 
 me, every year that has elapsed since has been a year of punish- 
 ment, never so heavy as now, when my son has cast me off. 
 You know what a position I have conquered for myself; you 
 know, too — I write it with a pride that you will appreciate — 
 that no breath of calumny or ill report has been cast upon me 
 during all this time. No one knows who I am, what I was. I 
 wish that no one should know. Why do I write to youl It 
 is because you have been kind to my dnngliter, my little Laura, 
 and because you are engaged to Artliur Darnford, Years ago — 
 the last time I saw his father — I took the two children, my 
 Philip and Arthur, out of their beds, one after the other. Philip 
 turned from me and cried ; Arthur laid his arms round my neck 
 and went to sleep. It was an omen. Part of it has been ful- 
 filled. Le,t the rest he fulfilled. I ask for Arthur's friend- 
 ship. I — yes, /—ask ycj for your friendship. It is because 
 I hear you are unlike other girls — independent, able to think, 
 for yourself — that I dare to ask it. And I ask it for the sake
 
 320 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 of Laura as well as myself. I want to take her to my own heart. 
 I am a lonely woman, and hunger for somebody to love me. 
 I cannot do this unless her friends — you, and Arthur, and all 
 — will come to my house. Tell me you can, after these years 
 of repentance, give me your hand. Cannot a woman ever be 
 forgiven by other women ?" 
 
 Madeleine read the letter with burning cheeks. Why should 
 she not go to see this poor woman, shut out from the world )jy a 
 thirty years old sin that was itself but ignorance ] 
 
 But she must keep her secret. 
 
 She gave the letter to Arthur to read. 
 
 " What will you do, Madeleine ?" 
 
 " I will do what you wish, Arthur." 
 
 " What would you like to do % Is it to go and see her ? My 
 dear, if you only knew, she is the best of good women." 
 
 So Madeleine went. 
 
 All this time Lollie was slowly recovering her strength, under 
 the motherly care of Sukey. 
 
 When she grew strong enough to go out, Hartley thought 
 Philip's promise should be fulfilled. He approached the subject 
 very delicately one day. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Lollie," he said^ " that in case of any 
 legal difficulties about your marriage — " 
 
 " What legal difficulties, Mr. Venn?" 
 
 " You see, my child, a ceremony perfectly binding in all other 
 respects may very possibly not be in accordance with the law as 
 regards succession to property, and so forth." 
 
 " But what have I to do with succession to property T 
 
 " A good deal, Lollie. And I, as your guardian, must pro- 
 tect your interests. The best way will be for us to have the 
 marriage done over again." 
 
 " Over again ! But then Philip would have to be there." 
 
 " Philip will be there. He has expressed his readiness to be 
 there. You need not be alarmed, Lollie," for she began to 
 shiver from head to foot. " He will just come for the ceremony, 
 and go away immediately afterwards. You will not perhaps even 
 speak to him, nor he to you. All that is arranged. I know, 
 Lollie, child, how painful all this is to you ; but it must be 
 done. Believe me, it is for your own sake." 
 
 She acquiesced. K Hartley Venn had told her to go straight 
 to the guillotine, she would have done it for his sake." 
 
 The necessary arrangements were made. An old college
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 321 
 
 friend of Venn's undertook to marry them, being jusfc told that 
 the circumstances were peculiar, and that he was to ask no ques- 
 tions. 
 
 And then Madeleine wrote to Philip : — 
 
 '' Mr DEAR Philip — You will be prepared to go through the 
 marriage ceremony of the Church of England the day after to- 
 morrow, at eleven o'clock, at Church, Square. It 
 
 has been explained to Laura, to save her self-resp3ct, that this 
 will be done in the view of possible legal difficulties. She is 
 growing stronger and better, and will, as soon as she is able to 
 be moved, go to reside with Madame de Giiyon. For every- 
 body's sake — for hers as well as ours — old histories will be left 
 alone, and no stops will be taken to convict the forger who de- 
 ceived us all. Keep the estate of Fontainebleau, dear Philip, 
 and be happy. You have promised to do everything I asked 
 you for Laura. You will first marry her legally ; you will then 
 take her into the vestry alone, and ask her forgiveness. You 
 cannot refuse so much, I hope that as the years move on, you 
 may love each other again, and forget the wrongs and woes 
 of the past. I love your Avife more every day I see her. 
 
 " There is one other point I should like to ask you, if I may. 
 It is of Madame de Guy on. You know what I would ask you, 
 and I will not name it. Oh, Philip, if it is a good thing, as 
 people write, for man to be rich in woman's love, how rich 
 ought you to be ! Think of all this, and do what your heart 
 prompts you. 
 
 " You will see me at the church. — Your affectionate sister, 
 
 " Madeleine." 
 
 But the letter reached Philip at a wrong moment, when he 
 was in one of his bitter moods, and he only tore it up and 
 swore. Nevertheless, he wrote to say he would keep his 
 promise. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold morning in January, with snow upon 
 the ground, and icicles hanging from every projection. Sukny 
 was to know nothing of the business on hand, and was mightily 
 astouished when Madeleine called at ten o'clock, and touk out 
 Laura in her carriage, wrappeil up as warmly as could be 
 managed. Hartley Venn and Madame de Giiyon joined them 
 at tSe corner of the street, and the conspirators drove to the 
 church. 
 
 21
 
 322 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 It was tlie most difficult thing of any that Laura had yet 
 been called upon to do. She had made up her mind never to 
 see her husband again. Now it had all to be gone over just as 
 before. She remembered that last scene, when, after words 
 sharper than any steel, Philip fell crying at her feet as she left 
 the room, praying her to come back and let all be as it was. 
 Eut this could never be. She knew it could never be. All the 
 little ties that grow up between lovers — the tendrils that bind 
 soul to soul, growing out of daily thought and daily caresses — 
 were snapped and severed at a stroke. The ideal had been 
 destroyed at one blow; even its ruins seemed vanished and lost. 
 Philip had more of her pity now than of her love. !N"o more her 
 gallant and noble lover, the crown and type of all loyalty and 
 honour, but degraded and fallen, his spurs struck off, his 
 scutcheon smirched — a recreant knight. She had forgiven him. 
 Perhaps, too, love might have been born out of forgiveness : a 
 rose-bush beaten to the ground will put up one or two branches, 
 and blossom again. And woman's love, like God's, continues 
 through sin, and shame, and disgrace. And then, another thing. 
 She had lived a different life. The three women who were 
 now her companions and friends — Madeleine, Marie, and Sukey 
 — each in her own way, had taught her what Hartley Venn 
 could never do : how women look on things ; how great had 
 been her own sin in keeping her secret from Hartley. With all 
 these influences vipon her, as she grew stronger, her very face 
 seemed to change ; she passed from a girl to a woman, and her 
 beauty grew, so to speak, stronger and more real. 
 
 Hartley led her up the aisle. There were no bridal veils, no 
 bridesmaids, no pealing organ. She kept her eyes on the ground ; 
 but she knew Philip was standing, pale and agitated, by the 
 altar. 
 
 The clergyman came out. 
 
 A strange wedding. The clerk and the pew-opencr stared with 
 open eyes at each other \ for the bride stood before the altar, like 
 a culprit — pale, thin, tearful, shivering. Beside her Venn, his 
 smooth cheek flushed with suppressed fury, as he stood face to 
 face with the destroyer of his happiness. All his philosophy, 
 his acceptance of the inevitable, his resignation to fate, seemed 
 iiseless now to stay the angry beating of his heart. But for thr. 
 presence of the women he might have broken out then and 
 there. Behind Laura, another, more deeply moved than any 
 of the rest— the mother of the bridegroom. W^th her. Xfade-
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL, 323 
 
 leine, anxious that tliere should be, above all, no scene — the 
 only one present to whom the whole ceremony did not appear a 
 kind of strange, wild dream. 
 
 As for Philip, he stood, at first defiantly, looking straight at 
 the clergyman; and but for the hot flush upon his face you 
 might have thought him careless. Madeleine looked at him, and 
 knew otherwise. Preseatly he had to kneel. Then, open as 
 natures such as his are to every kind of influence, the words of 
 the prayer fell upon his dry heart like rain upon a thirsty soil, 
 and he was touched, almost to tears, by pity and sorrow for the 
 gentle girl at his side. But not by love. 
 
 They stood up face to face. For the second time their hands 
 were joined with solemn words ; and Laura started when she 
 heard the voice of Philip — low and sad, as it seemed — saying, 
 after the clergyman, the words prescribed by the Church. 
 
 They were pronounced man and wife. 
 
 Philip took her by the hand, and led her into the vestry, 
 shutting the door. 
 
 He placed a chair for her, and stood in front. The church 
 service had softened him, and the better nature was again upper- 
 most. 
 
 " Laura," he said, " I promised Madeleine to remove any 
 doubts that might exist in any mind by going through this 
 ceremony. That is done. We are now married so that no one, 
 if they could say anything before, can say a word now against 
 the legality of our union. But one thing remains. I have done 
 you cruel wrong. Will you forgive me T 
 
 *' Yes, Philip, I have forgiven." 
 
 " Freely and fully ?" 
 
 " Long since, Philip — long since." 
 
 " We ought never to have met, cliild. Tell me again, that I 
 may take the words away with me, that you forgive me." 
 
 " Philip, in the sight of God, I forgive all and everything." 
 
 " We must part, Laura, now — at all events, for the present. 
 It is best so, is it not ? I shall travel. We will not even write 
 to each other. I have not forgiven myself. Kiss me once, my 
 wife." 
 
 She stood up and kissed him on the Hps, her tears raining on 
 his cheeks. Then Philip opened the door and stepped into the 
 church, where the clerk was standing open-mouthed at this 
 extraordinary conduct. 
 
 " There are some papers to sign, I believe," he said. 
 
 21—2
 
 324 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 They all weut into the vestiy. Philip signed. 
 
 " I have done what I promised, Madeleine." 
 
 Madeleine made a gesture in the direction of Madame de 
 Guyon, who was bending over Laura. 
 
 *' You have no word for her," she whispered. 
 
 He turned to his mother, hesitated a moment, then raised her 
 hand and kissed it. She threw her arms about his neck and 
 kissed him passionately, Avhispering — 
 
 " Philip, my son, come back to us soon." 
 
 He freed himself gently, placed her in a chair, and took his 
 hat. Then he saw Hartley. 
 
 " You are Mr. Yenn T he asked. " I cannot ask your for- 
 giveness — that would be too preposterous. I leave my Avife 
 and — and my mother in your care." 
 
 He left the vestry, and strode down the aisle. They hoard 
 his footsteps out of the church door, and down the street out- 
 side. Then they, too, left the church, and drove away in 
 Madeleine's carriage to Madame de Guyon's house. 
 
 "He asked me to forgive him, maman," said Laura, sobbing 
 in her arms. " He told me he was sorry. Let us pray for him 
 together." 
 
 "This," said the clerk to the old woman who assisted — " this 
 here is the most extraordinary and rummest wedding I ever see. 
 First, the young man he comes half an hour early. I told him 
 to look at the clock. 'Damn the clock,' he said, begging your 
 pardon Mrs. Trigg. Such was his blasphemious words, and in a 
 church ! He didn't give you much, I suppose, Mrs. Trigg % 
 You ain't a great deal richer for this precious morning's work V 
 
 '• Is'ot a brass farthing !" 
 
 " Ah ! they call themselves gentlefolks, I suppose. It's a 
 queer way to begin married life by giving the church people 
 nothing, let alone quarrelling before ever they come near the 
 place ? However, I dessay there's nothing absolutely illegal in 
 not giving the clerk and the pew- opener their just and lawful 
 dues. I3ut it looks very bad. Mark my words, Mrs. Trigg. 
 There will be no blessin' on this weddins." 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 So Philip went his way, and they heard no more of him for a 
 time. But a change was coming over the unhappy young man
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL, 325 
 
 —a change for the worse. He was, as has been seen, of that light 
 and unstable character whose good and evil never seem to end 
 their contest, whose owner is able at one moment to resolve the 
 highest and noblest things, and at the next to fall into the 
 lowest and basest actions. Does this come from the fatal African 
 blood ] God forbid that wc should say so. But surely it may 
 be helped for the worse by the presence of a constant suspicion 
 of inferiority. It is self-respect that makes men walk erect, 
 and in a straight line. We who sin are men who esteem our- 
 selves but lightl3^ Sinners there are who think no small beer 
 of themselves — rather the finest and oldest Trinity Audit ; but 
 they are those who have framed themselves a special code of 
 honour and morality. And, if we called things by their right 
 names, we should not use the idle metaphors of the common 
 jargon, saying of a man that he Avants ballast, bottom, backbone, 
 staying power, energy, but Ave should say that he wants self- 
 respect. This is the quality that makes a man Senior Wrangler, 
 Victoria Cross, K.C.B., INIayor of his toAvn, Deputy Grand of 
 the Ancient Order of Druids, or any other distinction Ave long 
 for. This is what inspires industry, pluck, perseverance, confi- 
 dence — everything. Dear friends, and fathers of families, make 
 your sons conceited, vain, proud, self-believers, encourage confi- 
 dence. JS'ever let them be snubbed or bullied. See that they 
 walk head erect and fist ready. Inspire them with such a 
 measure of self-esteem as Avill make them ready to undertake 
 anything. If they fail, as is quite likely, no matter. They 
 Avould have failed in any case, you see ; and they have always 
 their conceit to fall back upon. Lord John Eussell is a case in 
 point. Eeady to command the Channel Fleet — you know the 
 rest of it. I know a man — the stupidest, piggest-headed, most 
 ignorant, most conceited, and most inflated bloater of a man you 
 ever saw. This creature, by sheer dint of conceit and vanity, 
 which made him step calmly to the front, and stand there yast 
 as if he were in his right place, has a great house at South Ken- 
 sington, and is a director of a lot of companies. He is also, save 
 the mark, a fellow of the Eoyal Society. He got this, I know, 
 by asking for it ; and they Avere so astonished by the request 
 that they gave him the distinction by mistake. He sent in his 
 name Avith all the letters of the alphabet after it — those degrees 
 Avhich you can get for two guineas a year or thereabouts — F. A.S., 
 F.li.S., F.C.S., F.D.S., &c. ; and then F.II.A.S., F.li.B.S., 
 F.R.C.S., &c. ; and after the names there came the Avords, in
 
 326 MV LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 great capitals, AUTHOR OF THE WORK ENTITLED 
 " ON THE TRITURATION OF IGNEOUS PARTICLES." 
 
 You see, he once rubbed a couple of sticks together to try and 
 make a fire, after tlie manner of tlie barbarians, and failed to do 
 more than bark his own knuckles. Then he wrote a pamphlet, 
 in six pages, on the subject. This was his Work, to which he 
 refers whenever a scientific point is mooted. 
 
 Pardon me, reader — whenever I think of that man and this 
 subject, I am carried away with an irrepressible enthusiasm and 
 admiration. 
 
 Graviora canamus. It is an easy thing to write of a man's 
 downward course — but a sad thing. Poor Philip, seeing some- 
 times the things he had done in their true and real characters, 
 was afflicted with a sense of shame and disgrace that became so 
 strong as to drive him back upon himself. He left off' going to 
 the club. That is to say, he left off going among his fellow- 
 men at all. He had no friends, except club friends. Occasion- 
 ally he might be met, but not in the daytime, wandering care- 
 lessly along the streets. For he could not sleep at night, and 
 used to tire himself by long, lonely walks, and then get home 
 to his rooms at three in the morning, and go to bed exhausted. 
 Presently, two devils entered into hiai and possessed him. The 
 first was the demon of drink. He began to drink in the morn- 
 ing ; he went on diiuking all day. At night he was sodden 
 and could sleep. 
 
 All this was not done in a day. A man who begins to live by 
 himself in this great London, where it is so easy, soon drops into 
 the habit of ceasing to care for any society. The streets are so-ciety 
 — the long and multitudinous streets, with the roar of the carriages 
 and the faces of the people. The streets inspired Dickens, who 
 would come up from the country to London, and find in the streets 
 the refreshment that he needed. The streets possessed the soul 
 of De Quincy. To me there is no exhibition in the world com- 
 parable to Regent Street at four, or to the Strand all day long. 
 I know a man who dropped some years since into this lonely 
 life. He goes nowhere now ; he cares to go nowhere. Ho 
 dines every day at the selfsame seat and the selfsame place, on 
 the selfsame dinner. Then he goes back to his chambers, 
 •smokes a cigar, and presently to bed. In the daytime he goes 
 uj. and down the streets, 
 
 Philip, in his bitter moods, began by going less often to the 
 club, so that he gradually dropped out of the set. He was no
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 327 
 
 longer to be depended on for a rubber. His face was missed at 
 the nightly pool. K'o more Tiets "were to be got out of him. 
 And then he ceased to go there at all. 
 
 It was at this period, during February and March, thai 
 another fancy took him. He found out from the Directory 
 where Madame de Guyon lived. It was in one of those houses 
 that lie so thickly round the north of Eegent's Park. One night 
 he walked up there after dinner. It was a house with a little- 
 garden-ground under the windows. One room, the drawing- 
 room, was lighted up. The blinds were not down. Philip 
 stood on the pavement, and looked in through the railings. 
 The party inside consisted of two ladies — his mother and his wife 
 — and a man, Hartley Venn. Venn was lying lazily in any easy 
 chair ; Madame de Guyon was sitting opposite to him knitting; 
 Lollie sat in the middle, reading aloud. Philip heard her voice. 
 She had one of those sweet, rich voices — not strong — which 
 curl round a man's heart like the tendrils of a vine. I hate 
 a woman with a loud voice, and I hate a woman who whispers. 
 He could not hear what she read, but he listened to the voice, 
 and tried to remember the past All that blind, mad passion 
 was dead. There was left in his lieart the 'poioer, like a seed 
 waiting for the spring, of waking to a higher and purer love. And 
 now he seemed to know her better, and acknowledged within 
 himself that she was every way worthy of the best love a ma-n 
 can bring. 
 
 He stood without, in the rain and cold, looking on the quiet 
 happiness within. Presently Madame de Guyon went to the 
 piano, and began to sing. Her glorious voice filled the little room 
 to overflowing, and welled forth in great waves of sound. Philip 
 clutched the railings, and pressed his cheek against the iron. 
 This was his mother : this glorious queen among women, this 
 empress of song. There was the peaceful retreat waiting for 
 him. He knew he had but to knock at the door. It was like 
 Bunyan's way to Heav'en : to knock at the door was enough. 
 
 Then the younger lady took the cider's place and began to 
 play — some of the old things he knew, that she had so often 
 played to him. She played on, with her head thrown back, in 
 that attitude of careless grace which he had never seen in any 
 other woman, with lips half parted, eyes half closed, Avhile the 
 music rose and 1 1 beneath her fingers, and flowed, like the 
 rising tide among the caves, witliiu her soul. Then she, too, 
 stopped ; and Venn got up and shook hands with both, IIo
 
 328 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 passed out, and crossed to the other side of the Btrcet ; but did 
 not notice the man leaning against the railings, Avith straining 
 eyes, staring within. 
 
 Then the blind was drawn down. A bell rang. Some one 
 — his wile — played an evening hymn. They sang. Then a 
 monotonous voice for a few minutes, and presently the lights 
 were extinguished. They had prayed, and were gone to bed. 
 Eut they had prayed for him. And as he stood there, after the 
 lights were extinguished, there were two women, in two rooms, 
 each on her knees by the bedside, praying for him again — his 
 mother and his wife. Then he came to himself, and walked 
 back as fast as he could, trying to pull himself together. 
 
 Two or three rights afterwards he went up again. This time 
 there were no lights. All was dark. He waited till past eleven, 
 walking backwards and forwards in the road. Then a carriage 
 drew up, and he saw them descend and enter the house. They 
 had been to the theatre, and were laughing and talking gaily. 
 That night he went home in a rage. What right had they to bo 
 happy witliout him? 
 
 But he went up again. Sometimes the blinds Avere left up, 
 and he saw the group. Oftener, blinds and curtains wer» 
 drawn, and he conld only hear the voices and the sound of the 
 piano. He knew well enough which of the two was playing; 
 and also got to know — which hlled his soul with inexpressible 
 pangs of rage and jealousy — that Venn was there about four 
 nights in the week. 
 
 All this time he was drinking hard, and living entirely alone. 
 One night he went to bed parlier than usual — about one o'clock 
 — and, contrary to his usual practice, went to sleep at once. At 
 three o'clock he awoke with a shudder and a start. Opening 
 his eyes wide, he saw, sitting by the side of the bed — in fact, on 
 his own pile of clothes — a skeleton. jSTot a skeleton of the 
 comic order, with a pipe in his mouth, such as we are fond of 
 drawing, but of the entirely tragic and ri^elancholy kind : witli 
 his mouth open wide, from ear to ear, as if it was a throat cut 
 an inch and a half too high up ; a long, bony hand that pointed 
 straight at him, and shook its finger in anger ; eyes that glared 
 with a horrid earnestness ; bones, all the way down, that seemed 
 transparent. Solitude makes men nervous ; drink makes them 
 see skeletons. Philip sat up and glared. Then he gave a half 
 cry, and buried liis head under the clothes. 
 
 Presently he looked out again. Tlie skeleton was gone. He
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 329 
 
 turned round with a sigh of relief. The skeleton was on iht 
 other side. Then he covered his head again and waited till day- 
 break — till past six o'clock. By that time the spectre was 
 gone. 
 
 The next night he did not dare to go to bed again. And then 
 it was that the second devil, of whom I have spoken above, 
 took possession of him. This time it was the demon of play. 
 Philip, who knew everything about Loudon, was not ignorant of 
 the existence of one or two jilaces — where, indeed, he had more 
 than once been seen — where you may find a green table, dice, 
 and other accessories to the gambling table. To one of these he 
 Avent that night at one o'clock. There were two or three of his 
 club acquaintances there, who greeted him as one newly returned 
 from some long foreign travel. 
 
 He got through the night so, and saw no spectre when he 
 awoke at midday. 
 
 Then he began to frequent the place regularl3^ It seemed to 
 him the only place where pleasure could be found. At the age 
 of six-and-twenty this young man found the fruits of the world 
 turned in his mouth to dust and aslif'^ He had no longer any 
 ambition or any hope. The long li'.jht spent over the chances 
 of the game gave him light, comp:-. lionship, excitement. To 
 keep his head clear, he gave up th-^ brandy and water of the 
 day. So far this was a gain. But hen he took to champfigao 
 at night, and drank too much of it. As for the plaj^, Avhether 
 he lost or won made no diflereuce, because he never lost heavily, 
 and fortune favoured him by giving him neither great coups, 
 nor great reverses. 
 
 Tliis kind of thing went on for a couple of months or so. He 
 grew thin, pale, excitable. He had not the moral courage even 
 to go among men at all, never went anywhere except to the 
 gaming table — except when he wall^ed up to Eegent's Park to 
 catch a glimpse of the home he had abandoned. The sight of 
 it, the occasional sight of its inhabitants, was like a lash of 
 scorpions. If he saw them happy, his blood boiled with jealousy 
 and rage. If he thought tliey looked depressed, he ground his 
 teeth together, and cursed himself for the cause. 
 
 At first he used to have mighty yearnings of spirit, and was 
 moved to knock at the door and ask admittance. Tiiese 
 emotions being supiiressoi, day after day, grew gradually of less 
 stri;ngth. Tiieu he ceased to think of any ;.liango at all ; and 
 went, on moodily — without any of that siu^jing and dancing of
 
 330 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 whicli he spoke to Madeloine — down the slope of Avernuf:, the 
 bottom of which was not far off. 
 
 He had laid his skeleton by the process of changing his hours 
 altogether. But it was only laid for a time. Youth will stant? 
 a good deal ; hut there is a point beyond which you may not go. 
 Then a disordered liver, an unhealthy brain, a nervous excite- 
 ment, produce discomforts of a very rude and jiractical kind. 
 There came a time, early in April, when his sleep was so tor- 
 mented with terrible dreams, and his waking hours with terriblo 
 thoughts — thoughts that he knew could belong to no sound 
 brain, and sights that he knew to be unreal or supernatural — 
 that he went to a doctor, and humbly asked assistance. 
 
 *' What have you been doing T 
 
 "JS'othing. Smoking, drinking, living alone, gambling. 
 Everything that is bad." 
 
 " Leave it all off. Go into society." 
 
 " The only society I can go into is the society of men who do 
 these things." 
 
 "You have money? Good. Then go aAvay. That is the 
 only thiug I can do for you. Live temperately, and go away." 
 
 " Where am I to go to T 
 
 *' Go ? Go anywhere. As far as you can. Take a long 
 sea voyage. Come back after it — say in two years' time, and Ave 
 will see how you are. If you stay here and go on drinking, you 
 will probably be dead in six months." 
 
 ** What does it matter if I am?" 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear sir, my business is to prolong life, not 
 to examine into the desirability of preserving it. Most of my 
 patients prefer to live. Doubtless they consider tha chances of 
 a change dubious." 
 
 Philip went away relieved. He would go away and travel. 
 The new thought occupied his mind all day ; and for that night 
 he slept soundly, and if skeletons danced in his room, as they 
 did sometimes, he was asleep and did not see them. 
 
 Where to go % 
 
 He awoke in the morning asking himself the question. And 
 then a happy thought struck him. He would go away for good 
 Bnd all ; he would get out of a country where all the memories 
 were miserable to him. The past should be shaken off like an 
 old garment. He would begin a new life ; he would go and live 
 on his own estate — Arthur's, by right, said his conscience — in 
 Palmists.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 331 
 
 His thoughts flew to the old place. He felt again the warm 
 breath of the summer air ; he sat in the shade, deep down '\\ 
 the ravine, where the cool dash and plash of the mountain stream 
 made sweet music in his ears ; roamed the forest, gun in hand, 
 while the branches sighed in the breeze. He saw the hill tops 
 purpling at dawn, and the heavy dew lying in great beads upon 
 the roses. He heard the shrill voices of the coolies, and watched 
 the Indian women j)ass by, with their lithe, graceful figures and 
 their scarlet robes. And all at once a wild longing came over 
 him to be there and at peace. 
 
 All day long he went about, radiant with the new thought. 
 He drove to Silver's, and ordered a lot of things to be put to- 
 gether at once. He drove to his agent's, and told him what he 
 was going to do. He ascertained that the steamer left South- 
 ampton in three days, and he took his passage. 
 
 Then he went home and dreamed of the future. 
 
 There, in that land where it is always afternoon, peace would 
 come to him at last, and conscience be still. A pleasant life lay 
 before him — a life of ease and dignity. He would be a judge 
 among the people of his estate, as his father had been before 
 him : he would be the giver and dispenser of hospitality. He 
 would leave behind him, and forget for ever, the two women 
 who could be happy while he was wretched ; Arthur, the 
 wronged — all against whom he had sinned. He would forget 
 them all, and be happy. 
 
 Alas ! " Coelum, non animum, mutant qui trans mare 
 currunt." 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIL 
 
 Bad indeed must be the condition of that man whom a long 
 voyage does not restore to freshness and liealth. Here are no 
 letters, no duns, no newspapers. The world goes on without 
 you. One has no longer the fidgety feeling, like the fly on the 
 Avheel, of being essential to the march of events. Nor is there 
 any sense of responsibility. ^N^otliing to be done ; nothing to 
 be thought of : eating and drinking the business of the day, its 
 pleasure to watch the waves and the skies. 
 
 For Pliilip there was the additional pleasure of renewing inter- 
 course with his brother man. He lost all his spectres, grew 
 once more bright-eyed and keen-witted, and, when they steamed
 
 332 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 into the harbour of St. Denys, had altogether forgotten the 
 wretched being who ckmg to the railings of the little house at 
 Eegent's Park, and peered into the brightness within. He stepped 
 npon the quay — the old faruiliar place — and looked round him. 
 There were the coolies at work ; the white houses of the resi- 
 dents stretching up the broad street ; beyond, the ugly spire of 
 the cathedral, like a gigantic extinguisher : and over all towered 
 the mountains, blackening now with the shadows of evening. 
 And then there fell upon him a very curious feeling, because he 
 suddenly remembered that he should not know a single soul in 
 the whole island ; not one. During the whole voyage he had 
 been nursed by a vague idea that he was rushing back into tlie 
 arms of innumerable friends. Now he felt like Oliver Gold- 
 smith Avhen he went among the Hollanders with the grandest 
 projects, and only remembered too late that he knew no Dutch. 
 Eut his laughter was short, and he felt somewhat saddened as 
 he ordered his things to be taken to the hotel. 
 
 There is a hotel at St. Denys — in fact, there are many, but 
 only one of decent repute. It consists of a long, low Avooden 
 house, painted a bright yellow, Avith a deep verandah round it. 
 It has two stories, the upper one containing the bed-rooms ; and, 
 for coolness' sake, tlie partitions ars not run up to the ceiling, 
 leaving a clear space above. This not only allows the air to 
 circulate, but also permits the guests the advantage of overhear- 
 ing all the conA^ersation that may be going on in the adjoining 
 rooms. Lying and sitting about the verandah are a crowd of 
 Indian boys, dressed in a suit of uniform of white trousers and 
 black jackets, neat and handy looking. Outside, under the 
 thick shade of the trees, sit the happy islanders, playing domi- 
 noes. They begin this amusement at early dawn, and go on, 
 Avith short intervals for business and longer ones for breakfast 
 and dinner, till it is time to go to bed — that is, till about eight 
 o'clock. They do this every day, including Sunday, and are 
 never tired ; and Avhen Azrael is sent to fetch them away, they 
 are thinking — as they have been thinking all their lives — of the 
 last combination of the pips. At least their lives may be called 
 happy, because they have all that they desire. 
 
 All Avas as Philip remembered it years before. The Avaiters 
 ran about and chattered ; the players smoked cigars, drank 
 orgeat, and chattered ; and, that nothing might be Avanting, a 
 great black parrot, Avhich had been there ten years befor(>, Avas there 
 still, stalking about Avith an air of being the only really superior
 
 MY LITTLE CTRL. 333 
 
 person preseut. It was a parrot of iufmite accomplishments ; 
 and at sight of him Philip laughed, thinking how he had made 
 Avthnr and himself laugh years before. I'or he had been care- 
 fully instructed in, and had by sheer force of imitative genius 
 acquired, the art of representing all the sounds which proceed 
 from a person aflected with cold, from its earliest appearance to 
 its most advanced stage of pulmonary consumption. Too much 
 of him might be undesirable, but at first ho was amusing, 
 ^^othing was changed. At the table d'hote, the same dinner. 
 
 The j)rincipal guests were his fellow-travellers in the mail — at 
 all events, the most important, because they had the latest news. 
 Of course their importance lasts only five minutes ; for no one 
 can be expected in Palmiste to pay attention to foreign news for 
 a longer time. The concession of five minutes granted to the 
 outer world, the conversation rolled on in its usual groove, and 
 the latest scandal resumed its proper place. Philip noticed it 
 all, and listened, wondering how he should get on with all these 
 people, whom he seemed to remember in a kind of dream. It 
 v.as their old manner of talk, he remembered. 
 
 He went to bed early. Just as he was turning in, he heard 
 voices from the next room. 
 
 "Dites moi, mon ami " — it was a lady's voice — " who is this 
 M. Durnford, who has just arrived, and dined at the table d'hote V 
 
 " It is not the son of our old friend," replied her husband — 
 *' not, that is, the son of your schoolfellow, Adrienne de Eosnay. 
 Another son altogether. Some early liaison. His name is 
 Philip. He has bought the estate of his half-brother, and comes 
 here to see it, I supi)ose. It is not probable ho will live hero." 
 
 " ^No; that is, of course, out of the question. He is a handsome 
 young man. Pity he is a mulatto. He had much better go 
 back to England or France, where they are not particular as 
 to colour." 
 
 There was a plunge and a heavy thud, as if some stout per- 
 son was getting into bed, and in five minutes dead silence, but 
 for a gentle breathing, which gradually deepened into a melo- 
 dious snore. 
 
 But Philip was lying in bed, tossing about and clenching hia 
 fists. On the very first night to be reminded in this bruscpie 
 and brutal way — it was too much. He lay awake. Why had 
 ho come herol What cursed fate was it which brought him 
 back to the island he had always hated ? 
 
 The night was hot, too ; and the mosquitoes were stinging hia
 
 J34 ^^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 lace and hands. IIo got out of Led and. lit a candlo, and sat at 
 the open window, smoking a cigar. The town was silent and 
 asleep. Not even a dog barked. But outside, the moonlight 
 bathed everything with a flood of rich white light. The breeze 
 from the mountains fanned his cheek. There was the solemn 
 silence of the night on the sleeping city. But the peace of 
 night brought no peace to him. Why, why had he come all 
 this way to be reminded of what he had run away from England 
 to forget % And then he cursed his fate and himself. 
 
 All night he sat brooding and wretched. As the day broke, 
 he fell asleep, his head on the window-sill, and slept till the 
 noise of the Indian boys recalled him to wakefulness. Then, to 
 avoid meeting the people of the next bedroom, he ordered a car- 
 riage to be brought round, and drove, in the early morning, 
 away to his own estate. 
 
 As he had written to no one, he was quite unexpected. The 
 house was uninhabited, the manager and his wife living in a 
 cottage close by. They came and welcomed him — a bright, cheery 
 young Frenchman, with a pretty little wife. While his own 
 house was being set in order, would he use theirs % The manager 
 led him over his mills, pointed out the great improvements that 
 had been made, and then took him back to his wife, who had 
 got a dainty breakfast, with the best claret at her command, 
 ready for him. Then, all day there was cleaning and setting 
 in order ; and then, for a few days after, novelty and strange- 
 ness, which distracted Philip, and kept him in high spirits. 
 Then he had to go and see his lawyer, which was a day's 
 journey, in and out of town ; then to get the lawyer to come 
 and stay a day or two with him. All this took time, and a fort- 
 night passed away before Philip found it dull, or had a thought 
 for the past. 
 
 After that, things began to be a little monotonous. For no 
 one called upon him. 
 
 Philip fell back upon the officers. There was a regiment 
 whose head-quarters were stationed at a place some eight miles 
 off. It was on detachment duty, but there were always a good 
 many of the officers to be found about the mess-rooms. He 
 knew the regiment, and called upon his old friends. So, at least, 
 companionship was attained, at the cost of perpetual dinners at 
 Fontainebleau — which mattered little, for Philip liked hospi- 
 tality. But the th was a fast regiment, and the young 
 
 fellows who went to Fontainebleau were the fastest ; and the
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 33^ 
 
 old " pace " began again, with cards, brandy and soda, and lute 
 hours. 
 
 The first event of importance, as the histories say, was a 
 special humiliation. The estate adjoining his own belonged to a 
 sertain old French gentleman who held strong views on the 
 subject of the mixed races. He had been a friend of Mr. 
 Durufurd pk'e, but he abstained from calling upon his son, 
 Kow he gave, once a year, a great hunting party, lasting a 
 week, to which all the island was invited — the Governor, the 
 merchants, the officers, everybody who had the least claim to 
 call himself some one. Philip was his next neighbour. But 
 he did not invite him. Then his guests began to talk about 
 putting up at Fontainebleau during the chase, and it Avas awk- 
 Avard to have to say that you Avere not invited. 
 
 The time drew near. Philip Avas riding with one of his 
 guests in the evening. They passed the house of M. de Geoffroi, 
 who Avas sitting in his verandah. 
 
 " Aha !" cried Philip's companion. " Let us ride in, and call on 
 , the old boy. You'll d© the talking, you knoAV. I can't speak 
 French." 
 
 Philip assented, and in a fcAV moments was introduced to a 
 Avhite-headed old gentleman, Avho saluted liim coldly. 
 
 " I had the honour of knoAving Captain Durnford Avell," he said. 
 
 " I remember you Avell, M. de Geofi;roi. You were often at 
 Fontainebleau when I was a boy." 
 
 " I was. And your brother, M. Durnford? He is married, I 
 hear, to Mdlle. de Villeroy." 
 
 " He is engaged, at least." 
 
 " Yes, It Avas once the Avish of both parents that the estates 
 should pass into the same hands." 
 
 Philip reddened. 
 
 " That, at least, cannot be, because the estate has now passed 
 into my hands." 
 
 "So I have been informed." 
 
 Then they talked about Aveather, and so forth ; and presently, 
 Avhen they Avent aAvay, M. de Geoffroi offered his hand to the 
 other, and merely bowed to Philip. 
 
 " Must have set the old man's back up, Durnford. What did 
 you say to him ?" 
 
 But Philip did not answer; being, in fact, in a temper the re- 
 verse of amiable. 
 
 The hunting psrty came off, and Philip sat at homo with
 
 336 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 troubled lioart. The parly was nothing, but the reason — the 
 rcamn for liis exchision from it. Then he gave a great party of 
 his own, asking all tlie Euglishmeu, who caiue, and as many 
 Frenchmen as he thought would come. It was purely out of 
 revenge ; but it seemed to affect M. de Geoffroi very little. 
 
 One more event happened to him ; and then he shut himself 
 up altogether at Fontainebleau. 
 
 There came the cold season, and the time for balls and 
 dances. Of course, Philip got an invitation to the great ball of 
 the year, at Government House, at which the Governor appears in 
 uniform — a gorgeous suit, similar to that of a Lord Lieutenant ; 
 while the members of the Legislative Council wear wonderful 
 coats, with gold lace in a sort of cushion just where the tails 
 begin, too high up for use, except in a second-class railway car- 
 riage, where it might protect the small of the back. Then the 
 heads, and the sub-heads, and even the tails of departments ap- 
 pear in wonderful and strange costumes, the effect of which at 
 first, on the civilian of plain clothes, is simply bewildering, and 
 even appalling. Of course there are also the scarlet coats of the 
 officers. And on the whole, a Colonial State Ball is as pretty 
 a sight — with the ladies all in their very finest and best — as one 
 can generally see. 
 
 Why do we sneer at the universal desire to put on a uniform ? 
 
 I have never worn any, not even as a volunteer private, but I 
 can sympathise with it. I like to see a man in all his bravery. 
 I think there is no more admirable and edifying spectacle than 
 that of the ordinary Briton in some strange and Avonderful 
 costume, put on about once a year. He wears it with such a 
 lordly air, as one who should say, "This is nothing to what I 
 could look if I had on what I deserved." Then his wife admires 
 him, and his daughters. And more than that, all the black- 
 coated civilians who sneer at him env)'' him. The last is a very 
 great point. 
 
 Philip, being an ex-commissioned officer, was above uniforms, 
 it may be presumed. But he was not above admiration for the 
 uniforms of the other sex. The women of Palmiste, pale and 
 colourless perhaps, are yet above the generality of women, 
 gracieuses. They become their uniforms. They dance with a 
 passion and an abandon which is unknown in colder regions. 
 It is their one great accomplishment ; and the young fellow 
 fresh from London rooms looks on with astonishment at the 
 lightning rapidity with which the smoothly polished floors are
 
 MY LITTLE GlkL. 337 
 
 covered. Very soou he falls in with it, too, if he be of a sympa- 
 thetic mind. 
 
 Philip, long exiled from ladies' society, enjoyed it hugely ; 
 danced everything, always with English ladies ; devoured a 
 splendid supper ; took plenty of champagne. Then, as bad luck 
 would have it, after supper one of his friends introduced him to 
 the lady he had been dancing with, a liberty quite unpardonable 
 by all the rules, Philip asked for the next waltz. The girl 
 turned red, and, after a moment's hesitation, acceded, and put 
 her arm in his. Her brother, who was standing by with frown- 
 ing forehead, stepped forward at once. 
 
 " Pardon me, monsieur," he said. ** My sister does not dance 
 any more this evening." 
 
 The young lady took her brother's arm, and walked away. 
 
 The next moment he saw her whirled round in the arms of an 
 Englishman. 
 
 All the blood rushed to his head, and he staggered with the 
 rage which nearly stifled him. For he hitw the, reason. 
 
 He stepped across the room to where the young Frenchman 
 was standing, and touched him on the arm. 
 
 " Will you give me a moment's conversation outside V 
 
 The young fellow hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged 
 his shouldera 
 
 " As you will," he said. 
 
 They stepped down the stairs, and into the garden. No one 
 was there but themselves. 
 
 " May I ask the reason of your refusal to let your sister dance 
 with me just now V 
 
 The Frenchman hesitated. Philip repeated the question. 
 
 " Really, monsieur," said the young fellow, " it seems absurd 
 to put such a question. Can we not leave it unanswered ?" 
 
 " No. I demand an answer, and the true one. I am publicly 
 insulted. I insist on an explanation." 
 
 ** Suppose 1 have none to give you." 
 
 " I will have one." 
 
 " You shall not have one," returned the other, quietly. 
 
 Philip lost command of himself, twisted his hand in the other's 
 collar, and threw him heavily to the ground. 
 
 *' Will you give me one now V 
 
 " Mulatto, I will give you none," hissed out his enemy, lying 
 on the ground. 
 
 22
 
 338 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Philip left liim there. Going back to the ball-room, he found 
 young Freshley, of the th. 
 
 " Come with me for -a moment," he whispered. 
 
 They Avent outside. In the garden was the young French- 
 man, trying to repair the damage done to his necktie and collar. 
 
 " There has been a row," said Philip. " You know this man, 
 perhaps % I have knocked him down." 
 
 " I know Mr. Freshley," said the Frenchman. 
 
 "Be my friend, Freshley. Iwill wait for you in your quarters." 
 
 Philip went away to barracks, leaving the two together. 
 
 " What is it, D'Auray V 
 
 " I called him a mulatto. Eh, bien : it is true, at any 
 rate. Then he put his hand to my collar, and I fell over his foot." 
 
 '* Doesn't seem manners to tell a man a thing he isn't proud 
 of, does it T 
 
 " What business has he among ladies ]" 
 
 " I didn't invite him, so I can hardly say. But you had 
 better ask the aide-de-camp. Look here, old fellow, this is a 
 bad business. Don't let us have any public shindj^ Give me 
 the name of a man, and I will try to make things square." 
 
 " I put myself in the hands of my cousin. You will find him 
 in the ball-room." 
 
 Duelling has gone out of fashion in England, but it still 
 lingers in one or two of her Majesty's colonies, where, although 
 they have the institution of a jury, the sympathies of the jury 
 are sure to be \vith the combatants. Here there would surely 
 be fighting, thought Freshley, beginning to wish he had nothing 
 to do with the business, in case of the thing ending seriously. 
 He found the cousin, and put the case to him. 
 
 " I'm going home now to barracks. Find me there early to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 He went home, and discovered Philip walking up and down 
 in a wild state of excitement. 
 
 " I will kill him, Freshley. By Heaven, I will kill him." 
 
 '' You've knocked him down, anyhow. Now go to bed, old 
 fellow — it's past two o'clock. The cousin is coming to-morrow, 
 and we shall have an apology or a challenge. If the latter — why, 
 then, I suppose we must fight." 
 
 " Fight? Of course Iwill fight. I tell you, I mean to killhim." 
 
 *' Deuced easy to pack a jury if he kills you, Philip. Don't 
 quite see my way to packing one if you kill him." 
 
 " Bah ! you don't know the country. Any lawyer %yiil do it 
 for you."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 339 
 
 They went to bed, but not to sleep ; and at five o'clock Fresh- 
 ley saw Philip outside, walking up and do\yn, clenching his 
 fists, in the moonlight. So, with a sigh, he got up too, and, 
 half dressing, went out and joined him. Day broke at six, and 
 then they had coffee and a cigar. 
 
 At half past six the cousin was seen coming to the barracks. 
 
 " It's manners for me to receive him alone, I suppose," said 
 Freshley. "Let's look as if we had done it fifty times before. 
 Hang it, I feel like an Irishman out of one of Lever's novels. 
 You go in, Phil. — "Well, M. D'Auray, and when do we fight ?" 
 
 " I think, Mr. Preshley, that — well, you see, it's an awkward 
 business. I hardly see my way to a fight." 
 
 *' Oh, very well. For my own part, I'm very glad. My man 
 is insulted. That you will acknowledge. Your man is knocked 
 down. That there is no getting over, is there? So you won't 
 fight ! I'm sure I'm not displeased ; because, after all, yours is 
 the most injured side, I should say. Matter of taste — never been 
 knocked down myself. "Why can't we fight V 
 
 ^' "Well, your principal — I am not in the least wishing to insult 
 or ofi"end you." 
 
 " You forget that Mr. Durnford has had the honour of bear- 
 ing her Majesty's commission." 
 
 " Not at all. That was considered. I laid the case before 
 several of my friends. "We all agreed that if he were still an 
 officer in the British array, to refuse a duel would be to insult 
 the English flag. But he is no longer an officer, and we cannot 
 fight him." 
 
 Freshley whistled. 
 
 " Oh, very good, I'm sure. The knocking down is on your 
 side, as I remarked before. Have a pick-me-up this Sne morn- 
 ing, M. D'Auray — a brandy and soda ?" 
 
 " JSTothing, thank you. I have the honour to wish you a 
 good morning." 
 
 *' Good morning, M. D'Auray. Perhaps your cousin would 
 like a pick-me-up." 
 
 But M. D'Auray did not appreciate the joke, being un- 
 acquainted with the niceties of the English language. 
 
 " iJfow, that's devilish smart and good," said the lieutenant^ 
 left alone. " Phil, my boy, come out. They won't fight." 
 
 " "Why not V 
 
 " Don't know. Can't say. Wasn't told. Funk, I expect. 
 I say, Phil, I asked Lim if his cousin wanted a pickmc-up thia 
 
 22—2
 
 340 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 innriiing. Devilish good remark, eh ] I don't know when I 
 said aiiytliing sharper. He'll Hnd out what I meant by-and-bye. 
 Look it up in the dictionary, I suspect. Well, old boy, I'm glad 
 we're out of it. I didn't hke it at the first. And, between our- 
 selves, I couldn't aftord to lose my commission just now. Pretty 
 fools we should look, the brace of us, in a dock, with the beak 
 pounding away at us, saying it was the worst case he had ever 
 known in the whole course of his professional career — eh % And 
 then, perhaps, chokee for six months, and a court-martial after- 
 wards. Upon my word, I'm delighted. And now I think I 
 shall have another nap." 
 
 But that was Philip's last appearance in public. Henceforth 
 his days are few and troubled, and they are spent Avholly on his 
 own estate at Fontainebleau. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the quiet house at Eegent's Park, the two women 
 waited — some women seem to have nothing to do except to wait. 
 K^o change came to them. All they knew — and this through 
 Arthur's lawyer — was that Philip had arrived in Palmiste, and 
 was residing on the estate. Nothing more. As for Laura, hei 
 suffering was over. 
 
 Only she was subdued. Time, and the atmosphere of love with 
 which they surrounded her, had cured her. 
 
 " You love him still, child, do you not?" asked Marie. 
 
 " I Avill tell you, as truthfully as I can, everything," said 
 Lollie. " You cannot tell — it is impossible for any one to know 
 — how ignorant and foolish I was a year ago. When Mr. Venn 
 said he should like to see me married to a gentleman, I under- 
 stood nothing — nothing of what he meant. Then I met Philip, 
 and he asked me to marry him. Mamma, I declare that I ac- 
 cepted him only to please j\Ir. Venn — for no other reason what- 
 ever. Then he .«aid I was cold, and wanted me to say 1 loved 
 him. Of course I could not say so, because 1 did not, then. 
 Afterwards, we were married, and we went abroad, and he was 
 kind. I think I began to love him then. But now I always 
 think of the last time I saw him, when he asked my forgivo 
 ness, and looked sorry. And since then I have loved him better 
 than ever before. Poor Philip ! Perhaps if I had been fitted 
 lor him he would have been a better man."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 341 
 
 "I think of him always, my daughter," said T-hilip's mother. 
 " I lie awake and think of him. They took liim away from me 
 when he was only one year old. I have seen him, since then^ 
 only twice in my life. Once he refused to own me, and once he 
 refused to speak to nie. But what woman can forget the httle 
 hands that curl round her neck — of her own child ? Philip is 
 iny t-ou, LoUie ; and a mother's love is better than a wife's." 
 
 " I wish I luved him more, mamma, for your sake," said Lollie, 
 caressing her. 
 
 " Nay, dear. You are the sweetest and best of daughters. 
 My life, now its great hope has failed, would be sad indeed, and 
 lonely, if it were not for you. And we must praj^ dear, more 
 and more, for his return to us. I know that he will one day lay 
 his head in my arms, and kiss me himself. Don't ask me how 
 I know it. I am certain. Only I cannot see all the future, and 
 there seems a cloud Avhicli I cannot pierce. Somehow, you are 
 not with me, child." 
 
 She often talked like this, pouring out what still haunted her 
 of the old negro superstitions. 
 
 " I know where he is now, at this moment," she murmured, 
 half closing her eyes. " It is morning with us, but afternoon 
 with him. He is ridin" alone along the road. The canes are 
 waving each side of him. His face is clouded and angry. He 
 is not thinking of us, Lollie. Alas — alas ! he only thinks of 
 himself. The time is not yet come." 
 
 Lollie grasped her hand, and cried out. Marie started, and 
 lookeil round her. 
 
 " Kiss me, my daughter. I was far away in Palmiste with 
 my son, our Philip." 
 
 Their only visitors were Hartley Venn and bis sister, Arthur 
 and Madeleine; and they went nowhere, f-r.xpt sometimes to 
 the opera, which was a necessary luxury to the singer, 
 
 " You have changed Lollie altogether, madame," said Hartley, 
 looking at his little giil. 
 
 "How am I changed, Mr. Venn]" asked Laura. 
 
 " That is what I am trying to find out. You look thinner 
 than you were ; but it is not that. You are no taller; so it is 
 not that. I give it up, Lollie." 
 
 JNIarie could have told him. The girl had been, for the first 
 time in her life, living among ladies, and was now a lady herself 
 — such as all the arts of Hartley Venn could not /a?luon or pro- 
 duce.
 
 342 MY LITT'LE GIRL. 
 
 " It is only you, Mr. Venn," said Madeleine, " wlio neve* 
 change. Oh, that I could tie ropes round you, and drag you away 
 from your chambers, and make you work." 
 
 " He does work, Madeleine. Ho really works very hard," 
 said Lollie. 
 
 " Part of your wish has been already anticipated, Miss do 
 Villeroy ; for I have met with a grave misfortune." 
 
 " What is it T they cried. 
 
 " I have received notice to quit my chambers at the end of 
 the year." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Lollie, " the dear old chambers." 
 
 " I shall not have the heart to find out new chambers, and so 
 I shall go and live in lodgings. It is sad, after so many years 
 of occupation. I had hoped that my life would be finished 
 there." 
 
 " Indeed," said Madeleine, "I think it a very good thing. 
 You men get into a habit of doing nothing, going nowhere, and 
 living three or four in a set, which seems to me destructive of 
 everything. Go into the world and work, Mr. Venn." 
 
 " Eeall}^ Miss de Villeroy, you carry about so deep an air of 
 resolution and activity that you shame us all. I will go into the 
 world and work. What shall I do 1" 
 
 This Avas easier to ask than to answer. Besides, Madeleine 
 was at this time intently occupied in considering Arthur's future. 
 He, too, professed a willingness to go into the world and work. 
 But what work 1 Here was a tall, strong man to be thrown on 
 her hands for life, and what was she to find for him % Arthur 
 said he would work, but he never made the least effort to find 
 work, and went on burying himself in his books, while Made- 
 leine fretted about his useless life. 
 
 " Marry me at once, Madeleine," he said, " and I will be your 
 secretary. Will that do T 
 
 " I don't want a secretary," she said. 
 
 But she consented to marry him at once, which was all he 
 wanted. 
 
 This was in February. The wedding was quiet enough, for 
 they were a comparatively friendless pair. Mrs. Long worthy 
 was there ; and in the church, as spectators, Marie and Laura. 
 I\Iadeleine invited them to the breakfast ; but this was against 
 jMarie's rules, and Laura would not go without her. 
 
 When tht- ;• ...?.mc back, after a month in Paris, the old life 
 went on juit as before, Mrs. Longworthy lived on with them.
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 343 
 
 being one of those old ladies whom it is pleasant to have in the 
 house. Arthur had his study, where Madeleine repaired some- 
 times in the evening, for those little talks and confidential 
 ivhisperings which even the most queenly of women are not 
 above liking. But all became as it was before, and the house at 
 Regent's Park was still a favourite place to spend an evening. 
 
 " I like it, Arthur," said ]\radeleine. " It is all so different 
 from what you get anywhere else. I like Madame de Guyon, 
 poor woman, and the noble way she bears her misfortunes. I 
 like Lollie, with her innocent dependence upon Mr. Venn. And 
 I like that lazy, good-for-nothing Bohemian, who is everybody's 
 friend except his own. They are quaint, delightful people. I 
 suppose the world would object, if the world kne\\' all. But 
 then the world knows nothing. And as for poor little Lollie, 
 our sister-in-law, no one could j)ossibly blame her." 
 
 " Surely not. If ever there was an act — " 
 
 " Xo, Arthur. Do not put yourself into a rage about what 
 has been clone, and cannot be helped. After all, it was mostly 
 Mr. Venn's fault. Did ever man devise a more absurd trainin" 
 for a girl T 
 
 Came again the spring, and with it the little excursions that 
 Venn was so fond of. But they were not quite the same. The 
 relations between himself and Lollie were altered, somehow. 
 He could no longer kiss her in the old paternal way. Some- 
 times, as he thought of her, he ground his teeth, and cursed. 
 But ever with her, his voice Avas soft and kind. He was always 
 thoughtful and anxious about her. She was still, as before all 
 this, his little girl. 
 
 Marie grew to love him as if he had been her own son ^ 
 scolded him for his laziness almost as soundly as Madeleine ; 
 went to his chambers, and brought away great stores of linen, 
 which she and Lollie amused themselves by setting in order for 
 him ; made him read her some of his numerous Opuscula, and 
 criticised them in a way which astonished him ; and gave him 
 hints and suggestions which opened out vistas of innumerablo 
 other literary efforts, so that he formed as many projects as 
 Coleridge. 
 
 The spring grew into summer. And then a cliange was to 
 happen. For one morning the Palmiste mail camo in, and 
 Arthur received a letter from his lawyer. 
 
 "Your half-brother," he said, "is going on, I fear, as badly 
 as possible. It is my duty — or, rather, T make it my ollicioua
 
 344 ^fy LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 duty— to tell you that his only companions are the most dissi- 
 pateii young Englishmen of the colony — officers chiefly. At 
 Fontainebleau there are reported to be nightly scenes of drink 
 and play, which Avili most certainly end in disaster, if not to 
 fortune, then to health. In this climate, as you know, one has 
 to exercise some discretion. Poor Philip* has none. I liked 
 him at first. He landed here fresh and bright, as if he had 
 never touched a bottle of brandy. But that is four months ago, 
 and his face is now bloated with drink and late hours. If you 
 have any influence over him, write and expostulate. If you, or 
 any friend, could only come out here, all might be well. Philip 
 is open to any influence. He can resist no temptation. He is leil 
 away by every voice that he hears. Eut he is kind-hearted. 
 In an evil hour he insulted little Violet, his manager, whom you 
 remember as a boy. Xo better or more honest man ever lived. 
 Violet was obliged to resign. Since he went away, Philip has 
 been secretly sending him money to keep him going. I sup- 
 pose, out of a desire to make atonement. But the estate is going 
 to the dogs. In a few months the hot season will be upon us 
 again, Avhen these excesses will tell more than they do now. I 
 may say that he always speaks of you in terms of the highest 
 respect. He told me, Avhat I did not know before, that the 
 estate is only his own because you refused to fight the case. I 
 think that you might, at least, Avrite to him." 
 
 And so on, all in the same strain. 
 
 Arthur showed the letter to his wife. 
 
 " What shall we do ]" 
 
 " You must write to him. Say nothing of the past, except 
 what is kind. I will write, too. You will remember that he 
 did once do what I asked him." 
 
 " I know — that was because he loved you." 
 
 " He did not really love me. He fancied he did. Tlie only 
 woman he ever really loved was Lollie. I am sure of it, from the 
 way he spoke of her, the bitterness with which he remembered 
 the poor girl's look when he cast her off." 
 
 " How can you be bitter against a woman you have ever 
 loved?" 
 
 " I knew you would say that. It is just what a man would bo 
 sure to say. The bitterness, great stupid, was in his own breast; 
 and he thought he felt bitter towards her. Suppose you are 
 bilious. It is not a romantic comparison, but it will do. You 
 eee everylhing yellow. That is how Phihp saw things. His
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 345 
 
 real nature was turned inside out. I told you, months ago, 
 that his mind was like your old garden, all oyerrun with pump- 
 kins." 
 
 " What a silly, unreasonable creature he is ! "Why does he 
 hide liis liead in a bush, like an ostricli % He is ashamed of his 
 mother — lie knows, my dear Arthur, that all the stupid story of 
 the marriage is a forgery. I saw the look he gave her in the 
 church. There was longing and repentance in it, as well as 
 shame. He is stupidly ashamed that his mother is a great 
 singer, as well as that she is coloured. And what a woman is 
 he ashamed of ! Is there one woman in all the world more 
 charitable, more large-hearted, less selfish than poor Marie ? 
 Ashamed of her? He ought to be proud of her, and to thank 
 God, who gave him such a mother." 
 
 Arthur moved his hand. 
 
 " And, oh, Arthur, he is more, ten thousand times more 
 ashamed of himself and his treatment of Laura. I believe that 
 is the secret of all his sins. He wanted at first to make money 
 by gambling, for her. But gambling is a hard master to serve. 
 And then — and then — oh ! my poor Phil, what a melancholy 
 ending it all is !" 
 
 " It is not ended yet." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " You do not know," she said, " but I know ; because he 
 sent me a letter before he went away, and his landlady brought 
 it. He used to wander about at night, to drink all day. He 
 saw no one. He used to lie on the sofa, with his head iu his 
 hands, and groan. He used to see things that do not exist in 
 the daytime. He knew he was dishonoured, poor fellow ; and 
 he tried, like a weak creature as he is, to drown it all in 
 drink." 
 
 " I blame myself, Madeleine. I should have gone to him, in 
 the old way, and said what I could to help him. Poor Phil is 
 good at heart." 
 
 " Good at heart ! What is the good of that % Everybody is 
 good at heart. I want men to be strong of will. Women only 
 love strong men." 
 
 " Then why do you love mo, Madeleine ?" 
 
 " I don't know, Arthur," she said, smiling. " You kno\7 
 that I love you, dear — do you not % — with all the strength of 
 my nature. But then you are strong in all good things. I 
 believe in your nobleness, dear. God knows, if man and wife
 
 346 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 cease to believe in that, there can be nothing left Let 
 
 us go and see madame." 
 
 They got there in time for Innclieon. Venn was lying lazily 
 on the sofa. He did not get np as they came in ; but held out 
 his hand, smiling. 
 
 " You come like a breath of the most invigorating breeze, 
 Mrs. Duruford. Do not reproach mo. I am hard at work, 
 trying to make out, with Lollie here, what it is I am to work 
 at." 
 
 " I tell him he ought to practise at the Bar," said Lollie. 
 
 " So I would, but for two things. I know no solicitors, and 
 I know no law. Bless you, if I had a brief I should be obliged 
 to put it inco a drawer for a couple of years while I read law. 
 Xo. Think of sometliing else." 
 
 " What do rich men do T asked Marie. " They seem always 
 at work." 
 
 " They become directors. Then they make speeches. They 
 take chairs. They do all sorts of things for nothing, which 
 poor men get paid for. They even write for the magazines, 
 confound them !" 
 
 " Write a novel," said Madeleine. 
 
 " Eh T cried Venn, starting up. " JSTow, that is a practical 
 suggestion. Lollie, do you remember the novel we wrote to- 
 gether, and buried close above Teddington Lock ? That was 
 real work, if you like. Oh, if we had not buried that novel !" 
 
 " Let us go and fish for it," cried Lollie, laughing. 
 
 " We will. We will go at once. Mrs. Durnford, you will 
 come too. We will go this afternoon. The sun shines. The 
 bluebottle' buzzes. The lilac is in blossom. The lark will be 
 singing. The laburnum is golden. Lollipops, put on your 
 hat — your summer hat, with the brightest feather in it. Wo 
 will have a glorious day." 
 
 Madeleine made a sign to Marie. 
 
 " You three go," she said. " Madeleine will stay with ms, 
 and you shall have a late dinner at nine. Go away, all of you, 
 and leave us two to make ourselves miserable together." 
 
 " What is it, dear V she asked. 
 
 For all answer, Madeleine gave her the lawyer's letter. 
 
 Marie read it, and the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " What are we to do ?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 ** I knew it was coming. I have had presentiments. I havo
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 347 
 
 had dreams. I dreamed that I saw my brother Adolphe — poor 
 Adolphe, I wonder if he is living yet — putting a gri-gri 
 under Philip's head. That is to produce disaster, you know. 
 Every night my thoughts carry me back to Fontaiuebleau. 
 George Durnford speaks to me in visions. And every night I 
 see Philip's face averted. My dear, since I saw him, I have 
 felt myself en rapport with him. You may laugh as you will ; 
 but as he suffers, I suffer. When he is wretched, lonely, re- 
 pentant — I am sad. I hide it from that poor child, who does 
 not know what such love means, and thinks she loves Philip 
 because she pities him. And as I look forward, I see nothing 
 but clouds and blackness. A great disaster is before me — that 
 is, before Philip. Day by day, the yearning has become stronger 
 in me to go out and try to save my boy. If I go, I may find 
 him in the midst of his companions, drunken and dissolute. He 
 may drive me away with hard words. He may — But he will 
 not, he will not, Madeleine. I feel that the hour of reconcilia- 
 tion is drawing near. I shall see my boy. I shall feel his cheek 
 to mine. I shall be able to put my arms round his neck, and 
 kiss him. Oh, child, child ! if ever God gives you a son, pray 
 — pray — pray that you may not suffer what I am suffering now." 
 
 She was silent for awhile, struggling with her emotion. 
 
 " Do you think that God is punishing me ? I cannot think 
 that. I have learned long since my sin, and been forgiven. Of 
 that I am as sure as if a voice from Heaven had pronounced my 
 pardon. I know it from my own heart. My Father has forgiven 
 the sin of an ignorant childhood. It cannot be that. Then 
 what is it % — what is it ? I lived but for him. All those years 
 when I toiled in Italy, trying to improve the defects of my 
 education, all those years Avhen I sang upon the stage — it was 
 all for Philip. I lived upon nothing — my money all went into 
 the bank for him. I waited for the day when I could say to 
 him — ' Son, son, take all I have, and be happy. Only kiss 
 your mother — if only it be once, and to let her go away.' I 
 never thought to be to him what most mothers are to their 
 children. I prayed only for a kind thought, a kind word. I 
 got none. And now, what are all my riches worth ? I have 
 no son." 
 
 *' You have Laura. You love her." 
 
 ** Yes — I am wicked. I forget, in my selfish passion. I love 
 this child, who loves me. There is no better girl in the Avorld 
 than my daughter. But, Madeleine, I want my own child — iriy
 
 348 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 very own : the baby that lay in my lap — ray own life's blood 
 — my tlai-ling, my gallant son ! Do not tell me that he has 
 folleu from his ideal. He sullVrs. and w^ould rise again if he 
 could. Let me go to him. Let me try once more to gain his 
 love, all alone, by the verge of that great forest where I 
 wandered one night all alone, and saw visions of the future. 
 Did I ever tell you ? I went out, with the fir.st money I ever 
 earned at singing, by myself. I crept at night through the 
 woods. I found George Durnford weeping for his dead wife — 
 not me, dear Madeleine. I was bitter and cruel. Then I saw 
 poor Adrienne, white, pale, and imploring, before me, and I was 
 softened. I saw the children. Arthur clung to me and kissed 
 me, in his pretty way. My own boy, my Phil, turned his face 
 away and cried. It was an omen, and my heart fell. I left 
 George Durnford, and went back as I had come, tlirough the 
 forest. All the night, as I walked along in the black darkness, 
 I heard voices saying to me that there should be no happiness 
 for me — nothing but bitterness, disappointment, and misery." 
 
 " But you have found ha})piuess, dear Madame de Guyon," 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but not the happiness I wanted. There is nothing 
 that I desire but the love of my sou — nothing but to hear him 
 say that he is sorry for the words he spoke. 
 
 " Play to me, dear. Soothe me with music, for my spirit is 
 troubled." 
 
 Madeleine played, while IMarie walked up and down, with 
 fingers interlaced, trying to recover from her agitation. 
 
 Presently she sat down close to the piano. 
 
 " Don't leave of!', my dear. It soothes me as nothing else 
 can. I am determined what to do. I will go out by the next 
 mail. That starts in a few days, and I shall pack to-morrow — 
 take my ticket, and go." 
 
 As she spoke, a wailing was heard from the next house in the 
 street, of a child. She shrank back with a w'hite face, 
 
 " That is the worst sign you can hear," 
 
 " Do not be superstitious," said Madeleine. " If you had 
 heard the child cry at any other time you would have 
 laughed." 
 
 " At any other time — yes. That I am superstitious is true, 
 my dear. I can never shake it off. Call it what you please, 
 weakness, prejudice. I was made superstitious when I was a 
 child, and the old fears cling to me like — like the colour of my 
 birth."
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 349 
 
 They spent the day making preparations. There were not 
 many wauted, for j\Iaiie was a woman whom stage experience 
 had tauiht to be profuse in dress. 
 
 " Lollie will go and live with Miss Venn," she said. " Yes, 
 dear, I know what you were going to offer, and it is very kind 
 of you ; but it is better for the present that she should not go 
 into society. I do not want her to feel things," 
 
 " She would not feel anything. She is quite convinced that 
 she was pcoperly married at first." 
 
 " It is not only that. People might ask who Mr. Philip 
 Durnford was, and — and — oh ! Madeleine, do you not see that 
 I am right T 
 
 " You are always right, dear madanie." 
 
 In the evening the party came back — Venn, at least, happy. 
 They had been fishing for the novel, and fiiiled to find it. Lollie 
 had caught a gudgeon, Arthur had caught nothing. And so on, 
 childishly happy, as they always were when Venn was with 
 them — the man who never lost his delight in childish things. 
 
 And so, after their late dinner, Venn thought it was time to 
 
 go- 
 
 " Stay a moment, dear ISIr. Venn," said Marie. " I have 
 something to say. Will Miss Venn take our child for a little 
 while T 
 
 *' Mamma !" cried Lollie. 
 
 " Yes, dear. AVe have had a letter from Palmiste. I am 
 going out." 
 
 Laura turned white. 
 
 *' And I so happy to-day. It is wicked. Is he ill? Tell me." 
 
 " We will tell you everything, dear," said i\Iadeleine. "Philip 
 is not well, and the news is not good." 
 
 Laura gave a great gasp. 
 
 " An.l I shall go, too— shall I not, Mr. Venn? Who ought 
 to be rt'ith a man who is ill but his wife ?" 
 
 They looked at each other, and were silent. 
 
 Venn spoke first. 
 
 " Lollie, dear, let me talk to you alone for a moment." 
 
 He took her into another room. 
 
 " Would you like to go, my dear?" he said, folding her in hia 
 arms in the old fashion, while her head leant upon his shoulder. 
 " "Would you like to go ? Eemember ali ilo has treated you 
 cruelly — " 
 
 "liut he asked my forgiveness."
 
 3 so MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " And he said himself that you had better be away from him 
 for a while. My dear, your husband is not a good man. He 
 has done bad things. When he comes back, with his mother, 
 and asks to be taken into your arms again, I sliall not be one to 
 refuse him forgiveness. But he does not ask for you or his 
 mother either. If liumiliation is to fall on the one who goes 
 out to him, do not let it be you." 
 
 " He will think I have forgotten him. As if I ever could 
 forget him," she pleaded, 
 
 "Do you love him, Lollie?" 
 
 " Always the same question. I love him as I always did, no 
 more and no less. But he is my husband." 
 
 Venn choked a spasm of intense jealousy. 
 
 " Love him still, dear. Love your husband. But you must 
 not go to him. Will you be guided by me V 
 
 " I am always guided by you. Whoever else have I in the 
 ■world f she said, simply. " As if I did not love you better than 
 all the world." 
 
 " My dear little girl," he whispered, because his voice choked 
 • — " ever my dear little girl, are you not? ISTothing can part us. 
 Nothing shall sever the love we have for each other. But you 
 will stay with Sukey, while madame goes out and tries to recover 
 her son for all of us." 
 
 He went back to the others, leaving Lollie there. 
 
 Then they arranged things ; and next day he went to see 
 Sukey, telling her only that Madame de Guy on had business in 
 Palmiste, her native place. For there was sad deceit and hiding 
 of the truth necessary, and only the little circle themselves knew 
 all the history that bound them together with ties so sacred and 
 60 sad. 
 
 The day she went away, Marie sought Hartley Venn alone. 
 
 ** I know," she said, "that evil will come to me. I feel it like 
 the cold wind before the rain. But good will come, too. See, 
 now, dear Mr. Venn, there is but one thing I have to say. You 
 will find at my lawyer's, in case — in case I never come back — 
 my will. To whom should I leave my money but to my Philip's 
 wife V 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIV. 
 
 "Wearied in body and mind, Marie landed at the old familiar 
 wharf at Port St. Denys. Pive and twenty years since last she
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 351 
 
 stood there, filled with the bitterness of regret, a^d yet the confi- 
 dence of youthful hope. She recalled now the moment when, 
 standing on the deck, she marked the mountains growing fainter 
 and darker as the sun set, plunging them in a bath of light and 
 colour, till night came on, and they disappeared. I^ow she stood 
 once more on the wharf, and marked the old things little changed. 
 The half-naked Indians rolled the sugar-bags about, and piled 
 them in great heaps, with their shrill cries and wild laugliter, 
 just as she remembered to have watched them as a child. Under 
 the trees on the Place sat the same old men — or they seemed to 
 be the same — who had always sat there, talking and squabbling 
 over the little politics of the day. Among the talkers under the 
 trees, rolled and played the little naked mulatto and Indian 
 children, as they had always done ; and in long line stood tho 
 carriages waiting to be hired, as they had stood a quarter of a 
 century since, ifothing was changed ; and for a moment the 
 years rolled back, and all her youth flashed again before her, 
 with its happiness, such as it was, and its regrets. Only for a 
 moment. One of the ship's officers, seeing her standing alone, 
 proffered his assistance, and ilarie woke to a sense of the dismal 
 errand on which she had come. 
 
 " I have got your boxes on shore, Madame de Guyon," he 
 eaid ; " what shall I do with them next ? You had better let 
 me get you a carriage. Have you no friends waiting for you T 
 
 " Xo," said Marie. " I am going into the country. It is a 
 long drive. Will you kindly see that the man has good horses? 
 I am going quite to the other side of the island." 
 
 " You are surely not going alone, ]\Iadame de Guyon?" 
 '* ^ot alone ! Why not % Oh, I have never told you tliat I 
 was here as a girl. I know every road in the place, I believe. 
 Thank you, Mr. Hatton, for your kindness. If you will only, 
 now, get me a carriage." 
 
 Presently came rattling up a long, low carriage, with a pair of 
 screws that looked like anything in the world except going a 
 long journey. 
 
 Marie said something to the oficer, who spoke to the driver. 
 He Avas a mulatto, approaching very nearly to the negro type, 
 with woolly head, and face almost black. lie was apparently 
 about fifty, and was accompanied by a little boy, clothed chiefly 
 in a ragged straw hat, half a jacket, and say a quarter of a pair 
 of cotton trousers. He answered the officer's objections, laugh- 
 ing and protesting in a patois that made Marie's heart leap within
 
 352 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Lev, for it was the patois that she had first learned to speak. 
 She understood it all, after these long years : the intonation of 
 the voice, the gestures which eked out the imperfections of the 
 language, tlie rough, rude inflexions of the barbaric tongue ; and 
 she asked herself whether, in the far past, she herself could 
 have been as these naked children rolling in the dust, could have 
 talked this jargon, could have been sucli as her driver. Getting 
 into the carriage, however, she explained to him that she was to 
 go to the estate of Fontaincbleau. 
 
 " How, madame 1" said the man. " !N"o one lives at Fontaine- 
 bleau since Mr. Durnford died." 
 
 " You know the place, then ]" 
 
 " I was born there, madame. My parents lived close by." 
 He called them his " papa and mamma," this grizzly mulatto. 
 
 " But Mr. Philip Durnford lives there now." 
 
 « Madame wants to see Mr. Philip 1 Oh !" 
 
 He jumped upon his box, called the boy, whipped up his 
 horses, and went swinging down the street at full galop. The 
 boy kept prattling to him, but he made no answer. AVhen 
 they had gone some three or four miles, taking advantage of a 
 hill, he turned round, and poking his head into the carriage, he 
 remarked, in a tone as if he were conveying information — 
 
 " Madame is going to see Mr. Philip Durnford." 
 
 Some five or six miles farther on, he put his head in again — 
 
 " Does madame know Mr. Philip?" 
 
 Marie said she had seen him. 
 
 " A mauvais sujet, madame. Alphonse, take the reins. Do 
 not whip them, my child. I will tell you, madame. Ah ! 
 brigand, you want to repose already ] Up then. Alphonse, 
 take the whip to that vaurien." This was addressed chiefly to 
 his horses. Madame, I am about to tell you, Mr. Philip — why 
 do I say monsieur? — he is the son of old Mr. Durnford, who 
 died in the cholera, and the little ]\Iarie. Pah ! everybody 
 knows that." 
 
 Poor Marie ! 
 
 " Philip goes to England with j\[r. Arthur. There was a 
 young man, madame. Philip stays for seven, eight years. He 
 comes back without Mr. Arthur. He says the estate is his ; 
 and he lives there." 
 
 " Who was Marie 1" asked the poor mother. 
 
 " Marie ? I will tell you, madame. There was a young lady, 
 white as a lily, who lived in the great hou-e close by my father's
 
 Afr LITTLE GIRL. 353 
 
 hut. She was lonely, and had no one to play v.iili, and so they 
 took luy little sister, who was almost as fair as she was — " 
 
 " Your sister ! You are Adolphe T 
 
 " ^ladarue kno'T's my name ? See, madame." He produced 
 a sort of card, on which was printed a tariff of prices. It was 
 inscribed with the names in fall " Monsieur Adolphe Napoleon 
 Eohan de Montmorenci." This he read out with unction. 
 " How did madame know my name 1 My nephew, who went 
 to the great college, gave me the surnames ; for I must confess 
 to madame, who knows everytliing, that I was formerly plain 
 Adolphe. Alphonse, with all your force, flog that vieux scelerat 
 who will do no work." 
 
 The intelligent steed, hearing this, instantly quickened, and 
 Alphonse put back the whip. 
 
 " Yes, madame," he resumed, " Marie was as fair-cheeked as 
 ^lademoiselle Adrienne herself. Only mademoiselle had liglit 
 hair, and Marie black. Droll, was it not 1 I was as black as 
 Alphonse here, and so was my brother Alcide ; and Marie was 
 as white as a lady. Eh, the vieux papa used to laugh when he 
 looked at her. Only the priest said it was the will of God. 
 Well, mailame, Marie went to live with mademoiselle, and 
 stayed there till she was fifteen years old. Then she ran 
 away." 
 
 " Where did she go to 1" 
 
 " Oh, I know, because I saw her often enough. She lived 
 for a year in a little cottage close by "Slv. Durutord's house, in 
 
 the forest. There she had a baby, white as as " here 
 
 his eyes wandered to little Alphonse for a suitable simile, but, 
 not finding one in his brown face, he turned back to the car- 
 riage — "as white as madame herself?" 
 
 " Well r 
 
 " Well, madame, that baby is Philip himself. You could 
 hardly believe it, but it is so. And I who sit here am his uncle. 
 lla ! ha ! ha ! Alphonse is his cousin, llo 1 ho ! ho ! Bat 
 it's droll." 
 
 " And— and— your sister]" 
 
 "Mr. Durnford married ma'm'selle, and poor Marie went 
 away. She came back, though, and walked all the way to 
 Foiitainebleau through the forest — Alcide saw her — on the night 
 ^liidame Durnford was buried. Then she wont away again, and 
 no one has heard of her since. Poor Mario ! She was too good 
 for us, and the ton Dieu took her to heaven." 
 
 23
 
 354 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " Good? When she lived Avitli Mr. Durnford T 
 
 " Eh T said the black, " why not % Ah ! she was gontille, 
 You should have seen her, madame, go to church with her white 
 kid gloves, and her silk parasol, and a rosebud in her hair. All 
 the white folks stared at her. Poor Marie ! But the bon Dieu 
 has taken her, and her son is a vaurien. Alphonse, if the idler 
 does not go quicker, get down and kick him." 
 
 The idler instantly quickened, repentantly. 
 
 " He is a vaurien, I say, madame. He drinks in the morning, 
 he drinks all day, he drinks at ni^dit ; and he goes to bed — 
 saoul. No one goes to see him. He lives alone, he sees ghosts, 
 he laughs and cries. The servants run away. Last week one 
 ventured to sit up and watch him all night. He gets up, takes 
 a pistol, and — ping ! — if the boy had not ducked his head, like 
 this, he would have been killed. Alphonse, thou laughest % 
 Malin ! He is very dangerous, madame. And madame is going 
 to see him V 
 
 Presently they left the high road, and turned down a rudely- 
 made lane, cut through the forest. The still, quiet air recalled 
 all the old moments to Marie. She remembered when George 
 Durnford, her lover, made the road ; and here, before it was 
 finished, he would walk and talk with her in the evening, 
 telling her a thousand things she had never dreamed of, opening 
 up paths for her thoughts which she had never suspected, lifting 
 her above the petty things that she had been accustomed to feed 
 her mind with, and filling her mind with a happiness that Avas 
 all the sweeter as it was the newer and more unexpected. For- 
 getting her present miseries, an involuntary smile wreathed her 
 lips, and her eyes glowed again with the brightness of her youth, 
 as she thought of those days, all too brief, of love and tender- 
 ness. Do ever women repent of first love % I think not. The 
 man repents, thinking of the Avreck he has made of a woman's 
 happiness. She weeps, not for the folly and the sin, but for 
 the shattered image, the perished hopes, and the cruel punish- 
 ment. Guilt? "What guilt was there in the young mulatto 
 girl, who, knowing that she could never be aught but the white 
 man's mistress, yet ran willingly into his arms, and obeyed the 
 instincts of a passionate nature that knew no religion, and had 
 no sense of a higher duty % Thousands of times had poor Marie, 
 in the height of her popularity and fame, pondered over the 
 question ; and, against all the dogmas of creed, had acquitted 
 herself. And thousands of times, fi€sides« had she williugly
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 355 
 
 acquiesced in the results of the social necessity under which we 
 are aU slaves. 
 
 The road, winding through thick underwood, presently crossed 
 a rude wooden bridge over a smaU ravine. Marie made the 
 driver stop, and leaned out of the carriage, looking at a scene 
 ehe remembered so well. On the steep, damp sides, towering 
 above the tangled herbage, grew the tall tree ferns, each with 
 its circle of glory, clear cut against the blue of the sky ; along 
 the foot bubbled a little mountain stream over great boulders 
 that lay strewn about. Just above the bridge was a tiny water- 
 fall of some three or four feet, over which the water leaped 
 merrily, with as much fuss and splash as if it were a great 
 Niagara. And above the fall, huddled together and gazing -with 
 suspicious eyes on the carriage, stood a herd of twenty or thirty 
 soft-eyed deer. But not on them were iNIarie's eyes resting : 
 for half hidden within the trees stood the remains of an old 
 cottage, the thatch half torn off, and covered with creepers, the 
 door hanging by one hinge, the door-posts wrenched out by the 
 force of a growing tree, and the whole place presenting a dreary 
 look of desolation. Calling Adolphe, she pointed it out to him, 
 with a look of interrogation. 
 
 "It is the cottage of Marie, madame. That is where Mr. 
 Durnford put her when she left ma'm'selle. He thought no one 
 knew. But / knew, and many a time I've lain down there 
 watching Mr. Durnford coming to call her out. Every evening 
 he used to come, and all day long ]\Iarie used to sit and wait, 
 looking along the path where he would come," 
 
 It was so true ; and her heart was pierced to think how this 
 poor fellow, her own brother, not ashamed of her disgrace, would 
 lie and Avait to see her lover come. 
 
 "Mr. Durnford taught her to read, madame; and then she 
 used to sit at the window with a book all the day, and at night 
 would tell him all she had learned. Eh 1 I have listened often 
 at the window. But it did not last long. Then she went away ; 
 and then she came back. And then — I don't know where she 
 went. The bon Dieu took her." 
 
 " Why do you think she was dead T 
 
 " !Madame, I will tell you. Because — how long ago 1 Alphonse, 
 how old are you V 
 
 " How should I know 1" said the boy. 
 
 *' Well, it was twelve years Ijefore Alphonse was born. I was 
 down here, it was the cholera time. Ouf 1 what a time ! Ko 
 
 23—2
 
 356 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ono died here except Mr. Durnford ; but the nicjht he died I 
 ■was pa>ising through tliis road, and in the, moonlight just here, 
 I saw two tigures iu white — one was Marie, and the other 
 was j\Ir. Durnford. Since then no ono has passed by here at 
 night." 
 
 " How do yoit know it was Marie V 
 
 " What a droll question ! As if I should not know my own 
 sister." 
 
 They went on, and as they drew near the house, ]\Iarie began 
 to think what she should say to her son, and how she would bo 
 received. Her long voyage was ended, but the uncertainty of 
 it remained yet. Nor had she ever realised until now the 
 almost utter hopelessness of her journey. She was to save her 
 boy. But how? By what subtle art was that ruined nature to 
 be raised — that seared conscience to become softened? Alns ! 
 she knew not that what she hoj)ed to effect by pleading, tho 
 mystery of pain and suffering was even then accomplishing. 
 
 The carriage drew up in front of the verandah. She got out, 
 and told the driver — her brother — to put down her boxes, and 
 to drive back. 
 
 !No one received her. It was strange. In the old days, when 
 a visitor arrived, troops of servants came running. !Now, not 
 one. The verandah, too, once like a well-ordered apartment, 
 with its matting, the blinds, the iong chairs and little tables, 
 now stood stripped of all. The floor of concrete was in holes. 
 The old ropes of the blinds hung helplessly about. Creepers 
 climbed up the posts, and trailed along the woodwork of the 
 roof. Outside, the pretty rose garden was all destroyed, and 
 grown over. The mill beyond was closed. There was no sign 
 of work or noise from the adjacent "camp," which seemed de- 
 serted ; no voice from the house within, no barking of dogs, or 
 clattering of hoofs. A strange dread came upon jNIarie. She 
 shivered from head to foot. It was too late to recall her car- 
 riage, which was now out of sight, and almost out of hearing. 
 And with a dull foreboding of sorrow she entered the house 
 which, four and twenty years ago, she quitted with such re- 
 pentance and regrets. 
 
 The old furniture was there, in its old places; but dust- 
 covered, mildewed, and uncared for. Xo one was in the salon, 
 no one in the dining-room. Avoiding the rooms to the right, 
 which had been those of George Durnford, she went into the 
 smaller bed-rooms on the left, put up originally for children and
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL. 357 
 
 guest-rooms. These, witli all their old furniture, which she re- 
 membered so ■well, liad yet a dreary and desolate look. Only, 
 in one, provided \vitli a deal table, a bookcase, and a few chaTS, 
 lay the relics of the days when her sou, whom slie had seen so 
 seldom, was yet but a child. In one corner were the broken 
 toys of the two boys. On the shelves were the well-thumbed 
 grammars and school books. Damp had loosened the bindings ; 
 Avhite ants had burrowed long passages through them ; the 
 cockroaches had gnawed away the leather ; and Avhen she 
 moved them a whole colony of scorpions ran out, braudishing 
 their tails in frantic assertion of their long-established rights. 
 She turned away sorrowfully, and once more entering the dining- 
 room, went in, with sinkint-- of heart, to the great l)ed-room be- 
 yond. The silence and stillness of the house oppressed her. It 
 seemed haunted with ghoits of the days gone by ; and, added 
 to this was the dread of soniethiug, she knew not what, which 
 she might find within. 
 
 Twice she tried to turn the handle of the door ; twice her heart 
 failed her. She Avent to the well-known buffet in the dining-room, 
 where water always stood, and ch-ank a glass of it. That, at 
 least, in its red earthenware vase, was the same as ever. Then 
 fihe resolutely opened the door, and went in. 
 
 On the bed — ah, me! the bitterness of punishment — on the 
 great bed, wliich had once been her own and George Durnford's, 
 laj'', pale and motionless, her onlj'^ son, stricken even unto death. 
 Alone and uncared for. With drj^ parched li]^s, that sometimes 
 murmured a wail, and sometimes moved to let fall some wild 
 words of delirium, with bright rolling eyes, Philip was waiting 
 for the approach of death. This was written on his forehead in 
 unmistakable signs. He was not even undressed. It appeared 
 as if he had thrown himself upon the bed with his clotlies on, 
 and, in his passion of fever, had torn his shirt-collar open, and 
 tried ineffectually to take off his upper clotliing. And tliough 
 the fever made iii.s brow and his hands burning hot, he shivered 
 occasionall}', and his teeth chattered with cold. 
 
 Marie took in the whole at a glance. Stepping back to the 
 dining-room, she hastily brought water and gave him to drink, 
 and bathed his burning face. He drank eagerly, and as long as 
 she would let him. Then she opened the windows, for the air 
 was stifling ; and then — what hands arc so tender as a mother's? 
 — she undressed him, and managed to make him at least a little 
 easier. And when all v/o.^ done — her patient rumbling iucohe-
 
 358 AIY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 rently — she knelt by tlie bedside and ])raycd, with pn=!sionata 
 sobs and tears, that if her son was to die, she might at least bo 
 permitted to breathe a few words — only a few — out of the ful- 
 ness of her heart, into his listening ear. Presently she recovered, 
 and went in search of help. The silence and stillness were in- 
 explicable. At the back of the house, behind the stables, stood 
 the huts for the servants. Thither she went. They were empty. 
 A hundred yards from the house, close by the road, stood the 
 huts which formed the " camp " — a little village for some eight 
 hundred folk. It was empty and deserted. The shop was 
 closed — the stables were empty. What could it all mean 1 
 
 Coming back to the house, she went to the kitchen. This 
 stood by itself, a small stone building. There she found a fire, 
 and crouching by the fire, though it was an afternoon in the 
 height of summer, sat an Indian boy, who only moaned when 
 she touched him. He, too, had fever. She took him up — a 
 light burden enough — and carried him to a room next to Philip's, 
 where she tended him, and laid him in the only bed he had ever 
 slept in in his life. Fortunately, he was not delirious, and from 
 him she learned something of what had happened. 
 
 The luckless Philip had taken to drinking all day long, and 
 almost all night. He had become moody, irritable, and capricious, 
 so that the very men who came for the coarse revels that 
 went on there grew tired of him, and left off coming at all. 
 Then, having no companions and no resources, he became every 
 day worse. Once the nearest doctor, an old friend of his father's, 
 rode over to see him ; and after his departure Philip improved 
 for a short time. He even sent for his lawyer, and gave hi ra 
 instructions to sell the estate. ]S'o purchaser came for it. The 
 crop was put through the mill and sent up to town ; and after it, 
 the unhappy man, growing mad with the dreadful life he lived, 
 resolved to have nothing more to do with the estate, and actually 
 took steps to get rid of his coolies, in which he had almost suc- 
 ceeded. And for two months the canes had been uncared for, 
 the fields almost left to themselves. He said he was going back 
 to England. As they learned afterwards, there was still a larga 
 sum of money left out of Arthur's savings. As for the estate, 
 Philip declared, v/ith many oaths, that if no one Avould buy the 
 place no one should work in it. And then he reduced his pri- 
 vate establishment. Two boys and a cook were all he kept ; 
 while for two long months he wandered gloomily about his de- 
 serted estate, and at night drank himself into a state of iuseiisi-
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 359 
 
 bility. And then, one night, he was stricken with fever. The 
 cook and one of the boys ran away in terror. The other would 
 have follo^ved but that fever seized him, too, and held him 
 down. 
 
 Marie gathered this partly from the sick boy, and partly from 
 tv'hat she heard afterwards. Going into the camp again, she 
 found some bustle and noise. Thank Heaven ! there was some 
 one. As she learned .afterwards, the Avhole body of the remain- 
 ing coolies had struck work that very day, and gone off together 
 — men, women, and children — to complain to the nearest magis- 
 trate about getting no wages. J^ow they were all returned, and, 
 gathered in knots, discussed their grievances. Marie called a 
 sirdar, and despatched him, with a handsome gratuity before- 
 hand, for the nearest doctor. This done, she returned to her 
 patients, the Indians gazing curiously at her. 
 
 The boy told her where some tea could be got, and she hastily 
 prepared it for Philip, who lay quietly enough. He was too 
 Aveak to move, poor fellow ; and only murmured incessantly-. 
 He drank the tea, however, and then fell asleep, when Marie Avas 
 able to leave him, and doctor the little Indian, who was almost 
 as ill as his master. Slowly the hours passed. She marked the 
 sun set, as, long ago, she had often watched it, behind the hills 
 in front of the house. She saw the moon rise in the dear old 
 tropical lustre ; the cigale shrieked its monotonous note ; the 
 watchman began to go his rounds, and cry '^ All's well !" the 
 same as he had always done ; and, but for the heavy breathing 
 of the poor stricken prodigal, her son, she could almost have 
 thougnt the four and twenty years since last she sat there a dream. 
 About nine o'clock a deputation waited on her. She knew the 
 rustling of the muslin and the clink of the bangles, and went 
 out on the verandah to receive her visitors. Some half dozen 
 Indian women stood there. One bore a dish of curry for 
 madame. All Avanted to know Avhat they could do for her j all 
 were curious to learn Avho she was, and why she had come ; and 
 all looked on her with a sort of superstitious dread. Their hus- 
 bands accompanied them as far as the garden hedge, but would 
 go no farther ; and now stood, prepared to fly iu case of any 
 supernatural manifestations. Xono occurred, however. ]\Iario 
 asked if two of them would stay Avith her, and accepted the 
 cuny gratefully, It Avas the first thing she had taken since the 
 early morning coffee, and a long niglit Avas before her. 
 
 The women Aver© horribly afraid of the fever. They Avould
 
 36o MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 do anything for madame in the house — they would sleep on the 
 vevamlah ; but nothing woiiUl in<hice them to go into the rooms 
 of the sick. However, it was something, in lier desolation, to 
 have even them with Iier ; and, with a sense of companioiisliip, 
 she went back to watch her cliarges. The boy at last fell asleep, 
 and she brought a cliair and sat by Pliilip's bedside, Avatching 
 his deep breath come and go. 
 
 The two women outside, curled under a blanket, chattered for 
 a while and then fell asleep. The watchman at first made a 
 great show of wakefulness, expectorating loudly every time ho 
 passed the doors of the bedroom ; finally, he, too, subsided into 
 his usual corner and fell fast asleep, with his long stick in his 
 hands. The dogs began by barking against each other, but gra- 
 dually grew sleepy and left otf. The cocks, who disregard all 
 times and seasons in Palmiste Island, loudly called for the sua 
 about midnight. As he declined to appear at their bidding, 
 they tucked their heads in again, and had another nap. And 
 then the silence of the forest seemed to make itself felt ; and 
 Marie, her old superstitions coming back in all their force, almost 
 gasped with the tension of her nerves. The room filled with 
 ghosts — not ghosts that titled her with terror so much as regret. 
 Her long-dead mistress, Adrienne, with long floating light hair, 
 seemed to be hovering in white robes in the moonshine ; the 
 faces of old acquaintances laughed at her from the dark corners 
 of the room ; or the still, sleeping face of Philip would suddenly 
 change into the face of her dead lover. Voices, too, were 
 whispering about her, till she could bear it no longer, and went 
 out into the open air, to pace the verandah, and look upon tho 
 old f imiliar scene bathed in the silver moonlight. 
 
 T'hen she came back and prayed again — in the Catholic faith 
 that had reai-ed her — to the JMadouua. What matter if no 
 Madonna heard her % The prayer was the same to God, who 
 hears all prayers and seems to grant so few. Does any one ever 
 get all he prays for % I trow not. And yet we pray — pray 
 against hope and certainty — though we see the advent of the 
 Inevitable, and know that God will not turn it aside for any 
 prayers or vehement calling-out of ours. But still we pray ; and 
 when the hand of death is on the nearest and dearest to us, 
 when all that makes life sweet is to be torn from us, we betake 
 ourselves to our knees, and so we go on praying till the world's 
 end, despite the calm persuasion of the philosopher, and the ex- 
 perience of a life. Only, by prayer we sofLeii our hearts; and
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 361 
 
 it geems as if God answers us by alleviating the blow, and 
 giving some comfort while its sorrow is at its bitterest. 
 
 So, while Marie prayeJ, it seemed to her, in the dim light, as 
 if the face of the sick man altered and softened. The tierce 
 heat of the fever died away, his brow grew damp and chill, his 
 hands soft and warm, and his breathiog calm and regular. And, 
 for the time, she fancied that her prayers were heard indeed. 
 
 Do you know that moment in the night — the passage, as it 
 were, from day to day — when a chill breath seems to pass over 
 the earth, and for a space all the world is hushed as if in death? 
 Yon may feel it by sea or by laud. I have shivered and trembled 
 under its spell, while gasping for breath in the sulphureous lied 
 Sea. Or in the heart of London, should j'^ou be awake, you lie 
 and feel that yesterday is dead indeed, and the new day not yet 
 fully born. This is the time when feeble old men and children 
 die ; and when death seems most terrible. 
 
 At this moment Philip woke. And at sight of his eyes the 
 mother's heart leapt up, and she thanked God ; for one part of 
 her prayer, at least, was answered. For the delirium was gone, 
 and her son was in his riglit mind. She did not dare to speak, 
 while, on her knees at the bedside, she looked him face to face, 
 and met his eyes, which gazed wonderingly into hers, so full of 
 tears and tender love. 
 
 " There are so many ghosts," he murmured, " about this 
 house, that I suppose you are another. You are the ghost of my 
 mother." 
 
 " Ah, no. Herself," she cried out. " Xo, my son, your own 
 mother herself come to nurse you — your own loving mother. 
 Oh, my boy, my darling — forgive me !" 
 
 " I am weak," he said, " and my head is confused. Touch 
 me, that I may know you are no phantom uf my brain. Kiss 
 mc, my mother." 
 
 She showered a thousand kisses on his poor thin cheeks ; she 
 took his head in her arras, and bathed it with her tears — those 
 precious woman's tears, nut all of repentance, but some of thauk- 
 fulness and love, like those that onco washed Our Saviour's feet, 
 till Philip's heart, softened by sulferiug, broke down, and he 
 wept aloud. 
 
 iJut then her fears took alarm, and she quickly dried her eyes. 
 And when he would have sp ken — when he would have answered 
 eome of her love with repi-ntaiice and prayers — she forbade him 
 •k) utter a word.
 
 362 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ''Kot yet, my son — not yet," she said. "To-morrow wc will 
 talk. Now, sleep again — or, stay a moment." 
 
 She -went to the old buffet in the dining-room, and found some 
 claret, of "which she made him take a few drops. This bright- 
 ened his eyes for a moment ; and then, overcome with his weak- 
 ness, he fell asleep once more. Her heart danced within her — 
 she could not sit still. Leaving him sleeping, she went out again 
 to the verandah, and watched the coming dawn. 
 
 The moon was down by this time ; and save the Southern 
 Cross, paling before the coming day, all the stars were gone. 
 Only the bright morning star was left in the east. The birds 
 began to twitter in the trees, just in their dreams — as she re- 
 membered long ago — befiu'e the dawn ; and the sweet words of 
 the poet came into her mind : — 
 
 •' All ! sad and strange, as in dark summer dawuB 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened bii'ds 
 To dying ears, vvlieu unto dying eyes 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square j 
 So sad, so strange, the daj's that are no more." 
 
 And she was sitting with the memories of bygone days ; with 
 her dying son in his last sleep — save the longest — while this 
 gray summer dawn crept slowly up the east. 
 
 Slowly ; but it came. First a dull gray, and presently a silver 
 gray ; and then those long, marvellous fingers of light which 
 spread themselves out upon the world as though they would fain 
 seize it, and make it their own. And then tire rocks, Avhich had 
 been black, grew purple ; the mist upon the nearest peak, which 
 had been a cloud, became a bridal veil, drawn loosely round, and 
 falling in a thousand folds upon the woods below. And then a 
 few short minutes of bright green, and red, and gold, and the great 
 sun bounded into the sky with a single leap, and another day was 
 born to the world. And then the birds all flew about to greet 
 the sun ; from the woods chattered the monkeys ; the lizards 
 woke up, and began to hunt about for the hottest places, bliulc- 
 ing at the light ; the dogs from the camp resumed their musical 
 contest in Amtebean strains, just where they had left it off the 
 previous night ; the cocks began to crow, and make a great 
 triumph, as if they had compelled the sun to come back by 
 their own personal efforts ; the turkeys began to strut about M'ith 
 a great babbling and cackle ; the mules came out and rolled in 
 the cane straw ; the mosquitoes all went away to bed ; and the 
 women's voices began, in the way she knew so well — the women
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 363 
 
 always seemed to -waken first — to rail at their lords from tlio 
 huts of the camp. Her own two companions of the night shook 
 themselves together, and greeted her kindly. She set them to 
 make some tea, and sat Avith her hands crossed, looking before 
 her at the bright and hopeful morning. 
 
 Presently she remembered her little Indian, and went to looV 
 at him in his bed. Alas ! alas ! the poor child Avas dead. 
 Without a sound, or she would have heard it through the open 
 door, his spirit had gone from him in the night ; and he lay, 
 cold and stiff, in the careless grace of sleeping childhood — his 
 head pillowed on his arm, his eyes closed. Struck with terror, 
 she turned to the other room. There, at least, was sleep — kins- 
 man, but not friend, of death. And sitting patiently by the 
 bedside, she resumed her watch. 
 
 The hours passed on, the sun grew high; but still ho slept. 
 About ten arrived the doctor — she had simply sent for the 
 nearest doctor ; but she recognised an old friend of George 
 Durnford's, and went to meet him as an acquaintance. 
 
 He took off his hat — Dr. Staunton — and seeing an unknown 
 lady who held out her hand, took it with great astonishment. 
 
 " Pardon me, madame, I — " 
 
 "Oh, Doctor Staunton, you have forgotten me then'? But 
 come in quickly." 
 
 He went in without a word, and began to listen to her account 
 of his patient. 
 
 " It is a bad case, madame — a very bad case. I ought to have 
 been sent for four days ago. If you are interested in him — " 
 
 " Interested ? Oh ! Doctor Staunton, is it possible you have 
 forgotten me ? I am his mother." 
 
 ''You — Marie 1 Can it be, indeed? I thought you dead. 
 Tell me about yourself. j\Iy poor child — I mean — " 
 
 " Never mind, doctor. People call me Matlame do Guyou. 
 15ut tell me about my son." 
 
 " Madame de Guyou ] Is it possible that you are — " 
 
 " Yes — I am the singer. But now tell me about my son." 
 
 " Marie — be strong — strong to bear the worit. lie cannot live. 
 Xo human art can save hiiu." 
 
 She sat down, dry-eyed. 
 
 " When will he die T 
 
 "We cannot tell. Perlinps in an hour — perhaps in two. 
 He will die bcfjre the evening. I will stay with you to the. eml." 
 
 Shu covered her face with her hands — not to wuc]), but to
 
 364 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 keep back the hard, rebellious thoughts that siirf;ed up in her 
 bosom. Id a few raonients f^lie stood up, and liei^'an to busy her- 
 self about her boy, smoothing his pillows, aud laying the sheets 
 straight. 
 
 " I heard," she said, ''in England — Arthur Durnford told 
 lue — that he was being led away by bad companions. I am 
 sure his heart was good. I came out thinking to try and save 
 him. I find him dying. Oh, doctor, save him ! You loved 
 George Durnford, who loved me — for his sake, save him. In all 
 his life, since he was a baby — since I gave him up to his father, 
 this is only the third lime I have seen him. And, Doctor 
 Staunton, he loves me still. Oh, save him !" 
 
 " Marie, I cannot." 
 
 " And why " — she turned fiercely upon him — " why did you 
 not save him before for his father's sake? Why, wlien you 
 knew that he was here, and — that he was not wliat he should be, 
 did you not come and reason with him % Oh !" she added, 
 bitterly, " I know the reason — I had almost forgotten, after four 
 and twenty years of England, that his mother was a mulatto." 
 
 " I swear, IMarie," said the old doctor, earnestly, " that you 
 wrong me. I came here — I came twice. The first time — I 
 must tell it you — I was insulted, I came again, and he listened 
 to me. I have been ill myself, and could not come a third time." 
 
 "Doctor," cried a weak, thin voice from the pillow, " I tliank 
 you, and again I beg your forgiveness." 
 
 Marie was at his side in a moment, kissing and fondling him. 
 
 "What shall he have, doctor? What will you give him? 
 Tea — oh, liere it comes." 
 
 Doctor Staunton ordered him some simple things. 
 
 " I have heard what you have been saying," said Philip. ** I 
 shall die to-day." 
 
 " Oh, no, my son — oh, no ! — God will not permit it." 
 
 *' God knows, dear mother, that it is the best thing I can do. 
 I'erhaps that is the reason why He lets me do it. Doctor, I have 
 a good deal to say to my mother, and a very little time to say it 
 in. Leave us for a little. But first shake hands with me." 
 
 Left alone — 
 
 " Kiss me, mother," said Philip. " Tell me that you forgive 
 me. Mother — in my weakness, I implore your pardon." 
 
 " Oh, Philip, with all my heart's love I forgive you. You did 
 not know me. You could not know I was your mother indeed. 
 It was I who was wrong. There is nothing to forgive, dear."
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 365 
 
 •* But there is," he said. " I knew you were my mother, 
 directly you told me so. Iftlt it. But I was proud, and I had 
 just — without knowing all my wickedness, it is true — robbed 
 Arthur of his inheritance. And I could not bear to give it back 
 again. My heart, too, was bitter with that other wrong I had 
 committed — oh ! my mother, a deeper wrong, even, than what I 
 did to you. You may forgive me for one, but you can never for- 
 give me for the other." 
 
 "Hush ! my boy. It is all forgiven." 
 
 " All V He hardly seemed astonished, and had forgotten 
 how she knew. 
 
 " All. Laura told me herself. She bade me take out to you 
 lier love and pardon. She implored me to bring her out with 
 me. She says that all she wants now is to hear one loving word 
 from you, to treasure up, and hide the niemorj- of all the things 
 you did and said — when you did not know what you were say- 
 ing, my dear." 
 
 Philip turned his face and wept on the pillow. 
 
 " Wipe my eyes, mother. I am so weak that I cannot even 
 do that for myself. And now get some paper, and write a letter 
 for me. But call the doctor first." 
 
 I\Iarie went to get the paper. Before she came back, Doctor 
 Staunton had administered a restorative. 
 
 " How long ]" asked Philip of the doctor. 
 
 " Don't talk too much, or you will kill yourself in an hour." 
 
 " Good," said Philip. " Write, dear mother — 
 
 " ' Dearest "Wife — I have but a short time now to live. 
 "Witli my last breath, I ask pardon of you for the grievous 
 wrongs I have done j'ou. Ko punishment could be too great for 
 me. My mother tells me 3'ou have sent me your forgiveness. 
 My dear, if I could tell you howl have repented — if you knew the 
 bitter remorse that has seized me since I have been in this place ! 
 
 But all is over at last. The great weight is lifted. God has 
 sent my mother with her love and your pardon. I go into the 
 other world. I have no excuse for my.s<;ir. I have been a bad 
 man, and have led a bad life. Only if God lets me ask any- 
 thing '" 
 
 " My son !" cried Marie. 
 
 ** * If God lets me ask anything, I will nsk Him to blcs^ you
 
 366 A^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 both. This is ray only prayer — I dare have none for myself. 
 My dear — my Laura — I am very, very sorry. Think only for the 
 future that I loved you all along. God bloss you, my wife. — 
 Your most afifectionate and penitent husband, 
 
 ♦ Philip.' " 
 
 He signed it with feeble fingers, guided by Marie, and then 
 fell back. 
 
 " I should like to write to Arthur, but I cannot. "Write for 
 me, and tell him how I repented, and ask his forgiveness. 
 IMacIntyre wanted me to do it eight years ago, but I refused. 
 You will write, won't you, dear mother T 
 
 She promised. 
 
 " Sing to me, dear mother ; you sing so well. I should like 
 to hear your voice, once more. Sing me a hymn." 
 
 It was a cruel trial. She steadied hei'self and sang — his head 
 upon her shoulder — with all her fulness and richness of voice, 
 so that tlie old doctor wiped his brimming eyes at the sound — 
 
 * ' ' Abide with me — fast falls the eventide : 
 
 The darkness deepens — Lord, with me abide. 
 When other helpers fail, and comforts flee. 
 Help of the helpless ! oh, abide with me. 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day. 
 Life's joys grow dim, its glories fade away ' " 
 
 His cheek dropped against hers. She stopped in sudden 
 affright. 
 
 "Mother," he murmured, very faintly, "is it growing dark? 
 Is it night already T 
 
 " Oh, Philip !" 
 
 " I think I am dying — give my love to Laura. Kiss me, 
 mother. Shall we meet again T 
 
 " My boy — in Heaven. I could not go there without you." 
 
 His head fell heavily forward. He was dead. 
 
 The little Indian boy was buried that same evening, in the 
 Indian cemetery on the hillside. Small funeral rites had he, and 
 no mourners. The man who dug his grave, and carried him 
 under his arm to the place of sepulture, all out of the goodness 
 of his heart and a kind of natural piety, placed a bottle on the 
 grave, so that, should he perchance awake, there might be means 
 of at least slaking his thirst. And in India perhaps his mother 
 waited for him to come, and wondered, looking as the years went 
 by, that he delayed so long. The life of man is short at the
 
 AfV LITTLE GIRL, 367 
 
 best ; but the shorter it is, the less of bitterness he knows. 
 Solomon said much the same thing. 
 
 Doctor Staunton stayed with Marie. After the first burst of 
 passionate grief, she began, womanlike, to find her consolation. 
 And the thought that his last few hours were spent in love and 
 repentance ; that the memory she would have of her son would 
 not be of cruel insult and wrong, but of tenderness and affec- 
 tion, made her thank God for one great mercy at least. 
 
 They buried him the next day, in the nearest English church- 
 yard, close to his father's grave. After his feverish life, it was 
 consoling to his mother's heart to carry with her his last few 
 words of repentance and sorrow. She treasured them up, and 
 when she thought of them, she forgot the cruel scene in London, 
 his harsh words, his tones of mockery and pride, remembering 
 only his tender love at the last, and, when all was over, his 
 calm face set with the sweet, sad, unchanging smile of death. 
 
 They buried him as the sun went down into the sea. The 
 fierce heat of a tropical summer day was over ; and night, with 
 its perfect calm, was stealing upon the world when the last 
 words of the funeral service were pronounced, and the mould 
 rattled upon the coflfin of poor Philip. Marie thought of his 
 life ; of the storm and hurricane when she left him with his 
 father and went back alone through the forest ; of the blight that 
 his birth had thrown upon him ; of his wasted energies, ruined 
 hopes, and cruel misdeeds ; and of the sweet calm and peace of 
 the end. And it seemed to her that this tropical day was an 
 emblem of his life, with its fierce and scorching heat, its turbu- 
 lent hurricanes, and its peaceful night. 
 
 The clergyman read tlae service, and went away. Then Marie 
 saw that sh6 and the doctor were not the only mourners ; for, 
 with their hats off, and kneeling on the sward, were her two 
 brothers, Adolphe and Alcide. Stepping reverently forward, 
 tliey each threw a handful of mould upon the colfin ; their first 
 and last claim at kinship. And then the two poor fellows 
 vt'alked slowly away, and Marie saw them no more. 
 
 She went back to the estate, the old doctor keeping her com- 
 pany ; and though Palmiste knew that the great singer had been 
 to their island, and was at Fontainebleau when young Duruford 
 died, no one knew on what errand she had come, nor wliat was 
 her relationship to Philip. Dr. Staunton kept the secret well. 
 iNur did .she think it necessary to tell Adolphe Xapoleon Pohan 
 de Montmceuci that Marie was not dead, a^ter all. What would
 
 368 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 have been the iisel It was not any false shame. If all th« 
 ■world knew that her brothers were poor blacks, gaining a living 
 by driving a voiture de place, it would have mattered nothing 
 to her. No one in England would think the worse of her. A 
 singer is not expected to be of unblemished family, more than 
 any other professional person. And what good could she do to 
 her relations ? They were happy ; they had no wants that they 
 could not satisfy; they had no ambition; they desired nothing, 
 looked for nothing. Moreover, between them and herself so 
 great a gulf was fixed that it could not be passed. And what- 
 ever her childhood had been, she was now a lady. Lastly, there 
 was this. Her story no one knew except one or two persons in 
 England, and one person in Palmiste. There was no neod for 
 any one to know. She had sufl'ered almost everything that a 
 woman can suiTer, except what tortures Avomen most — the loss 
 of her reputation. Blameless and pure in conduct, she had 
 passed through the theatre without a reproach, whispered or 
 spoken. She had learned, soon enough, the value of fair fame, 
 and she was not disposed to give it up. Therefore she kept the 
 secret to herself. 
 
 Turning over Philip's papers, she found among them evidences, 
 not only of the power he undoubtedly possessecl, but of thoughts 
 which showed him in a better light — which betrayed the causes 
 of his wreck, the fatal moral wreck which his nature had sus- 
 tained when he learned, through the man who was his evil 
 genius, that he was illegitimate, and touched with the blood of 
 the lower race. 
 
 Philip, until the last few months of his life, had been in the 
 habit of writing ; not for papers, or magazines, partly because it 
 never occurred to him to write for them, and partly because he 
 did not write well enough. But his loose paper-!, heaped to- 
 gether in his desk, written on slips and fragments of pajjcr — 
 sometimes in a few Avords, sometimes many — sometimes in prose, 
 sometimes in verse — shoAA'ed that he knew himself capable of 
 good things, and that, though he followed the Avorse, he approved 
 the better. 
 
 She burnt them all but one. This she kept, and sent to 
 Laura. It had no title, and consisted of four stanzas — rough 
 verses enough, but not Avithout an element of power, 
 
 " Go, dig my grave for mc — 
 Not where the painted sunshine li^ta the aisle
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL. 369 
 
 Not wliere, through glories of the pillared pile, 
 
 The silver- voiced choir 
 Sing o'er the sacred bones of glorious dead 
 
 The strains of Da-\dd's lyre. 
 
 Rather seek out for me 
 
 Some village churchyard where the world comes not j 
 
 Where mounds ignoble cover men forgot : 
 
 Where the black branching yew 
 O'erhangs with midnight shade the moss-grown stoneOt 
 
 And hides the graves from view. 
 
 Bury me there, and wi'ite 
 
 No long inscription on a marble stone : 
 
 Only a head -cross, with these words alone— 
 
 ' He dared not — therefore failed. ' 
 Let the dishonour of a coward heart, 
 
 So set forth, so be veiled. 
 
 Let no man weep for me : 
 
 Eather rejoice that one whose will was weak 
 
 No longer cumbers earth ; and when they speak 
 
 (Not with breath bated), say, 
 God made the world for those who dare be strong s 
 
 Well, that the weak decay !" 
 
 She kept these lines only, and on his grave set up the head- 
 cross he Avished, with his own words, " He dared not : there- 
 fore failed." Under them she wrote — "P. D. Aged twenty- 
 six." 
 
 Over his grave, and his fother'a, wave the tall iilhaos, with 
 their long, mournful sough, singing a perpetual lament over the 
 sins and sorrows of the dead. In this forgotten corner of the 
 world — no longer a memory even in Palmiste, though few years 
 have as yet gone by since he died — ho lies at rest. Arthur and 
 his wife, and their children, will perhaps he laid beside him ; 
 but not Marie. Another grave is hers — a wider one, but, I 
 think, quite as peaceful. 
 
 She sent Philip's last words to Laura aud Arthur by the next 
 Mjail. She stayed to finish what she had to do ; left presents 
 for her people, to be given by Doctor Staunton ; and embarked 
 iigain for England in the first homeward-bound ship, hap 
 pier, if more aad, than when she arrived but a short month 
 before. 
 
 u
 
 370 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 '* My dearest daughter " — it was the last letter, the one letter, 
 that Laura ever liad from Marie — " I send you Philip's last 
 words. It is all over, my child. I cannot write about him yet. 
 But he kissed me at the last, and we prayed together. I have 
 given money to a man, who promises to keep his grave, and to 
 iend the flowers that I have planted. There is a cross at its 
 head, with his initials, and a line that I found in his desk — 
 * He dared not : therefore failed.' It is the story of his life 
 — a poor life, a sinful life, a sorrowful life. He saw what was 
 good, and took what was bad, because it seemed the easiest. In 
 all his faults, he tried to make a compromise between the two. 
 My poor boy ! He looked so handsome, though he was pale 
 and worn at the last ; and, as he lay dead, his mouth was set 
 Avith a sweeter smile than I had ever seen on it in life. Alas ! 
 I never saw him smile. I love to think of him so ; and to feel 
 that he is with One who is far more merciful than we two 
 women. 
 
 " I am delayed by all this business, but I return by the next 
 mail. 
 
 " Strange presentiments fall upon me. I cannot sleep at 
 night. If I do, I have dreams and visions. And I feel as if I 
 shall never see you again. But I am not unhappy. God has 
 forgiven us both — my boy and me. I say that again and again ; 
 and I comfort myself with thinking how my Philip laid his arms 
 about my neck, and kissed me, at the end, 
 
 " One thing I forgot to tell you. You are now the owner of 
 Fontainebleau. You must give it back to Arthur. Make him 
 take it. What is mine is yours, and I am rich. Should I never 
 reach England, all is bequeathed to you. 
 
 " I enclose you a lock of Philip's hair, I cut it from his 
 head when I took my last look at his poor, white, dead face. I 
 put up one of mine with it. Tie them up together, dear child, 
 and put them in a locket. Here, too, is a flower from his grave. 
 And, with it all, his last letter. God bless you, my daughter. 
 Perhaps my forebodings may come to nothing. 
 
 " Marie." 
 
 A wild day off the Cape, where the gales are fiercer and the 
 waves longer than in any other part of the ocean. In the midst 
 of the warring winds and mighty waves a gallant ship, toss'
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL, yji 
 
 and groaning as every successive mountain of gray-green water 
 strikes her. The sailors are holding on by the ropes, the man 
 at the helm is lashed to his post, the captain is giving orders 
 clinging to the davits, and all the passengers, except two or 
 three Avho are on deck and watching the waves, are below in the 
 saloon. The storm has raged without intermission for three 
 days. They have been driven steadily south, far out of the 
 track of any ship. It is bitterly cold. The men have been all 
 day trying to get up cargo and lighten the vessel. The engines 
 labour heavily. Every now and then the screw, as the ship's 
 stern is lifted out of the water, whizzes round against the air, 
 with a sound that seems to terrify the ship ; for she gives a 
 shiver, and then makes another bound forwards, and gallantly 
 tries to right herself. Kow and again a passenger tries to get 
 hold of the captain or one of the officers, and essays to find 
 a crumb of comfort in the assurance that things cannot get 
 worse, and therefore must change soon : but the officers wear 
 anxious faces, and the captain shakes his head when he talks 
 to his chief Hour after hour goes on, and things get worse : 
 the wind higher, the waves longer. One after the other the 
 passengers creep below into the saloon, and try to cheer each 
 other, with a sickening fear at their hearts. Marie is there, 
 sitting with clasped hands, and calm face, and downcast eyes. 
 The women around her are crying and weeping ; the men are 
 sitting with haggard faces, or sometimes looking at each other 
 Avifh a smile ; and the storm grows Avorse. Presently she feels 
 a hand catching at her arm. It is a young girl, going to Eng- 
 land to be married. She had not spoken to Marie before. I^ow, 
 in her misery, she looks round, and finds hers the only face 
 with any courage upon it. Marie rouses herself at the touch, 
 and takes the girl into her arms. 
 
 " My poor child," she whispers. 
 
 And at the sound of her pitying voice, the girl breaks into 
 a flood of weeping and lamentation. 
 
 " Madame de Guyon," she cries, " do you think we are going 
 to be drowned?" 
 
 " I don't know, my dear. God knows. Ho will do what is 
 best for us." 
 
 " Pray for us, Madame de Guyon." 
 
 Marie prayed — whispering her prayer in the girl's ear. The 
 storm grew louder and fiercer. .Sh(3 had to cling to the back of 
 tho saloon seat on which she was resting, and in the middle of 
 
 24—2
 
 372 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 her prayer an awful crasli was heard. The child — she was little 
 more — shrieked with terror. Marie clasped her the more lirmly. 
 
 " God, ovtr Fatlier," .she whispered, " send us what is best 
 for us." 
 
 There was a great stamping and noise upon deck, for the 
 mainmast had been carried by the board ; but it was finally 
 cleared away ; and presently more noise befell them when the 
 foremast followed. Those in the cabin trembled and shrieked. 
 One or two of the men got brandy, and drank freely to keep up 
 their courage. Four ex-diggers from California sat down to 
 have a final gamble, and, holding the cards firmly in one hand 
 and the brandy in the other, prepared themselves so to leave 
 the Avorld. 
 
 But the end was not yet. This was the forenoon. The wind 
 abated towards one o'clock, and there seemed a prospect, how- 
 ever distant, of getting through. The diggers gave up their 
 gambling, and grumbled, being half drunk, over the winnings 
 and losings. Those who had been most terrified assumed an air 
 of valour, and the women left otf crying. Only the girl clung 
 to Marie, and begged her not to leave her again. The long day 
 crept on. About five, a pretence was made at dinner— what- 
 ever could be found to eat being put out. But by this time a 
 good many of the men were drunk, and lying helpless about 
 the seats on the fioor ; and the women could not eat. The cap- 
 tain came down — a cheery, hearty man. He looked with 
 infinite disgust at his drunken passengers, and hastened to say a 
 few words to Marie and the young lady. 
 
 "You seem brave, Madame de Guyon," he said; "and so I 
 tell you that, though we may pull through, I do not think wo 
 .shall. If the wind rises again to-night, we shall have a rough 
 time of it. Cheer up, my pretty," he said to the girl, " we must 
 hope for the best. And here's the doctor to look after you. He 
 can save us from a good deal, if not from storm and tempest. 
 As for storm and tempest," he muttered, " only the Lord can 
 save us from those ; and I don't think the Lord Avill." 
 
 Then the doctor — a young fellow of five and twenty, as brave 
 as if he had fifty lives — sat down aiid talked to tliem, making a 
 rough dinner all the while, and tiying to cheer up the poor 
 lassie ; but without much eftect. Presently the sun set — or, 
 rather, the night fell — and darkness came upon tliein. The 
 stewardess lit one or two of the saloon lamps, and relapsed into 
 a sort of torpor which )iad fallen upon her. The doetor tried to
 
 MY LITTLE GIRL, . 373 
 
 rouse her up. It was no use. She lifted up her head and moaned — 
 " I've been a great sinner — oh ! I've been a great sinner !" 
 
 " "Well, come," said the doctor, kindly — " we all know that, 
 of course ; but you might as well do your duty all the same." 
 
 But she refused to move. So the doctor tried himself to 
 minister to his two ladies, without much effect. Indeed, there 
 was little to be done for them. 
 
 Marie raised her head and listened. Then she whispered to 
 the doctor — 
 
 " The wind is rising — I feel it coming." 
 
 The doctor shuddered. He could distinguish nothing beyond 
 the dull roar of the waves and the struggling of the ship ; for 
 the wind had almost died away. But he listened intently. 
 Presently it came— first a shrill whistle in the shrouds, and then 
 a sort of heavy, dull blow to starboard; and the good ship 
 staggered and reeled. 
 
 "God help us !" said the doctor, softly. " We shall not get 
 through this night." 
 
 Marie and the girl clung to each other. 
 
 " I shall go on deck," said the doctor. 
 
 " Come below," said Marie, " if there is time." 
 
 He nodded, and went out into the black, howling night. 
 
 "Madame," said the girl. 
 
 " Call me Marie, dear." 
 
 " Marie — call me Lucy. If there were only a clergyman." 
 
 " Let me be your clergyman, dear Lucy. God hears us in 
 the storm as much as in the cahn. We want no clergyman." 
 
 " But — but — oh ! I loved him so much — more than God I 
 Do you think He will forgive me % Marie, do you think I can 
 be forgiven V 
 
 " God forgives us all," said Marie. " He has forgiven me. 
 And God has taken my son, and is going to take me. He has 
 forgiven us both — me and my boy, too. Do you not think he 
 Avill forgive you T 
 
 " Pray for me, again," sobbed the girl. 
 
 Marie prayed. Two or three of the women — they were 
 soldiers' wives, poor things, second-class passengers, who liad 
 crept ait for better shelter — seeing the girl on her knees and 
 !Marie bending over her, slid and crawle<l over to her, and 
 kneeled round her, while Marie prayed for all. 
 
 In the midst of her prayer thern was a confused rush and 
 gurgle of waters, and the ship seemed suddenly to stop. In the
 
 374 ^y LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 roar of the tempest, tliey hardly perceived that it was hei 
 engines which had stopped. And Marie, looking up, saw the 
 doctor making his way towards her. Catching one of the iron 
 pillars of the saloon, he bent over and whispered in her ear — 
 
 " The ship will he down in ten minutes." 
 
 She nodded, and drew from her breast a little packet ; which 
 she handed him. He put it in his pocket ; and then, with tears 
 in his eyes, kissed her upturned face, and disappeared up the 
 companion ladder. JSTone of the women noticed it. 
 
 Ten minutes afterwards, he found himself clinging to a rope 
 on the deck. Next to him was the chief officer. 
 
 " Where's the skipper ]" he shouted through the storm. 
 
 " Gone overboard. All the rest, too, I think, with the 
 almighty wave that put out our engine fires. Doctor, don't be 
 drowned like a heathen. Say you didn't mean what you said 
 the other night." 
 
 " Not I," shouted the doctor. " If I've been wrong, and there 
 is something to come, I won't go sneaking into it with a miser- 
 able apology." 
 
 The chief officer said no more ; because at that moment 
 another wave, striking the ship, washed them both off together into 
 the black sea. 
 
 The doctor, recovering his senses, found himself clinging to 
 some portion of the wreck. How he got hold of it, by what 
 instinct, how in the crash and roar when his senses left him ho 
 still managed to hold to it, he never knew. It was a black 
 night, and he was alone on the waves. He looked round, but 
 could see nothing. 
 
 The morning found him still living. The storm had subsided, 
 and the sun broke fair and warm. 
 
 Two days afterwards, a homeward-bound ship saw an object 
 tossing on the sea, and made out that it was a man and a piece 
 of wreck. They lowered a boat. The man was breathing, but 
 that was all. They took him on board and gave him restoratives. 
 He came to his senses presently, and told his story. And the 
 doctor was the only survivor of the ship. The captain and the 
 crew, Marie and little Lucy, and the passengers, had all gone 
 down together. When they touched at Plymouth, the doctor 
 landed and went straight to Venn with the packet that Marie 
 had put into his hands. It contained nothing but a few 
 memorials of Philip. 
 
 Laura had lost her husband and her mother.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL, 375 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Laura continued to stay -with Sakey, She made 110 new friends, 
 and no cliange in her life. Hartley came to see her nearly every 
 day, and the old daily visit was so restored, with the dilferenca 
 that he was the scholar. 
 
 All her beauty had come back to her : roses to her cheeks, 
 the life and lightness of youth, the sweetness and grace, doubled 
 and trebled by the lessons of sorrow, with that additional cha)iu 
 fo;- which we have no other word than ladyhood. 
 
 All were happy, except Sukey, who watched her brother day 
 after day, with feelings growing more and more irritated. At 
 last she spoke. He was in a particularly good temper that 
 morning. Laura was in her own room, dressing to go out with 
 him. 
 
 " It's ridiculous. Hartley," cried Sukey, losing all control over 
 herself. 
 
 " What is ridiculous, Sukey T 
 
 '' I say it is ridiculous, the way you are going on. How long 
 13 it to last? And people talking. Even Anne says it's too 
 \)ad of you." 
 
 " My own Sukey, what is it T 
 
 " It's Laura. Has the man got eyes in his head ? Are you 
 stupid ? Are you blind T 
 
 Hartley turned red. 
 
 "Tell me, Sukey — speak plain. Tell me what it is you 
 meanf 
 
 *' Oh, Hartley ! You are the most foolish creature that ever 
 was, my dear brother." She laughed hysterically. " The chilil 
 loves the very ground you walk upon. She dreams of you — 
 .she is never happy except with you." 
 
 " Don't, Sukey, don't — " He began walking about the room. 
 " If you should be wrong. Am I to lose the happiness I have 
 every day T 
 
 " Lose it ! And a second time, this nonsense ! I haven't 
 patience with the man. While the prettiest and best girl in tlio 
 world is dying of love for him, he talks about losing happiness !" 
 
 " Go send her here, Sukey, dear. It's true our grandfatlier 
 was a bishop, and hers was a Gray's Inn laundress — no, tliat 
 was her grandmother." He looked at her with a smile jjluying 
 about his lixjs.
 
 376 MY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " It miiy be remarkahle, Hartley," said Sakcy, " to quote 
 yourself, but it is true, tliat in our family there are two grand- 
 fathers, one of whom was not unconnected with the wholesale " 
 — here she made a wry face — "the wholesale glue trade," 
 
 " Go away, Sukey," he laughed, giving her that very unusual 
 thing from him, a kiss. Ho had never, by the way, been very 
 frugal over his kisses for little Lollie, in the old time. " Go 
 away, and send me my little girl." 
 
 She came, dancing down the stairs and singing, ready for her 
 walk, in a dainty little costume, all her own invention, and 
 bringing the sunshine into the room with her. 
 
 "Here I am, ]Mr. Venn. Are you impatient] I have only 
 been ten minutes. Where shall we gol" 
 
 " I am always impatient, Lollie," He took her liand and 
 held it for a moment in his. 
 
 " Child, I am more than impatient. I am discontented. 
 You give me all the joy I have in life. But you withhold some 
 — the greatest," 
 
 She began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Give me the greatest, my darling. Kever to be separated 
 from you — to have you always with me. Give me the right to 
 take you in my arms, as I used to do when you were a little 
 child. Be my wife, Lollie." 
 
 She looked in his face. The eyes were smiling — the face was 
 grave. No wild tempestuous passion such as she might have 
 remembered, only that memory seemed all dead. No tierce light 
 of a burning fire in those eyes — only the light of a full, deep 
 love which nothing could ever destroy. 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his. 
 
 " Mr. Venn — Mr. Venn, I have never loved anybody but you." 
 
 What could he say ? There was nothing to say. Five minutes 
 afterwards, Sukey, hearing no voice, opened the door. They 
 were still standing in that same posture, kissing each other, as 
 Sukey afterwards told Anne, " like a pair of babies." 
 
 " My dearest," said Sukey, " I have always prayed for this 
 from the very beginning. Hartley, you must tell Anne. Biiig 
 the bell. Anne, you will be glad to hear that Mr. Hartley is 
 going to marry Mrs. Durnford." 
 
 Anne sat down and wi^jed her eyes with the corner of her 
 flpron. 
 
 " Now, I'm content to go," she said. " Oh, Mr. Hartley, Mr. 
 Hartley — and she never tired of hearing how I dandled you oo
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 377 
 
 my knees when j'ou \vere a little baby a moutli old. God bless 
 and keep you both, my dears." 
 
 That evening the Chorus assembled. Lynn and Jones arrived 
 nearly at the same moment. Both seemed strangely preoccupied 
 and nervous. Jones could not sit do\yn. He walked about, 
 upset glasses, and comported himself as one under the influence 
 of strong emotion. Venn only seemed perfectly tranquil. 
 
 " What is it, Jones T he asked at last. 
 
 " My play came out last night at the Lyceum." 
 
 ** Oh," said Lynn ; " and failed, of course." 
 
 "Never mind," said Venn, "you can easily write another. 
 After all, what matters little disappointments ? Mere incidents 
 in our life, giving flavour to what else would be monotonous." 
 
 " Yes," said Jones, " if one may quote Byron on such aa 
 occasion as the present — 
 
 * Oh ! weep not for me, though the Bride of Abydos 
 Wildly calls upon Lava to slumber no more ; 
 Though from Delos to Crete, from Olyiithus to Cnidos, 
 The canoe of the Corsair is hugging the shore. 
 
 Oh ! weep not for me, though on Marathon's mountain, 
 The chiefs are at thimblerig, as is their wont ; 
 
 Though beneath the broad plane tree, by Helicon's fountain, 
 The languishing Dudu is murmuring "don't."' " 
 
 " "We will not weep, Jones. Sit down and be cheerful." 
 
 " I am a humbug," cried Jones. " Oh ! why were you not 
 there % It was a great success. The house screamed. I have 
 succeeded at last — at last." He sat down, and his voice broke 
 almost into a sob as he added, " I have written to Mary." 
 
 " This will not do," said Venn. " He violates every rule of 
 this Chorus. He brings his private joys into what is sacred to 
 private sorrows. Lynn, he must be expelled." 
 
 " Stay a moment," said Lynn. " I, too, have something to 
 communicate." 
 
 " Wliat % You, too 1 Have you then—?' 
 
 " No, I have accepted a judgeship in Trinidad. I start next 
 month." 
 
 Venn looked round him with astonishment. 
 
 Then he turned red and confused. 
 
 " I, too," he confessed, " have my secret to communicate. 
 Yes, my friends, the Chorus is dissolved. I am going to be 
 uiariied." 
 
 Tliey looked at bim nerfoasly.
 
 378 MV LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 " I am to marry my little girl." 
 
 " Thank God," said Lynn. 
 
 " Why, who else could I marry % There is but one woman in 
 the world, so far as I am concerned. We shall be married im- 
 mediately, and go to Italy, till we are tired of it ; then we shall 
 come back again. There will be no wedding fuss, or breakfast, 
 or other annoyances — unless Sukey likes to come here for a linal 
 kidney." 
 
 "And theOpusculaf 
 
 Venn winced, 
 
 " I shall begin their careful revision witb a view to publica- 
 tion — at my own expense, Lollie is rich, you know," he added, 
 simply. " Besides, it will be good to have something to do. In 
 the morning, we shall roam about and enjoy the sunshine. In 
 the evening, I shall correct the manuscripts while Lollie plays 
 to me. You see, I am not in any hurry about publishing. Per- 
 haps in ten years' time you may see an announcement of their 
 aiDpearance," 
 
 " The last night of the Chorus," he went on, " My friends, 
 there stands before us the venerable bottle of champagne which 
 was brought in tlie very first night of the newly established 
 Chorus, now twelve years ago. This night must witness the 
 drinking of that wine. Aged and mellowed, it is doubtless by 
 this time in splendid condition, I would Arthur were hero to 
 join us, Jones, get the champagne glasses from the cujjboard. 
 Lynn, my boy, help me to remove the wire. Are Ave ready % 
 j^ow, in the sparkle of the generous wine behold the brightness 
 of the future. Our youth will be renewed. We shall live 
 again in the sunshine of success and happiness. Behold !" 
 
 He removed his hand from the cork. It did not immediately 
 fly out, and he had recourse to the vulgar expedient of pulling 
 it out with a corkscrew. After great exercise of strength, it 
 came out with a dull thud. 
 
 He said nothing ; but while all three crowded round the table, 
 he poured out the wine. It was flat, dead, and sour. Not a 
 single sparkle in the glass. 
 
 They looked at each other. 
 
 Lynn laughed bitterly. 
 . " It is an emblem of life," he said. " JSTothing compensates. 
 We have wasted our youth." 
 
 Venn stared vacantly at tht^ unhappy wine, which seemed an 
 omen of bad luck.
 
 MV LITTLE GIRL. 379 
 
 " I believe it was bad at the beginning," he murmured. " It 
 came from the public-house." 
 
 Jones, however, brought his clenched fist upon the table. 
 
 " Emblem of life % Compensation % Eubbish T he cried. 
 " "We have waited, we have suffered. What of it % The suffer- 
 ing is gone, the waiting is over. It is no more than the earache 
 I had when I was a boy. Even the memory of it is almost 
 faded. Venn, Lynn, this infernal bottle is the emblem of our 
 hopes and disappointed ambitions. Go, cursed symbol of defeat.' 
 
 He hurled the bottle into the fireplace, and threw the glasses 
 after it. 
 
 "And now, Venn, if you like, I will get you some new 
 champagne, and drink to your happiness, and to yours, Lynn, 
 and to my own. In the words of the poet — 
 
 ' Look not for comfort in the champagne glasses, 
 
 They foam, and fizz, and die ; 
 Only remember that all sorrow passes, 
 As childhood's ear-aches Hy. 
 
 At the great Banquet where the Host dispenses, 
 
 Ask not, but silent wait ; 
 And when at last your helping turn commences, 
 
 Complain not 'tis too late. 
 
 And see, Choi-us of the disappointed, 
 
 Ourselves not quite forgot ; 
 And after aimless play and times disjointed. 
 
 Sunshine and love our lot.' " 
 
 lUE END. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD AND LONDON.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
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