S 
 
 fi 
 
 V^^JW^ 
 
 
 Frank Barrett.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 LITTLE LADY LINTON. 
 
 2 f\obcl. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK BARRETT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'folly MORRISON,' 'HONEST DAVIE,' ETC 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 JJubltshfrs in (Driinarj) to '^)tx <fttajr«tB tlu Queen. 
 
 1884. 
 [All Bights Beserved.]
 
 {Thr rtfjht of dramatising thin novel has been irrotccted in 
 accordance loith the tei'ms of the Copi/right Act.)
 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. MESSRS. PIERCE AND PIERCE 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 II. MRS. GOWER - - - - IS 
 
 III. THE DIARY - - - - 33 
 
 IV. THE DIARY.— GERTIE SETS SAIL FOR 
 
 ENGLAND - - - - 55 
 
 V. THE DIARY. — GERTIE DINES WITH JOHN 
 
 BROWN - - - - - 73 
 
 VL THE DIARY. — GERTIE AND JOHN BROWN 
 TALK OF STRANGE THINGS IN FACT 
 AND FICTION - - - - 90 
 
 VIL THE DIARY. — GERTIE's SEA VOYAGE COMES 
 
 TO AN END . - - - 104 
 
 VIII. THE DIARY. — GERTIE GOES TO LONDON - 136 
 
 577l^iJL
 
 IV Contents. 
 
 f-HAPTER r\r.K 
 
 IX. TIIK DIARY. — ftERTIE's GREAT lIAl'l'INESS 160 
 
 X. THE DIARY. — A NKW LIFE - - 206 
 
 XI. THE DIARY. — GERTIE'S PUPILS - - 226 
 
 XIL THE DIARY. — 'WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY' 243 
 
 XIIL THE DIARY. — GERTIE REBELS : THE CAUSE 
 
 THEREOF .... 281
 
 LITTLE LADY LINTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MESSRS. PIERCE AND PIERCE. 
 
 ELL, here's my place of business. 
 You'll know where to find me 
 when you want me.' 
 ' " Third floor — Pierce and Pierce." 
 Who is the other Pierce, Bob ?' 
 ' My partner.' 
 
 ' One of the mysterious unknown who 
 have figured as "Co." in former enterprises, 
 I suspect. What are you now ?' 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 Litth Lady Linton. 
 
 Mr. Pierce dropped his voice and mur- 
 mured in his fi'icnd's ear : 
 
 * Private inquiry agents, if you please.' 
 
 * A private inquiry agent — you ? Ho, 
 ho ! You don't mind my laughing ?' 
 
 ' Not at all ; Fm tolerably inured to it ; 
 but I should like to know where the point 
 of the joke is.' 
 
 ' Hang it, Bob ! one can understand your 
 beino; an assent for coals, sewino'-machines, 
 mineral waters, knife-cleaners, or even a 
 theatrical agent ; but it's past comprehen- 
 sion that a man like you could think of 
 being a private inquirer — something be- 
 tween a plain-clothes policeman and an 
 earwig ! Certainly you might make any 
 number of private inquiries without leading 
 anyone to suspect that you were employed 
 for that purpose ; for, to tell you the truth, 
 Pierce, you look more like an alderman 
 than a spy.'
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 
 
 ' I should prefer to be an alderman ; but 
 circumstances give me no choice in the 
 matter. A moneyless man must do some- 
 thing for his living, unfortunately. No 
 one would have me for a clerk if he had 
 any business-principles whatever; I can't 
 constitute myself director of a flourishing 
 company, and I have not sufficient cash to 
 open a chandler's shop. Here I have a 
 snug little office at ten shillings a week, 
 where I can sit and read my newspaper 
 without the slightest worry or interruj)- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' But suppose anyone is rash enough to 
 employ you in a case that requires active 
 investigation ?' 
 
 ' I shall still sit in my office and read 
 my newspaper.' 
 
 'But your case ? — for I know you well 
 enough to believe that you would deceive 
 
 nobody ' 
 
 1—2
 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' Except in the way of business.' 
 ' 1 mean nobod}^ -wlio employed you. 
 Well, how would you act fairly to him and 
 sit eternally in your office with your ever- 
 lasting newspaper ?' 
 
 ' Oh, the eavesdropping, the poking and 
 pr^'ing part of the business is conducted by 
 tlie other Pierce !' 
 
 ' Then you really have a partner ?' 
 ' Undoubtedly ; and, if you asked me the 
 origin of my partner's species, I should 
 answer, without the slightest hesitation — 
 ferrets. To a man like me, who loves peace 
 and quiet beyond most things, who loves to 
 read his newspaper without being bothered, 
 and to come and go and do just what he 
 pleases without question or interference, it 
 W'Ould be, as you may imagine, a great 
 blessing to be entrusted with an investiga- 
 tion that should occupy a restless inquisitive 
 partner wholly.'
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 
 
 'Undoubtedly. Is there any hope of 
 your getting such employment for him ?' 
 
 ' I think there is. By-the-bye, I must 
 put my pipe out. I expect my client — 
 client, my boy I — at ten, and it won't do to 
 be caught gossiping in the street with a 
 pipe in my mouth. Come up to my office 
 if you have nothing better to do for a 
 quarter of an hour, and I'll give you the 
 outline of the case — it's a rather curious one. 
 But you must put 3"our pipe out, you know.' 
 
 Mr. Pierce went up to his office on the 
 third floor, followed by his friend ; and, 
 when he had put on a pair of easy slippers, 
 and both were seated, he said : 
 
 ' We will begin at the beginning ; read 
 that.' 
 
 He handed a letter taken from a bundle 
 which he had brought out of the capacious 
 pocket of his coat. The communication, 
 written in a feminine hand, ran as follows :
 
 6 Little Lddy Linton. 
 
 * Having seen your advertisements in the 
 morning pajxirs, I should be glad to know 
 upon what terms you undertake investiga- 
 tions. Address, " Anon., Post-office, Wal- 
 ham Green." ' 
 
 ' I replied, saying that our terms de- 
 pended upon the nature of the work and the 
 amount of it to be done ; and at the same 
 time requested that she — our client is a 
 lady — would call upon me, or lay her case 
 as clearly as possible before me in a letter. 
 Two days later I received this.' 
 
 ^Ir. Pierce handed his friend a second 
 letter. 
 
 The followiner is the statement of facts 
 
 O 
 
 you require. As I am unacquainted with 
 any person who has had transactions with 
 you, and wish to commit myself to nothing 
 at this stage of our negotiations, I have
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 
 
 given imaginary names to the persons con- 
 cerned : 
 
 ' At the age of twenty -six my daughter 
 married a person of title and considerable 
 wealth. For the first two years my 
 daughter lived in London and at her 
 husband's country seat. I have no reason 
 to think that my child was ill-used during 
 this time, although her husband was a man 
 of the world, with a temper at times 
 sardonic, at times violent, as I had more 
 than once occasion to remark. At the end 
 of two years Sir Charles wxnt abroad, 
 taking my daughter with him; and I have 
 letters to prove that he was at this time 
 unreasonably suspicious, exacting, and self- 
 willed. They were abroad twelve months, 
 and then returned to England, but not to 
 London. In express opposition to my 
 daughter's wish and my entreaties, Sir 
 Charles gave up his town house and in-
 
 8 Litth' Ladtj Linton. 
 
 sisted upon residin*^ in the country, where 
 my daughter suffered physically and men- 
 tally. The house was old, and, in the 
 winter, damp, and the society was unbear- 
 able. !My daughter had been used to in- 
 dulgence, to life, and the excitement of the 
 season. 1 can produce forty- three letters, 
 written to me in the space of a year, to 
 show that Sir Charles treated his A\ife with 
 absolute barbarity. He would not listen to 
 her wishes, nor, I may add, would he listen 
 to my prayers. Indeed, his behaviour to 
 me became so intolerable that my visits at 
 his house became shorter and more remote 
 every time, until they finally ceased alto- 
 gether. My daughter, however, did not 
 fail to correspond regularly; and in the 
 following year, the fourth of her married 
 life, she complained bitterly of her husband's 
 neglect, and of the surveillance under which 
 she was placed in his absence. It was clear
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 9 
 
 to me that my daughter could not exist in 
 this deplorable condition, and that either 
 she would j^ut an end to her life or leave 
 her husband. She had begged me to pro- 
 cure a legal separation, but my solicitor 
 informed me that this was impracticable. 
 In the autumn of the fourth year my 
 daughter disappeared. The fact was made 
 known tome through Sir Charles's solicitor. 
 A boat taken from the boat-house Avas found 
 upset below the weir, but no trace of my 
 daughter could be discovered. No one 
 believed she had committed suicide, for she 
 had taken with her a maid- servant and all 
 her jewels. It was concluded that she had 
 used the boat to cross the river, and then 
 suffered it to go down with the current. 
 This was my own conclusion. After this, 
 I naturally expected to see my daughter, or 
 at least to receive a message or a letter from 
 her. But no message came, and I then
 
 10 Little Lad 11 TJiito?i. 
 
 began to suspect the truth. ]My suspicions 
 Avere verified in the spring. In February I 
 
 was summoned to , where a quantity 
 
 of hair, some fragments of clothing, and 
 some jewellery were shown me. I identified 
 them at once as appertaining to my dear 
 daughter. These remains, with others un- 
 recognisable, had been discovered under 
 Avater in repairing the empty boat-house. I 
 saw at once that Sir Charles had murdered 
 his wife; and at the inquest I produced my 
 child's letters, and described fully the bar- 
 barous treatment to which he had subjected 
 her. He made no denial of my charge, he 
 offered no explanation of the way by which 
 liis wife had come by her death, and he was 
 committed to take his trial at the assizes. 
 The prosecution was shamefully lenient to 
 Sir Cliarles. Instead of representing my 
 child as the blameless and suffering angel 
 she was, the Queen's Counsel tacitly ad-
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 11 
 
 mitted that she had misconducted herself 
 and given Sir Charles ample cause to regret 
 his marriage. My solicitor tried to con- 
 vince me that this course was unavoidable, 
 since, supposing Sir Charles to be in his 
 senses, a motive for the murder must be 
 admitted ; he further added that no jury 
 would hang a man of title on presumptive 
 evidence, and that the utmost the Crown 
 could do was to cast strong suspicion on 
 Sir Charles and debar him from holdino- an 
 honourable position in society for the future. 
 My letters were scarcely referred to, and in 
 the witness-box I was grossly insulted. 
 N"© direct evidence against Sir Charles was 
 found ; and it was merely suggested that, 
 having followed his wife to the boat-house, 
 he had there, tempted by opportunity, or 
 provoked by her refusal to return with him 
 to the house, thrust her into the water and 
 suffered her to drown. The jury returned
 
 12 Little La(hj Linton. 
 
 a verdict of " Not guilty " ' — here Mr. 
 Pierce's friend gave a grunt of approval. 
 * But,' the letter proceeded, ' I am thoroughly 
 convinced that this verdict could not have 
 been returned had a searching inquiry been 
 made into Sir Charles's relations with the 
 servants, who were undoubtedly bribed to 
 withhold evidence. It is this investigation 
 which I will have made, if the cost of 
 making it is within my means.' 
 
 ' She doesn't say what became of the 
 maid-servant who left with her daui-'hter.' 
 
 ' Oh, she disappeared — with the major 
 part of her mistress's jewels !' 
 
 ' Just what I expected. Of course she 
 did it.' 
 
 ' Don't be hasty ; you haven't heard the 
 other side. I wrote to my client, asking for 
 particulars as to Sir Charles's defence. 
 Here's her reply.'
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 13 
 
 Mr. Pierce's friend read : 
 
 ' The counsel for the defence charged my 
 daughter with insobriety and a clandestine 
 acquaintance with James Burton, Sir 
 Charles's discharged valet, ^vho is said to 
 have been at the same time secretly courting 
 my daughter's maid. With regard to in- 
 sobriety, our family doctor declared that it 
 was a disease which should have elicited 
 her husband's sympathy and pity rather 
 than his malevolent anger. As to the 
 clandestine acquaintance, I do not believe 
 one word of it.' 
 
 ' Do you believe a word of it. Bob ?' 
 
 ' Oh, it was proved at the trial !' 
 
 ' How do you know that ?' 
 
 Mr. Pierce chuckled quietly. 
 
 ' My correspondent's vanity did it,' said 
 he. ' You can see she is as proud as a 
 peacock, and could not conceal the fact that
 
 1-1 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 she had iiiarricd her daughter to a man of 
 title. My partner at once recollected the 
 case of a baronet being tried for murder, 
 and of a boat Ijeing found at the foot of a 
 weir. A few hours spent with a file of 
 newspapers put us in possession of all the 
 particulars my client mentions, and many 
 others she had passed over. It was proved 
 that the lady was afflicted with dipsomania 
 before her marriaf>:e, and that the fact had 
 been carefully concealed by her mother — it 
 was on this point that the lady received the 
 gross insults in the witness-box of which 
 she complains in her letter. It was proved 
 that her husband was compelled to with- 
 draw her from society, and that he took her 
 abroad at the advice of a physician, with the 
 hope of curing her. It was proved that 
 she li-rew worse instead of better, and had 
 to be put under paid keepers. It was 
 proved that she eluded their vigilance and
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 15 
 
 carried on a clandestine acquaintance witli 
 Sir Charles's valet, who was dismissed on 
 that account. It was proved that the 
 lady's-maid was at the same time secretly 
 courted by this man-servant. It was proved 
 that, the day before the lady's death, she 
 received through her maid a letter from the 
 discharged man-servant ; and it was proved 
 that the man and the maid were together, 
 and took the train to London the morning 
 after the lady's flight from her husband's 
 house, and that they carried a box, which 
 they would not trust to the man who took 
 their portmanteau from the hotel to the 
 station.' 
 
 ' Oh, the case doesn't admit of doubt ! 
 Your client must be mad to think of over- 
 turning a verdict based upon such e\'idence 
 as that.' 
 
 ' I dare say she is mad,' said Mr. Pierce, 
 with another chuckle. ' I see her position
 
 IG Little Lady Linton. 
 
 [)rctty clearly. She marries her daughter 
 to a baronet, and becomes at once a kind of 
 triton amoni>"st her middle-class minnows. 
 Then comes this revelation, which covers 
 her daughter with disgrace, and her also, 
 and all through her own precious cleverness 
 at the inquest. But for her evidence, there 
 would have been a simple verdict of "found 
 drowned," in all probability. To save his 
 wife's name from disgrace, Sir Charles said 
 nothing about her propensities or this un- 
 pleasant acquaintance with his valet until 
 he was compelled to do so.' 
 
 ' That shows he was a gentleman. Of 
 course, if you take up this case, you can't 
 expect to prove Sir Charles guilty.' 
 
 ' I am not so sure of that.' 
 
 ' A\ liat ! You think he is guilty ?' 
 
 ' Of complicity, perhaps.' 
 
 ' But there's not a tittle of evidence 
 against him.'
 
 Messrs. Pierce and Pierce. 17 
 
 ' There it is. You may fairly doubt the 
 justice of any verdict that is returned for 
 want of evidence on the other side. Ha !* 
 
 A gong upon the door in the outer office 
 sounded, and Mr. Pierce rose from his 
 chair. 
 
 ' There's my client,' said he. ' You must 
 
 go. 
 
 ' I wish you luck, Bob. Good-bye!' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 ams. GOWER. 
 
 S?W^R. PIERCE closed the door of the 
 outer office upon his friend, and 
 turned to the lady who waited 
 by the little mahogany counter. 
 
 ' Ah, this is the office of Messrs. Pierce 
 and Pierce, I believe ?' she said. 
 
 ' It is, ma'am. My name is Pierce.' 
 ' Ah, indeed !' She unfolded a pair of 
 gold-rimmed glasses, and, liolding them 
 ^yit]l great delicacy a few inches from her 
 eyes, examined ]\Ir. Pierce with the cool 
 audacity of a very superior super-genteel
 
 Mrs. Gower. 19 
 
 person ; whilst he, with his knuckle on the 
 little counter, looked over the top of his 
 glasses at her with the stolidity of a 
 naturally phlegmatic man. 
 
 She was well dressed, tall, very erect, and 
 about fifty. Her features might have served 
 Mr. du Maurier as a model for his duchess. 
 They were features with a good deal of 
 character in them — unpleasant character, as 
 it seemed to Mr. Pierce. She spoke with 
 severe distinctness, and, having spoken, 
 drew back her lips tightly upon her perfect 
 teeth, giving to her face the semblance of a 
 smile which seemed much at variance with 
 the expression of her eyes ; for her eyebrows 
 were raised in pained astonishment, and she 
 looked anything but pleased with the aspect 
 of Mr. Pierce. 
 
 In truth, his appearance was enough to 
 disappoint anyone about to entrust him 
 with an enterprise requiring shrewdness 
 
 2—2
 
 20 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 and quick address. He was large and 
 heavy, with tlie jDatient ox-like expression 
 of an unsuccessful man. There was a 
 slipshod air about him, and a (Ustinct 
 odour of last night's birds'-eye. His dress 
 was unbusiness-like. Half of his ill-folded 
 newspaper stuck out of one pocket, and 
 two-thirds of an old bandanna hung out of 
 the other ; and he seemed not at all con- 
 scious of his utter commonplaceness and 
 very inferior condition. 
 
 The lady lowered her glasses and 
 said: 
 
 ' I have written to you, signing myself 
 anonymously. You received my letter 
 yesterday ?' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am. If you will walk into my 
 office, we can talk without fear of inter- 
 ruption. This way, if you please.' 
 
 Mr. Pierce opened the inner door. 
 
 The lady hesitated, as if she regretted
 
 Mrs. Gower. 21 
 
 having had anything to do with Mr. Pierce ; 
 however, there was no going back at this 
 point, so she entered the inner office. 
 There was nothing in the look of this small 
 room to promote confidence. Looking 
 about her deliberately, she observed that, 
 while the two armchairs had the air of 
 being extensively sat upon, there was 
 a thick stratum of dust upon the stool 
 before the desk. Mr. Pierce placed a chair 
 for her, and with difficulty poised himself 
 upon the stool. 
 
 ' I should like to know if you are the 
 principal of this firm ?' said she. 
 
 ' I am the senior partner and head of the 
 business,' he replied. 
 
 ' Thank you. I do not wish to waste 
 your time or my own, Mr. Pierce ; we will 
 therefore come to the point at once.' 
 
 ' She wants to get out of it,' thought Mr. 
 Pierce. ' Like my luck !'
 
 22 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' You have taken three weeks to consider 
 the subject of our correspondence.' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am ; we do nothing in a hurry.' 
 
 ' Obviously ; and you have arrived at a 
 conclusion ?' 
 
 ' Y"es. We are prepared to make the in- 
 vestigation, and to begin at once.' 
 
 ' Just so. Be good enough to tell me 
 now, if you please, at what price you value 
 your services.' 
 
 ' It "s\all cost you two guineas a day.' . 
 
 ' For how long ?' 
 
 ' Until the guilt or mnocence of the party 
 suspected is proved to your satisfaction.' 
 
 The lady smiled ; there was something 
 quite too ridiculous in Mr. Pierce's pro- 
 posal. 
 
 ' That is to say,' said she, ' the inquiry 
 is to be protracted indefinitely at my ex- 
 pense.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't advise you to have it ex-
 
 Mrs. Gower. 23 
 
 tended beyond six months. If nothing is 
 discovered by that time, nothing will ever 
 be discovered.' 
 
 ' I am afraid the result would not be 
 worth the expense.' The lady rose from 
 her seat. ' I must, therefore, decline to go 
 any further with this investigation, Mr. 
 Pierce.' With the 'slightest perceptible in- 
 clination of the head, she turned towards 
 the door. 
 
 Mr. Pierce slipped off his stool mth an 
 air of resignation, and, going to open the 
 door for his escaping chent, murmured : 
 
 * So much the better for Sir Gilbert.' 
 
 ' Su' Gilbert !' exclaimed the lady, stop- 
 ping abruptly and turning towards Mr. 
 Pierce. ' How did you come into posses- 
 sion of that name ?' 
 
 ' Do you suppose I should take up a case, 
 knowing no more about it than you told me 
 in your letter, Mrs. Gower ?'
 
 24 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 * How long have you known my name ?' 
 ' Only within the last three weeks.' 
 
 ' And — and what do you know of tliis 
 case ?' 
 
 ' Sufficient to ^varrant me in offisring my 
 services on your side. This private inquiry 
 business is not a very exalted kind of thing 
 — not the sort of work a gentleman would 
 take to, if he could help it ; nor the occupa- 
 tion that any decent man would devote him- 
 self to without a pretty strong conviction that 
 he could get his living honestly by it.' 
 
 ' Then you believe Sir Gilbert is guilty ?' 
 
 * I believe that he is not guiltless. I am 
 tolerably certain he had a stronger motive 
 for wishing his wife out of the way than 
 the counsel for the prosecution discovered.' 
 
 Mr. J*ierce spoke with his hand resting 
 on the handle of the door. Mrs. Gower, 
 after re":ardin2: him without the aid of her 
 glasses for a couple of moments in silent
 
 Mrs. Goicer. 25 
 
 surprise, quietly turned to the chair she 
 had left, and re-seated herself. Mr. Pierce, 
 instead of returning to his desk, dropped, 
 by force of habit, into the armchair that 
 faced her. 
 
 ' What motive had he ?' she asked. 
 
 Mr, Pierce did not reply directly ; he 
 seemed to calculate for a brief space how 
 far he should play his fish before striking. 
 
 ' Do you know that Sir Gilbert has given 
 up the Abbey ?' he presently inquired. 
 
 ' I heard that he had left Monkden. No 
 one would miss him.' 
 
 ' Do you know that he has taken a second 
 wife ?' 
 
 ' Sir Gilbert married again, and not a 
 year since my dear Griselda was alive ?' 
 
 Mr. Pierce nodded. 
 
 ' To whom ? What is the creature's 
 name ? How long has he known her ?' 
 
 ' Her name is now Lady Linton. Pie
 
 26 Little L(t(hj Linton. 
 
 made her acquaintance about five or six 
 months l^efore your daughter was drowned.' 
 
 ' That is precisely wliat I suspected !' 
 cried Mrs. Gower, in great excitement. ' I 
 Avas certain of it. I said to my husband 
 an:ain and aji^ain, " There is another woman 
 at the bottom of this." ' 
 
 ' That reminds me, ma'am. If this inves- 
 tigation is to be proceeded with, absolute 
 secrecy is necessary. Above all things, Mr. 
 Gower must suspect nothing of your know- 
 ledge.' 
 
 ' Why ?' 
 
 ' Because ]\Ir. Gower is in frequent com- 
 nmnication with Sir Gilbert Linton, and is 
 not only his friend, but also, I believe, an 
 old acquaintance of the jn'esent Lady 
 Linton.' 
 
 ' Oh, the infamous man, the monster, the 
 wicked base creature! Why did I ever 
 marry him ?' 
 
 I
 
 Mrs. Goicer. 27 
 
 'Ah!' Mr. Pierce made a little gesture 
 which signified that this question was one 
 open to a good deal of private inquiry. 
 
 'Go on, Mr. Pierce ; do not regard my 
 emotion ; tell me all ; let me know every- 
 thing.' 
 
 Here Mr. Pierce thought that the time 
 had come to striKe. 
 
 ' As you may suppose, ma'am,' said he, 
 risino^ and thrustino- Ms hands in his 
 pockets, ' this knowledge has not been 
 acquired without a good deal of trouble 
 and expense on our part. If the investiga- 
 tion ends here, I shall be a loser. That is 
 my affair. One must speculate in every 
 business. I have given you sufiicient proof, 
 I think, that we are neither stupid nor dis- 
 honest. If you still think the result of our 
 inquiries will be noi worth the cost, you are 
 at liberty to withdraw at once ; but, if you 
 desire to know anything further from me
 
 28 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 concerning Sir Gilbert Linton and Lady 
 Linton — and your husband — you must sign 
 this little memorandum of agreement, em- 
 powering us to carry on inquiries in your 
 behalf at a payment of two guineas jKir 
 diem for a space not exceeding six months 
 from the present date.' 
 
 Saying this, Mr, Pierce pulled out the 
 bundle of letters from his pocket, and, after 
 opening half a dozen envelopes, at length 
 found the copy of agreement, which he 
 handed over to the lady. 
 
 Mrs. Gower read the form of agreement 
 through, and sat for some moments in silent 
 reflection, tapping the paper with the edge 
 of her fflasses. 
 
 ' It is not a trifling sum that I may be 
 compelled to pay,' she said at length. 
 ' Before signing this agreement, I ought to 
 have a more defined prospect of success. 
 The facts — if they are facts — which you
 
 Mrs. Gower. 29 
 
 have produced, may be all that you can 
 obtain.' 
 
 ' Oh yes !' murmured Mr. Pierce thought- 
 fully, looking up at the ceiling over his 
 spectacles; 'I think you're right there! 
 It's a fair suggestion. Do you think, 
 ma'am,' he proceeded, turning his glance 
 down to his client — 'do you think a man 
 could keep a secret from his wife ?' 
 
 ' Not if she wished to know it/ answered 
 Mrs. Gower sharply. 
 
 ' And there are very few secrets that a 
 wife doesn't want to know, generally speak- 
 insf,' said Mr. Pierce, with a chuckle. 
 ' Now Mr. Gower was a widower when you 
 married him. Do you think, if he was 
 suspected of having murdered his first wife, 
 you would not have found out the truth 
 very soon after your marriage ? This is 
 merely a suggestion to prove the case.* 
 
 ' Of course I should.'
 
 30 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 * You think that any Av^onian, livini^ con- 
 stantly with her husband and on affec- 
 tionate terms with him, would in the course 
 of a few months discover whether the charge 
 against him was true or false ?' 
 
 After considering the question for a 
 minute, ^Irs. Gower replied : 
 
 ' Yes ; I think that any woman with 
 ordinary common-sense would discover that 
 — after marriage certainly, if not before.' 
 
 ' Then I fancy I can give you some assur- 
 ance of discovering' more facts than I have 
 already produced.' 
 
 Sapng this, Mr. Pierce had recourse once 
 more to the bundle of letters in his pocket, 
 and, taking out a bulky packet, he held it 
 up and said : 
 
 '' Tliis, ma'am, contains a faithful copy of 
 the present Lady Linton's diary, as I am 
 given to understand. As jQi I have but 
 just glanced at it, for it only came to me by
 
 Mrs. Gower. 31 
 
 this morning's post. It is not the whole of 
 the diary, nor anything like the whole. 
 Apparently it begins at the date of the 
 lady's first meeting with Sir Gilbert. But 
 I am assured that the diary contains a com- 
 plete record of the writer's experiences and 
 reflections up to the present day. I may 
 tell you that my partner is now residing 
 with Sir Gilbert and his wife, and has 
 access to Lady Linton's diary.' Mr. Pierce 
 looked at his slippers, as if he were rather 
 ashamed of his partner. ' The opportunities 
 of seeing the diary and copying from it are 
 naturally few and brief — an hour or two 
 each day is about the average ; but we may 
 reasonably expect to get the whole of it in 
 time. I am told that there are facts re- 
 lating to Mr. Gower which will be of gi-eat 
 interest to you.' 
 
 'You will let me read that and what 
 follows ?' Mrs. Gower asked eagerly.
 
 3 '2 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 * Certainly. I will give you this packet 
 the moment you have signed the agree- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' Give me a pen.' 
 
 AVith some difficulty ]\[r. Pierce found ink 
 that would flow and a pen that would write, 
 and, having brushed the desk with his coat- 
 sleeve, invited Mrs. Gower to put her name 
 to the agreement. This she did, and then, 
 handing the paper to !Mr, Pierce, said : 
 
 ' Now give me that woman's diary.' 
 
 Mr. Pierce handed her the packet.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE DIAKY. 
 
 cr 
 
 ^^^«HERE were some women washin 
 at the lavoir. I asked them if 
 they knew where I should find 
 the Enghsh fishermen belonging to the 
 boat that lay in the harbour. They all 
 ceased beating their linen to look at my 
 dress and hear what I had to say ; and one 
 of them, leaving her work, conducted me to 
 the end of the little street, and pointing 
 along the sea-wall to the angle where a 
 man Avas seated upon a piece of timber, 
 said that he was one of them. I thanked 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 her and Avalkcd along tlie wall, which here 
 was sheltered from the wind b}'' a row of 
 houses, so that one could look about and 
 enjoy the strange and beautiful scene, which 
 was strange indeed to me, who had never 
 before seen the sea. The wind seemed to 
 have swept away all impurity from the air, 
 the sun made nothin"; of the white clouds 
 that crossed his path ; everything was sur- 
 prisingly brilliant, and stood out clear and 
 bold before the eye — the cliffs, the great 
 rocks detached from them, the birds skim- 
 ming over the water, and some boats with 
 yellow and brown sails. The line where 
 the sea met the sky looked quite near, so 
 that it perplexed me for a while to see the 
 surface there so blue and still, while, but a 
 Httle nearer, it was all of a blustering hurly- 
 burly, and yellow from the sand torn up 
 froTu the shore. It made me giddy to peep 
 over the breastwork at the 2:reat waves that
 
 The Diary. 35 
 
 bounced inward and raced along by the 
 wall, curling over in a lengthening streak 
 of white foam as they ran until their 
 strength was exhausted, and they swirled 
 back to meet others, and be licked in and 
 dashed up in feathery spray. But I did 
 not pay very much attention to the sea just 
 then, except to keep closer by the houses 
 when a wave stronger than the rest came 
 spluttering up the wall and leapt over the 
 breastwork into the road, for my thoughts 
 were chiefly concerned Avith the Englishman 
 and my business with him. First of all, I 
 was astonished by the great size of him, 
 and next by his hardihood in choosing to 
 sit upon the most exposed point there was, 
 for no particular reason that I could 
 perceive, except to be swept by the violent 
 wdnd and the spray from the waves that 
 dashed against the angle of the wall. It 
 was unreasonable to suppose that a fisher- 
 
 3—2
 
 3G Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 man \yould resemble my dear father, who 
 Avas a scliolar and a suffering invaUd ; yet, 
 through seeing no Englishmen but him — 
 except the artist who came to Neufbourg a 
 long while ago, who was a thin, miserable- 
 lookins: creature, and afraid to cross the 
 stream for fear of slippmg off the rocks into 
 the water — I had come to think that all 
 Englishmen must be delicate of complexion 
 and feature, slight of form, and subject to take 
 cold. ^ly preconceptions are nearly always 
 wrong ; but this was stupidly wrong, 
 because I myself, although neither so stout 
 nor so robust as many girls at Xeufljourg, 
 am not puny or feeble, and I have read in 
 many books of my countrymen's great 
 strength and endurance. 
 
 When I reached the end house, the noise 
 of the waves and the violence of the wind 
 so terrified me that I dared not venture to 
 leave the shelter of the building, and stood 
 
 J
 
 The Diary. 37 
 
 there, calling to the man as loudly as I 
 could, and gesticulating with my arms ; 
 but he took no notice of me, for the noise 
 of the waters was far louder than my voice, 
 and, though his profile was partly towards 
 me, he did not catch sight of my arms, for 
 his eyes were half closed, and his gaze fixed 
 stolidly upon the horizon. He was not an 
 ill-looking man ; liis features were large 
 but nicely proportioned, his eyes were 
 deeply sunk, his nose was straight, his skin 
 was fair where the sun and wind had not 
 tanned it, and he had a short beard and 
 moustache, the colour of straw, and fringed 
 with beads of water that sparkled in the 
 sunlight. He wore a yellow oilskin cap 
 and coat, and a pair of great rough leather 
 boots that came up over his trousers. I 
 had plenty of time to notice these pecu- 
 liarities as I stood at the corner screaming 
 at him and waving my handkerchief He
 
 38 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 had not an unpleasant ex^^ression on liis 
 face, but he exasperated me by sitting there 
 smoking his empty pipe, with his arms 
 folded on his chest, and seeming to enjoy 
 the wind and the noiisc, while I was makinof 
 myself hoarse and doing my utmost to 
 attract his attention. This made me forget 
 my danger, and I presently stepped out 
 of the shelter and made towards him ; but 
 a gust caught me with such force that I 
 nearly lost my footing, and when I opened 
 my mouth to cry out, the wind got in 
 and stopped my breathing. I threw my 
 whole weight forward, yet I could not 
 advance for a minute ; then, the gust 
 suddenly subsiding, I dashed forward, and 
 came upon the man with a bounce as the 
 pent-up sound burst from my mouth. 
 
 * Fisherman !' I cried. 
 
 ' Well, what do you want with the fisher- 
 man ?' he asked, having looked at me with
 
 The Diary. 39 
 
 some surprise as I clasped my bomiet with 
 my hands. 
 
 ' If you'll come out of the wind, I'll tell 
 you,' I attempted to shout ; but the gust 
 had returned, and, before the sentence was 
 half over, my voice was silenced ; and then, 
 as I stooped down to gather my petticoats 
 together — for they were twu'ling about my 
 legs horridly — the wind caught hold of my 
 bonnet and carried it off my head, first up- 
 wards towards the roofs of the houses, and 
 then away out to sea. It might have 
 carried me away also if the man had not 
 laid hold of me. He rose from his seat and 
 led me away, holding my arm so firmly that 
 I could move neither to the right nor to the 
 left, but went in a straight Ime to the 
 shelter of the houses — just as if I were 
 being guided by a great piece of machinery. 
 
 ' What on earth did you go out there 
 for ?' he asked savagely, as he left go of my
 
 40 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 arm. ' Don't you know tliat you miglit 
 have been swept into the sea like the thing 
 you had on your licad ?' 
 
 ' Then why on eartli do you sit out there ?' 
 I retorted viciously, for I was enraged by the 
 loss of my bonnet and with being scolded 
 for my misfortunes by him. ' As for the 
 thing I had on my head,' I added, choking 
 with impatience, 'it cost me fifteen fi^ancs 
 at Bayeux this morning.' 
 
 He began to laugh ; but, seeing the tears 
 come into my eyes — for I could not restrain 
 them, my temper having got the better of 
 me — he became grave, and said in a low 
 voice : 
 
 ' I am sorry you lost your bonnet. Let 
 me tie this handkerchief over your 
 head.' 
 
 'No, thank you,' said I very coldly, 
 though feeling at the same time that it was 
 very kind of him to make the offer ; ' I can
 
 The Diary. 41 
 
 do quite well without it ;' which was true, 
 for, except on fete days, I never wore any 
 covering for my head after putting my 
 winter capeline aside. 
 
 ' So much the better,' said he ; ' you look 
 better without it ;' and he put the handker- 
 chief back in his pocket. 
 
 I took no notice of this compliment ; 
 indeed, I do not think he intended to com- 
 pliment me, for he spoke in a plain matter- 
 of-fact manner, without any of the polite 
 accent and OTace a Frenchman ^vould have 
 employed. 
 
 ' Do you belong to the English ship — I 
 don't know what its name is — that is 
 floating in the harbour ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do. It's a " she," and her name 
 is the Tuh: 
 
 He spoke now in a tone of playful 
 familiarity, which might have been ex- 
 cusable had I been a child or he an old
 
 42 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 man, but which — as he was less than forty 
 and 1 Avas m my twentieth }ear — seemed to 
 me an impertinence only attributable to 
 that want of good manners for which abroad 
 Englishmen are famous. 
 
 ' Are you the master of the Tub T I asked, 
 looking as severe as I could. 
 
 He nodded, keeping his blue eyes fixed 
 upon my face. 
 
 ' When do you leave here ?' 
 
 ' As soon as my crew return from Bayeux, 
 whither they have gone to get fresh meat 
 lor their captain's table. They should be 
 back now. Shall we walk that way and 
 see ? It may gratify your curiosity to ex- 
 amine the TuVs internal economy.' 
 
 ' I want to go in your ship,' I said, taking 
 that side of the path nearest the houses, as 
 he stepped into the road and turned towards 
 the harbour ; ' but first I must know how 
 much you will charge to take me and my
 
 The Diary. 43 
 
 bonne to England and bring my bonne back 
 here.' 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and, looking at me 
 in amazement, said : 
 
 ' Good heaven ! what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' I have told you,' I replied, with some 
 impatience. ' I want to know how much 
 you will charge to take me to England.' 
 
 ' I'm not a steam-navigation company,' 
 said he, laughing. 
 
 ' My bonne will not go in a steam- vessel ; 
 that is why we have come here. However, 
 if you don't choose to take us, we can find 
 another fisherman who will, no doubt.' 
 
 I heartily wished I had not sought this 
 man, for I saw that Mere Lucas's prejudice 
 made us appear ridiculous even to this 
 common fisherman. 1 made a stiff little bow, 
 and was turning away, when he said : 
 
 * Don't be impatient. I haven't refused 
 to take you. The TuVs a better boat than
 
 44 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 any in tliis precious hole, and I think I am 
 as good as any other fisherman you may 
 find here.' 
 
 ' That's why I asked you to take us.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I shouhl like to know 
 something more about you. Where's your 
 bonne ?' 
 
 'In the first of those little houses over 
 there, beyond the harbour.' 
 
 ' Is that your residence ?' 
 
 ' Oh no ! We have come from Neuf- 
 bourg — that is ever so far away. We have 
 been two days coming fi'om there.' 
 
 ' By train ?' 
 
 ' No. There is no railway near Xeuf- 
 bourg — not for fifteen leagues ; and Mere 
 Lucas is afraid of steam-engines.' 
 
 ' Who's Mere Lucas ?' 
 
 ' My bonne.' 
 
 ' She is not a young thing like you, 
 then ?'
 
 The Diary. 45 
 
 ' No; she is an old woman.' 
 
 ' Ah, I'm glad to hear it ! I was afraid 
 3'ou were a pair of harum-scarum young 
 runaways who had escaped from a school or 
 a religious house, or something of that 
 kind.' 
 
 He glanced at me sidelong in a suspicious 
 manner, as if to see whether this had made 
 any effect upon me. 
 
 ' You made a great mistake,' I said 
 sharply. 
 
 ' You are Eno;lish, of course ?' 
 
 ' My father and mother were English ; 
 but I was born at Neufbourg, and have 
 lived there all my life.' 
 
 ' Have you never been to England ?' 
 
 ' I have never been more than ten leao-ues 
 from ISTeufbourg. This is the first time I 
 have spoken English to anyone except my 
 father. My mother died before I could 
 speak.'
 
 •IG Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' Good heaven ! And has your father 
 suffered you — that is ' — he corrected him- 
 self quickly, seeing perhaps a sign in uw 
 face of the pain in my heart, and connecting 
 that with my mourning dress — ' have your 
 friends in Neufbourg suffered you to make 
 this journey with no protection but your 
 bonne?' 
 
 ' The}' are verj^ good, my friends Madame 
 Piquois and Monsieur I'Abbe ; but ]\Iadame 
 Piquois has Jeanne to attend to, and her 
 husband and her house ; and Monsieur 
 I'Abbe has his church ; and, after all, there 
 is no very great need of protection in 
 France ; and I shall have to do without it 
 n England.' 
 * Have you no friends there ?' 
 ' Not one.' 
 
 ' Then you are absolutely alone ?' 
 ' I shall be when Mere Lucas leaves me.' 
 ' What are vou goini>' to do in En"-land ?'
 
 The Diary. 47 
 
 ' I am going to London to sell my father's 
 book.' 
 
 ' Your father was a literary man. What 
 Avas his name ?' 
 
 ' Graham. He wrote for the Anthropo- 
 logist.'' 
 
 ' I don't think I have ever seen that 
 work.' 
 
 ' Very likely not. It has nothing to do 
 with fish. It is a philosophical magazine.' 
 
 ' That is not exactly in my way, to be 
 sure,' he said, smiling a little. ' Is the 
 book you are going to sell of an anthropo- 
 loo-ical kind ?' 
 
 * It is a cosmographical dictionary. It is 
 a very great work. My dear father has 
 spent years and years upon it ; and he died 
 the very day it was finished. 'Twas for me 
 he wrote it, poor dear ! and the thought of 
 providing for me sustained him.' 
 • He asked no further questions ; and we
 
 48 Little Ladij Lhdon. 
 
 walked alonir, sirle-by-side, in silence. I do 
 not knoAV quite liow it was I bad come to 
 tell him so mneh, he being a stranger and a 
 fisherman. T fancy the tone of equality 
 and authority he assumed had something to 
 do with it. 
 
 We had come to the harbour. A man 
 was on board, doing something with the 
 ropes. 
 
 ' After all,' said the Captain, as we drew 
 near his ship, speaking as if in reply to 
 some argument that had been going on in 
 his mind, ' I don't think you can do better 
 than cross the Channel in the Tub.' 
 
 ' You have not answered my inquiry as 
 to the price,' said I. 
 
 ' Oh, we'll arrange that presently !' he 
 replied ; and then he called out to the man 
 on board, who touched his hat in response ; 
 and a dialogue ensued which concerned the 
 stores in the ship, and the tide, and the
 
 The Diary. 49 
 
 wind, and matters Avliich I did not under- 
 stand — made more difficult even to guess at 
 by the curious dialect and nasal intonation 
 of the man, whicli differed entirely from the 
 master's. But this I was not surprised at, 
 for there must be in England different 
 dialects, as there are in France. At the fair 
 of St, Denis I have listened to the conversa- 
 tion of peasants who have brought horses 
 from Brittany without understanding one 
 Avord ; and, indeed, these fishermen of Cal- 
 vados spoke quite another patois from our 
 peasants of La Manche. 
 
 ' Come,' said the master, turning to me 
 quickly, when the dialogue with his man 
 was finished, ' we must settle matters with 
 your bonne at once. The tide is on the 
 turn, and if we are not off in an hour, we 
 shan't start to-day.' 
 
 I now felt anxious not to lose the chance 
 of going in the English ship ; for, while the 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Little Lachj Linton. 
 
 master and man were talking;, I had l)een 
 comparing the Tub and her crew with the 
 Frencli boats and their fishermen ; and the 
 latter appeared by contrast so unpleasant 
 and dirty that I dreaded the possibility of 
 journeying with them. And so we hurried 
 along towards the cottages — that is to say, 
 I hurried, for John Brown, which was, I 
 found afterwards, the name of the Tab's 
 captain — was such a giant that he had but 
 to saunter along to keep pace with my 
 quickest steps. 
 
 ' How is it your bonne let you come in 
 search of me alone ? That's rather contrar}- 
 to French etiquette, isn't it ?' he asked. 
 
 ' I dare say she thinks I am in the little 
 garden behind the cottage. She was too 
 deeply engaged in quarrelling with her 
 sister to pay much attention to me.' 
 
 ' There's a family quarrel going forward 
 
 —eh ?•
 
 The Diary. 51 
 
 'Mere Lucas wanted her brother-in-law 
 to scrub his boat clean for us, and he 
 wouldn't.' 
 
 ' It would be a long job, and a trouble- 
 some one, if his boat is in the same con- 
 dition as the majority of the boats here.' 
 
 'And he made all kinds of excuses to 
 get us to go by steamer from Havre to 
 Cherbourg.' 
 
 ' That's not an unreasonable suggestion.' 
 
 ' But Mere Lucas had made up her mind 
 that we shouldn't go by steamer, which she 
 says is neither safe nor respectable ; and 
 when she makes up her mind not to do 
 a thing, I don't know any argument that 
 could induce her to do it.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's the sort of old lady she is !' 
 
 ' Most old people at Neuf bourg are like 
 that. But she has some reason to be angry, 
 for her sister and brother-in-law came to 
 see her last summer, and were so clean and 
 
 4—2
 
 52 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 nice tliat she lent them a hunch'ed francs to 
 buy sails with; and then they promised that 
 if ever she should have need of the Marie 
 — that's the name of their ship — it should 
 be at her disposal. Of course they didn't 
 expect that Mere Lucas would ever want 
 to make a voyage ; but that makes no 
 difference — they promised, and were very 
 nice and pleasant wdien they wanted her 
 money ; and now that she wants their boat, 
 they're very sullen, and dirty, and disagree- 
 able.' 
 
 ' I suppose he suggested that my boat 
 would be more suitable?' 
 
 ' He did — that is why I came to see 
 about you. I only hope that Mere Lucas 
 has not made up her mind not to go in 
 your boat.' 
 
 * I don't see why you should be guided 
 by your servant.' 
 
 ' You don't know what a friend she has
 
 Tlie Diary. 53 
 
 been to me. I think our peasant women 
 look upon it as a kind of disgrace to leave 
 their villages ; and I am sure Mere Lucas 
 would have undertaken such a formidable 
 voyage as this for no one on earth but me. 
 She has prided herself on having brought 
 me up from my infancy without reproach, 
 and it has pleased her to think she has 
 made a sacrifice to save me from expense 
 and to conduct me in safety to England, as 
 being the utmost it is in her power to do. 
 If, after all, she is compelled to take me by 
 the steamer, as Monsieur I'Abbe advised, 
 she will feel sadly humiliated.' 
 
 'Then perhaps she will not decline a 
 berth in the Tub.'' 
 
 By this time we had come to the door of 
 the cottage. The brother-in-law had left 
 the cottage, and, at some distance from it, 
 was lounging against a post, with his hands 
 in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth.
 
 54 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 Mere Lucas and her sister were still at 
 liigh words ; but their quarrels had arrived 
 at the weepinf^- stage, and the invectives of 
 both women were interspersed ^vith sobs.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE DIAEY.— GERTIE SETS SAIL FOR ENGLAND. 
 
 ERE LUCAS was so exhausted 
 with contention that she had but 
 little strength to oppose my 
 proposal that we should make the voyage 
 in the English boat. Still, as it involved a 
 great sacrifice of self-esteem not to have 
 her own way, she did not concede without 
 considerable demur. She would not under- 
 stand John Brown, though he took great 
 pains to speak distinctly and loudly, and 
 his accent only was bad. She said she did 
 not understand liis patois, and made me 
 translate all he had to say.
 
 5G Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' Tell her,' said John Brown impatiently 
 — ' tell her that Jlercules himself couldn't 
 clean out one of those French smacks, nor 
 she either.' 
 
 I did not tell her that, for she would not 
 have understood the reference to Hercules, 
 and she could not believe anything im- 
 possible which she undertook. IJut I 
 persuaded her to look at the Tub before 
 declining John Brown's offer. She insisted 
 first on knowing the price to be paid. 
 
 ' Oh, anything she likes ! Ten francs !' 
 he said, roughly extending the fingers of 
 both hands. 
 
 Even Mere Lucas could not tliink this 
 price extortionate ; but, as a good Norman, 
 she accepted it with an air of protesting 
 resignation, drawing down the corners of 
 her lips and shrugging her shoulders, as I 
 had seen her do so often at market in 
 23urchasing butter a sous under the market
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 57 
 
 price. We went together to the boat, and, 
 when she had nearly exhausted John 
 Brown's patience by her many objections, 
 she told him he might go up to her sister's 
 house and fetch my boxes. Her decision 
 was made not a moment too soon, for, by 
 the time she had been to the church to say 
 her prayers, and delivered herself of a few 
 jDarting sentiments to her sister and brother- 
 in-law, the Tub was on the point of 
 starting, and, the moment her foot touched 
 the deck, a rope was unfastened, and we 
 moved from the side of the quay. 
 
 * I think you'll be all right,' said John 
 Brown, looking in my face ; ' but the old 
 woman is pretty certain to be ill, so you'd 
 better get her to lie down in the cabin 
 before we get out of the harbour.' 
 
 We had no difficulty in making her lie 
 down, for at the first movement of the boat, 
 though it was but slightly perceptible, the
 
 58 Little Lady Luiton. 
 
 poor dear put her hand to her mouth and 
 clutched at John Brown's arm for support. 
 We took her down the narrow steps and laid 
 her in the queer little bed. John Brown 
 spread a rug over her and tucked her up 
 kindly, and when he told her that the best 
 thing she could do was to shut her eyes and 
 try to sleep, she closed them at once, and 
 said ' ^lerci ' in a feeble voice, his patois 
 being quite comprehensible to her now. 
 
 ' I don't suppose you will be able to read 
 until you get accustomed to the dip,' said 
 John Brown to me ; ' but there's a com- 
 fortable chair in the next cabin, and a 
 volume of Punch to look at.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'm going upstairs ! I want to 
 see.' 
 
 ' You'll find it rough when we get out of 
 this creek.' 
 
 ' I don't mind that, if I can hold on to 
 something, and if— if you won't be cross.'
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 59 
 
 He laughed, being reminded of the 
 savage way in which he had spoken to me 
 when I stood in danger of being blown off 
 the sea-wall. 
 
 ' There's not so much danger of being 
 blown away as of being wetted. You 
 can't go on deck in that flimsy state. Do 
 you mind looking rather like a Guy 
 Fawkes?' 
 
 ' Not greatly.' 
 
 ' Then you wait here a moment.' 
 
 He left the cabin quickly. I turned to 
 Mere Lucas and asked her if she felt more 
 comfortable. She shook her head without 
 unclosing her eyes, and made an angry sign 
 with her hand for me to go away and leave 
 her to go to sleep in peace. There was 
 just the slightest movement to the right 
 and left, and the sound of water rippling 
 past the vessel's side, and a great deal of 
 clattering of heavy feet overhead and calling
 
 GO Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 out in strong voices. Presently John l>ro\vn 
 came back witli some things on his arm. 
 
 ' If you look sharp,' said he, ' we shall 
 be able to get on deck before the pitchuig 
 begins. Put your arms in this.' 
 
 He spoke so perem2)torily that I did not 
 wait to consider the subject, but put my 
 arms as he bid me in the sleeves of a great 
 oilskin coat, like the one he wore. It 
 must have been his, for it came rio;ht down 
 to my toes, and the sleeves had to be turned 
 ]jack to the elbow almost before my hands 
 came into view. He tied a silk handker- 
 chief round my throat to prevent the collar 
 hurting me, and buttoned the coat all 
 down ; then he gave me a long bonnet de 
 nuit of blue worsted to put on my head. I 
 did hesitate at that, but looking down at my 
 yellow oilskin costume, it struck me that 
 nothing could be added to make my appear- 
 ance more ludicrous ; so, laughing heartily,
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 61 
 
 I tucked my hair into the bonnet and drew 
 it down over my forehead. 
 
 'Will that do?' I asked. 
 
 ' Famously,' he replied. ' Now give me 
 your hand, and come along.' 
 
 It was rather difficult to get up the little 
 stairs with that rigid coat hampering the 
 movement of my legs and arms ; and I 
 felt very red as I stepped upon deck, 
 fearinof the seamen would laus^h at me. 
 But they were too busy to take any notice 
 of me. "We had got out of the little river 
 that formed the harbour, and were running 
 along between the wooden piers and just 
 passing the coloured crucifix. Between 
 the timbers I could see the white- crested 
 waves tumbling over each other and break- 
 ing against the pier. Overhead a great sail 
 was swelling out. The Tub was all up on 
 one side and down on the other, and, in- 
 stead of rolling from side to side, dipped up
 
 62 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 and down as .she met the waves that came in 
 fi'om the open part, which was just in front. 
 I noticed these things from the corner 
 where John Brown had pLaced me. I hehl 
 tight hold of the woodwork, as he bade me, 
 and he held my arm with his strong firm 
 hand. 
 
 ' "We shall ship a little water in a minute/ 
 said he ; ' but have no fear — there is no 
 danger.' 
 
 And just after tliat we passed the end of 
 the pier, and a wave, striking the front of 
 the ship, lifted us right up ; and then, as 
 we sank down, another wave struck the 
 side and fell with a miglity splash across 
 the boat, wetting the decks and the great 
 sail as well. I also was well sprinkled 
 with the spray ; and for a moment the 
 shock took my breath awa}*, and I was 
 terrified by the rise and fall; for at one 
 instant it seemed as though we were going
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. G3 
 
 to be thrown up to the clouds, and the next 
 as if we were going right down to the 
 bottom of the sea. But I felt John Brown's 
 strong grasp on my arm, and saw him 
 smiling at my terror; and then I caught 
 sight of the water in the distance dancing 
 and sparkling in the sunlight, with two or 
 three brown-sailed boats going along very 
 safely ; and my courage returned with a 
 kind of reckless excitement ; my heart seem- 
 ing: to dance with the waves. Then I 
 thought of poor Mere Lucas, and told 
 John Brown that I should like to go down- 
 stairs and assure her that there was no 
 danger. 
 
 ' You must wait till you get your sea- 
 legs before you try to go " downstairs," ' 
 said he. ' For the present, you can only 
 stay where you are. The old woman's all 
 right. I've sent one of the men down to 
 her. His presence and jolly manner will
 
 G4 Little Ladjj Linton. 
 
 ii'ive her a greater assurance of safety tlian 
 your words and odd appearance could im- 
 part, besides, I expect by this time your 
 ])()nne has certain requirements which he is 
 far better able to attend to than you.' 
 
 He spoke without exertion ; but I had to 
 shout, and then could scarcely hear my own 
 voice when I replied. 
 
 ' What requirements ?' I cried. 
 
 ' Basins and things,' he said, with a 
 lauo'h ; and I own I lauo'hed also. I do 
 not know w^hy we should find the idea 
 ludicrous ; sea-sickness must have been 
 anything but a joke to Mere Lucas, poor 
 dear ! 
 
 The waves were less boisterous as we got 
 away from tlie pier. The dipping up and 
 down of the Tub was quite exhilarating, 
 only she lay over on her side dreadfully. 
 We did not go straight away fi*om the 
 shore, but skirted along it ; and I think I
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 65 
 
 never have seen a more beautiful sight than 
 the deep purple-blue waves on the one hand, 
 and, on the other, the undulating line o 
 green, with its ragged edge of dark grey 
 rocks, with openings here and there where 
 the villages lay sheltered, with glimpses 
 of wooded country beyond. Noailles, which 
 I had thought the ugliest and dirtiest col- 
 lection of miserable houses that one could 
 find, from a distance looked neat and clean, 
 and the gable-roofed tower of the church 
 stood up above the shingled cottages, quite 
 an imposing object in the scene. I forgot 
 all about Mere Lucas, and began to fear 
 that the voyage would come to an end all 
 too soon. 
 
 ' When shall we get there ?' I asked. 
 
 ' All depends upon the wind. It's against 
 us now; but there's a chano-e comino- on, 
 and, if it don't drop altogether, the breeze 
 is likely to be in our favour. Any-way, I 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 Little Lady LAnlon. 
 
 don't think we shall get to London to-night. 
 Does that frighten you ?' 
 
 I shook my head, and I dare say that he 
 saw I was pleased. 
 
 ' "When did you have luncheon ?' he asked 
 presently. 
 
 ' Eleven.' 
 
 ' Getting hungry ?' 
 
 I nodded. AYe did not talk much. He 
 pointed out a thin line of smoke right on 
 the horizon, and told me it was a steamer; 
 and a square white sail, which he said Avas 
 a brig; and a brown-sailed boat as like the 
 French fisliing-boats as could be, I thought, 
 but he called it an Englishman. It sur- 
 prised me that he could distinguisli these 
 peculiarities so far distant ; but he certainly 
 had very fine eyes, blue, with a kind of 
 liquid crystalline appearance which I have 
 seen in none others. We had to move once 
 when the gi-eat sail was being re-arranged,
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 67 
 
 and that proved to me that I had not yet 
 got my ' sea-legs,' for without John Brown's 
 support I must have fallen. We seemed to 
 have turned round and to be going back ; 
 but we were clearly getting out farther to 
 sea, for the villages became so indistinct 
 that I had to ask John Brown to point 
 out which was Noailles. The wind grew 
 calmer, just as he had jDrophesied; the 
 clouds grew fewer, and the waves rose and 
 fell less high and low, I thought, John 
 Brown filled a pipe with tobacco and 
 smoked it, having long ceased to hold my 
 arm. I would have given a franc for a 
 slice of bread. I beo-an to wonder how T 
 should go on till the next day without 
 eating, for we had not bargained with John 
 Brown for food — that was as well so far as 
 Mere Lucas was concerned. A short, fat, 
 red-faced man came up on deck, and came 
 towards us with his legs stretched out like 
 
 5—2
 
 68 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 a pair of compasses. He touched his flat 
 blue cap witli his brown knuckle, and, 
 smiling at me very pleasantly, said : 
 
 ' You're a better sailor than what your 
 mar is, miss.' He referred to Mere 
 Lucas. 
 
 ' How is she going on, Peter ?' asked 
 John Brown. 
 
 ' Well, sir, she's unshipped most all her 
 ballast now ; but she still keeps sort o' 
 dra^TOfinf]^ at her anchor like.' 
 
 I wondered whether Peter was talking of 
 the ship or Mere Lucas, 
 
 ' We've been talkino; alon^: of one another 
 quite chatty betwixt and betweens,' Peter 
 continued. 
 
 ' Wasn't aware you could talk French,' 
 said John Brown. 
 
 ' Xo more I can't, sir. And she can't 
 talk English neither. But she says just 
 what comes uppermost, and I replies in the
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 69 
 
 same sperrit, so it's just as pleasant to both 
 parties. Thought you'd Uke to know how 
 she were a-going on, miss.' j 
 
 ' Thank you, Peter.' 
 
 ' She's a- saying her prayers to all apperi- 
 ence, and is likely to go to sleep over 'em, 
 and she may be able to pick up a bit if the 
 wind drops ; but if there ain't no frogs for 
 dinner, I reckon she won't miss em much. 
 Wind's a-dropping down, sir ; looks as if 
 we should get a little off the land at sun- 
 down.' 
 
 ' Yes. Tell Dick to look alive.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, sir. I'll go down to your mar 
 again directly, miss, and have another chat, 
 so be she's still on the drag.' 
 
 With that Peter knuckled his cap again, 
 and walked in his bear-like way to the other 
 end of the ship, where there was another set 
 of stairs. 
 
 ' Perhaps you would like me to tell Peter
 
 70 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 that ^Icre Lucas is not your mother ?' said 
 John Brown. 
 
 ' I hope you will do nothing of the kind,' 
 I replied, feeling a little indignant. 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' he said quietly. 
 
 * By-the bye, Avhat's your name ?' 
 
 ' Gertrude Graham. My father called me 
 Gertie.' 
 
 ' Then I shall call you Gertie. Do you 
 object ?' 
 
 • ' N"ot much.' 
 
 ' One's obliged to address persons by 
 name sometimes, and, of all words in the 
 lang-uan^e, " miss " is to me the most detest- 
 able.' 
 
 ' I don't see anything in the word ob- 
 jectionable. It is the common title of all 
 English young ladies, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' There's another contemptible word — 
 "young lady"!' he said, knitting his 
 brows.
 
 Gertie sets Sail for England. 71 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' Would you have all men and women 
 called " citizen " and " citizeness " ?' 
 
 'Oh, I'm not a red Kepublican! 
 "Citizeness" would be as hateful as "miss," 
 under certain conditions. Associations 
 make words pleasant or detestable.' 
 
 ' And associations make the name of 
 " young lady " unpleasant to you.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 He dropped his elbows on the bulwark of 
 the ship, and his bearded chin in the palms 
 of his hands, and, puffing at his pipe, 
 looked out to sea, while I ruminated on the 
 odd and not flattering observations of this 
 strange fisherman. And there he rested, 
 seeming to have forgotten me, until a man, 
 dressed ever so much better than he, came 
 to his side and spoke to him in a low 
 voice. John Brown nodded, slipped his
 
 72 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 pipe in his pocket, iind, turning to me, 
 said : 
 
 ' Dinner is served. Will you give me the 
 pleasure of your company ?'
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DIARY. — GERTIE DINES WITH JOHN 
 BROWN. 
 
 OHX BROWN helped me to go 
 downstairs, though the move- 
 ment of the boat was now so 
 regular that I could have very well 
 descended alone ; and, when he had thrown 
 off my greatcoat, I went into the little 
 cabin where Mere Ijucas lay, to put my 
 hair in order. Mere Lucas was unmis- 
 takably asleep, and snoring in such con- 
 tented tones that I felt it would be unkind 
 to disturb her ; so I went quietly about my
 
 74 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 toilette, and, when I had made myself look 
 as nice as I could, I left her and returned to 
 tlie larger cabin. There I found John 
 IJrown, but so altered in appearance that, 
 for the first moment, I mistook him for 
 the man who had announced that the 
 dinner was ready. Instead of his yellow 
 oilskin dress and great boots, he was dressed 
 in a close-fitting suit of blue cloth and a 
 ])air of light shoes. He did not look so 
 preposterously big in this suit, but still 
 taller and broader, more erect, and hand- 
 somer than any man I have ever seen, I 
 think. I found he had a fine fair forehead, 
 and, though liis hair was cut too short to 
 be pretty, it had a nice little wave over the 
 temples, and was very silky and glossy. I 
 was so perplexed and astonished by this 
 change that I cannot recall what took place 
 for the next ten minutes, except that I took 
 the seat that w^as placed for me opposite to.
 
 Gertie dines tuith John Brown. 75 
 
 him, and that the servant, instead of serving 
 the soup in a bowl, brought it in two 
 bright httle silver cups and turned it into 
 our plates. I noticed also that the table 
 was covered with a fair white damask cloth, 
 and that the service was handsomer than 
 that of Madame Piquois, which she pro- 
 duces only on fete days, and not then if 
 Monsieur le Cure is ex23ected, lest he should 
 consider her guilty of luxury; the forks 
 seemed to be silver, and the knives had 
 white ivory handles, the like of which I 
 never had seen before. 
 
 John Brown asked some qucbtions about 
 Mere Lucas, and I replied in a vacant, 
 stupid manner, of which I was only too 
 conscious ; but I was, to a certain degree, 
 bewildered by this unlooked-for aspect of 
 affairs, and very much embarrassed by the 
 presence of the well-dressed servant, who, 
 standing behind his master, looked at me in
 
 76 Little Lad]) Linton. 
 
 an impudent, sly way, and seemed to l.e 
 listening to every word I uttered. John 
 Brown, I foncy, saw that I was under 
 constraint, and when the servant — whose 
 name I found was Barton — had served the 
 fish, lie, witli a motion of his hand, dis- 
 missed him from the cabin. Then I made 
 an effort to be at ease. 
 
 ' Did you catch this fish ?' I asked. 
 
 ' No,' he replied, smiling. ' I don't care 
 much for fisliino;.' 
 
 ' Then you don't get your living by 
 fishing ?' 
 
 He shook his head and laughed. 
 
 * What made you think I did ?' he asked. 
 
 ' You looked more like a fisherman than 
 Mere Lucas's brother-in-law.' 
 
 ' Ah, you have formed your idea of fisher- 
 men from picture-books !' 
 
 ' From wliat Mere Lucas has told me, 
 and from what I have read in poems.' 
 
 I
 
 Gertie dines ivitli John Br^oivn. 77 
 
 ' There's something in common between 
 Mere Lucas and some poets.' 
 
 * And then this ship is not much unlike 
 the other ships at Noailles, except that 
 it is cleaner, and hasn't a great hole in the 
 centre.' 
 
 ' True. The Tub was a fishing-smack 
 once upon a time — and a very high- 
 flavoured one, too, until it was purified ; 
 and just over our heads was that hole in 
 the centre you speak of. Only a year ago 
 there were fish where we are now — a mass 
 of slippery tilings higher than you can 
 reach above your head.' 
 
 Looking round the cabin, with its 
 varnished deal wainscot and ceiling, its 
 white floor, its comfortable chairs and rugs, 
 and the table covered with glittering glass 
 and plate, it was difficult to realize the fact 
 which John Brown stated ; and it was 
 difficult also to fancy John Brown with dry
 
 78 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 fish-scales on his fiiif^cr-nails, like the 
 fishermen at Noailles. 
 
 ' What do you use your ship for now ?' T 
 asked. 
 
 * For running away from the old world in 
 search of a new.' 
 
 ' I should think that Captain Cook dis- 
 covered all that was worth finding.' 
 
 ' Not he. He left the world little worse 
 than he found it. It's the other Cook who's 
 spoilt it. There's little to be hoped for 
 after the cheaj) excursion.' 
 
 ' You didn't expect to find an}i;hing un- 
 discovered on the coast of Normandy, did 
 you ?' 
 
 ' Not much, Gertie. My heart fell when 
 I saw that somebody's Royal Windsor Starch 
 was to be had in packets at the chandler's 
 shop in Noailles. I fancy I must have been re- 
 flecting upon the hopelessness of Normandy 
 when you came to revive my courage.'
 
 Gertie dines with John Broion. 79 
 
 'I?' 
 
 ' You. Such a child as you might live 
 in the world I am looking for.' 
 
 I understand — at least, I think so — now 
 what he meant ; but I did not at the time, 
 and I was anything but pleased to be taken 
 as the type of a little savage ; also I re- 
 sented being called a child. He had his 
 eyes upon me and laughed, perhaps because 
 of my displeasure. 
 
 ' You don't like that, Gertie,' said he. 
 * You think you have some claim to the 
 advanced stage of ci\'ilization, after spending 
 a dozen francs on a fashionable bonnet at 
 Bayeux — eh ? When you come to know 
 how vulgar and false and heartless and 
 soulless are the people of the old world, you 
 will think I j^aid you a compliment in 
 fancying that you bore no resemblance to 
 them.' 
 
 ' I am sure you are in error about me
 
 80 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 and Neufbourg,' said I, after a little reflec- 
 tion. * Neufbourg is not in a desert, and 
 I am not at all like Pocahontas.' 
 
 ' Tell me all about Neufbourg,' said he. 
 
 * What do you want to know ?' 
 
 ' In the first place, is there a piano 
 there ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Tliat's to its credit.' 
 
 ' Why ? Don't you like music ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do like music ; and that is why 
 I dislike pianos.' 
 
 ' I don't miderstand that. Instrumental 
 music is very nice, and the better the instru- 
 ment the more agreeable I should think the 
 sounds must be. The piano, I am told, is 
 better than the clavecin. I have listened to 
 ^ladame Piquois's clavecin with great 
 pleasure ; l)ut, if anyone could liave tuned 
 it and replaced the broken strings, it would 
 have been pleasanter still to hear.'
 
 Gertie dines luith John Brown. 81 
 
 ' Ah, Madame Piquois possesses a clave- 
 cin, does she ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes. Marie's cousin at Avranches sent 
 her pieces of music quite modern, and she 
 played them, and I was never tired of 
 listening. Do you know " Suavita "?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' That was my favourite ' 
 
 I stopped, for it came into my mind that 
 I might never hear the clavecin and my 
 favourite air again ; and I thought o. 
 Madame Piquois and dear Marie and Jeanne, 
 and how Marie, on my last visit to them, 
 had sat down and played "Suavita" to 
 please me, as she thought, and how she 
 played false notes and wept all the timt, 
 while Jeanne and Madame Piquois, sitting 
 with me on the canape, were biting their 
 lips and doing their utmost to avoid burst- 
 ing into tears with me. My heart ached 
 bitterly with these recollections ; and I laid 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 my knife and fork down quietly, and drew 
 out niv handkerchief furtively, lest John 
 Brown should see that I was crying". T 
 saw him glance at me ; and then, as he kept 
 his eyes fixed on his plate and said nothing, 
 I concluded that he knew how these memo- 
 ries affected me. 
 
 ' And what kind of country is there 
 about Neufbourg, Gertie ?' he asked, after 
 a pause. 
 
 ' Oh, the most beautiful in the world, I 
 think !' said I — ' at least, I saw nothinjr so 
 nice in all the route to Noailles ! You can 
 find everything that is beautiful there. 
 From the hill -tops you look over leagues 
 and leagues of woods right away to St. 
 Michael's Rock standing up out of the sea ; 
 and from the valleys you look up ravines 
 that are blue with hyacinths in the spring 
 and purple with fox-gloves later on ; and 
 where the river goes tumbling along its
 
 Gertie dines ivitli John Broivn. 83 
 
 rocky course at the foot of the woods, there 
 are thousands and thousands of primroses 
 and snowdrops that hang over the water, 
 and yellow irises, and all kinds of orchids ; 
 and, when the apples are in flower, you 
 can tell where there are dwellings by the 
 patches of pink bloom that smother them 
 up. Then there are two rivers, neither 
 very large ; but, oh, what a noise the Canse 
 makes when it bounces down the great 
 rocks where St. Michael cheated the devil ! 
 And the Canson is not much quieter when 
 it makes the fall by the Pas au Diable — 
 the rivers look large enough then, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 'Wait,' said John Brown; 'you are run- 
 ning on too quickly. I should like to 
 know how the devil was cheated.' 
 
 I told him how the devil bought the 
 glittering palace made by St. Michael, and 
 how, when he entered it, the heat of his 
 
 6—2
 
 8 4 Little Lady Jjinton. 
 
 hody melted tlie icicles of which it was 
 formed, and so, as the peasants believe, 
 made the cascade for perpetuity. And it 
 surprised me to see how much pleasure 
 John Brown took in this legend, which, 
 of course, is quite without foundation of 
 fact. 
 
 ' And that Pas au Diable,' he said, when 
 I had come to an end of the story — ' that 
 sounds as if it should have something 
 to do with the history of my unfortunate 
 friend. Did St. Michael serve him badly 
 there ?' 
 
 ' Oh, he served him worse than ever 
 there !' said I ; and I narrated how the 
 devil and St. Michael started to race round 
 the world for a wager, and how the saint 
 tripped up the sinner and kicked him right 
 across the valley on to the hard rocks 
 opposite, where the marks of his horns and 
 his hoofs are shown now.
 
 Gertie dines with John Broivn. 85 
 
 ' Have you seen the marks, Gertie ?' asked 
 John Brown gravely. 
 
 ' Oh yes !' said I. ' But his horns were 
 wonderfully close together, and his toes 
 very wide apart. Of course, you know, I 
 don't believe the story.' 
 
 ' Don't you ?' said he. ' Well, I'm glad 
 to hear it, for the saint's sake. Are there 
 any more evidences of the devil's residence 
 at Neufbourg ?' 
 
 ' Only the Needle. That's a great rock 
 pointed at the top, and as tall as the mast 
 of your ship. It is said that, if one watches 
 it at midnight, it may be seen to turn 
 round three times. But no one has had 
 the courage to do that for a long time, for 
 the ivy about its base is as thick round as 
 my arm.' 
 
 ' Does everyone in Neufbourg believe 
 these traditions — except you ?' 
 
 ' No J Madame Piquois doesn't, and I
 
 86 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 don't think Monsieur I'Abbc does, altliouirh 
 lie will never tell you what he thinks on 
 the subject, because he naturally doesn't 
 wish to shake the faith of his people. 
 Monsieur le Maire wouldn't allow that 
 these things are true, for he is a Republican, 
 and won't believe in anvthin2:.' 
 
 ' Ah, I suppose he goes about undoing 
 all the work of Monsieur le Cure ?' 
 
 ' No ; he has too much occupation in his 
 lields and with the cow^s to interfere with 
 other people's business ; only it's generally 
 understood that he doesn't believe in any- 
 thing. Then there are several families of 
 educated people — rentiers, you know, who 
 couldn't believ^e in such things — people who 
 only wear sabots on week-days, and never 
 wear caps at all.' 
 
 ' Oh, there are folks who wear boots on 
 Sundays !' 
 
 ' Of course there are,' I said, getting a
 
 Gertie dines with John Brown. 87 
 
 little impatient at his density. ' Madame 
 Piquois has her dresses from Paris. Every 
 spring and autumn she receives catalogues 
 illustrated from the Bon Marche and the 
 Louvre at Paris.' 
 
 ' That seems unwise. What is the use 
 of putting on fine clothes if no one is to see 
 them ?' 
 
 ' But they are seen 1' I cried. ' Every 
 Sunday when it is fine we walk along the 
 grande route towards St. Denis, and the 
 people of St. Denis walk out towards Xeuf- 
 bourg, and, when they meet and stop to 
 say 'Bonjour,' they take notice of every- 
 thing you've got on.' 
 
 ' But you didn't indulge in such folly, 
 surely ?' 
 
 ' If I didn't, it was for no want of 
 curiosity. I should have liked a dress from 
 Paris above all tilings, if papa had been rich 
 enough to afford it.'
 
 88 Little Lad// Linton. 
 
 I tlioimlit this "svoiild disgust John 
 lirown, for his ideal seemed to me a poor 
 lialf-witted barbarian wlio believed in 
 fabulous stories, and I did not wish him 
 to class me among such creatures. But I 
 saw no sign of contemjDt m his face, though 
 I tried to find out from his expression what 
 he thought of me. He leant back in his 
 chair and looked at me fixedly with his 
 clear blue eyes, and I could not discover 
 what his thoughts were ; only I thought 
 that his feeling must be a kindly one, from 
 the repose of his face. 
 
 Barton came to take away the roast. 
 
 ' Let us go upon deck,' said John Brown ; 
 ' the evening should be very fine, ^'ou 
 need not fear the waves now. Put some- 
 thing warm about your shoulders, and you 
 can dispense with the oilskins. Do you 
 think you can walk steadily now, or shall 
 I wait for you ?'
 
 Gertie dines ivith John Brown. 89 
 
 ' I can go alone well now. I will come 
 up as soon as I have seen that Mere Lucas 
 is comfortable.' 
 
 ' Good. We can contiQue our serious talk 
 and watch the stars come out at the same 
 time.'
 
 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 THE DIARY. — GERTIE AND JOHN BROWN TALK 
 OF STRANGE THINGS IN FACT AND FICTION. 
 
 SAT down for five minutes 
 beside Mere Lucas, who still 
 slept ; and then, as she made 
 no sign of waking, I left her. The sailor 
 named Peter was in the next cabin clearing 
 the table ; he said he had a pot of tea all 
 ready for the old lady, and promised me he 
 would keep a bright look-out, and be smart 
 in his attentions as soon as she roused up. 
 
 The beauty of the sky and sea seemed to 
 take my breath away as I stood upon the
 
 Strange Things in Fact and Fiction. 91 
 
 deck and looked round me. There was 
 scarcely any movement in the water, and so 
 little wind that now and then the sail played 
 idly. No land was in sight, nothing but 
 the wide-spread sea, the over-arching sky, 
 and a golden radiance where the sun dipped 
 below the horizon. I wonder if my dear 
 father, who wrote upon great subjects, 
 could have described this scene ? I cannot, 
 and there is no need to make the attempt 
 here, for surely I can never forget it. My 
 heart seemed to swell within me, and for a 
 time I was overpowered with a feeling of 
 reverence for the Great Creator of the world 
 which was so grand and beautiful to my 
 eyes. I know not how long I had stood there 
 holding by the wood at the top of the stairs, 
 when I perceived John Brown, and awoke, 
 as it were, from the ecstasy in which my 
 mind was enthralled. He was seated at a 
 little distance to my right, his elbow on his
 
 92 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 knee, and his bearded cliin resting in the 
 pabii of his hand, re«'-arding me intently 
 while he smoked his pipe. He pointed to 
 a low chair by his side, and I went and sat 
 down. He must have known that I did 
 not want to talk just then, for he said 
 nothing, but continued to smoke his pipe as 
 if I were not there, and I felt grateful for 
 his considerate silence. Presently Barton 
 came, with coffee and a dish of curious- 
 looking fruit that provoked my curiosity ; 
 and by the time John Brown had told me 
 where the fruit came from and I had tasted 
 it, and sweetened my coffee and tasted that, 
 my thoughts had come down to their ordi- 
 nary level. 
 
 The sun sank down and down, but his 
 glory rested for a long while on the sea and 
 sky ; and, watching the beautiful change of 
 colours, we were both silent, for it was not 
 a subject on which one could talk thought-
 
 Strange Tilings in Fact and Fiction. 93 
 
 lessly. Now and then John Brown spoke 
 a few words — of a cloud flushing Avith rose 
 as it caught a Hngering ray, of a golden 
 ripple on the water, of the cold sadness in 
 the forsaken east ; but he smoked on all the 
 time until his pipe was empty, and then he 
 rose and left me. I thought of my friends 
 in Neuf bourg, and wished them with me to 
 share my delight ; and I reflected how little 
 the people who dwell all their lives in one 
 place know of the beauty of the world they 
 live in, and how little they care even for the 
 beauties that surround them, knowing no 
 contrast. While I was in this reverie, my 
 knitted shawl was laid over my shoulders, 
 and, turning in surprise, I found that it 
 was John Brown who cared for me. One 
 must have a good heart who, wanting no 
 protection for himself, can yet feel solicitude 
 for the want of another. 
 
 ' Let us walk up and down a bit ; shall
 
 94 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 we ?' lie aske:l. And then, us 1 rose, he con- 
 tinued, ' You'll grow sad if you watch those 
 dying colours longer. You were looking 
 as grave as a little judge when I came upon 
 you just now. I should like to know 
 what was ji^oinof on in your mind.' 
 
 ' I was thinkino' how much there is to be 
 seen in the world, and how little many 
 people see.' 
 
 ' They have their advantages, those little- 
 seeing people.' 
 
 ' I can't understand that,' said I. 
 
 ' That's because you have seen so little. 
 Have you read Hans Andersen's stories ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' What did that poor little water-maiden 
 get by knowing more than her sisters ?' 
 
 ' She GTot an immortal soul. And it was 
 better to break her heart than to live for a 
 whole lifetime carelessly, and be nothing but 
 sea-foam after.'
 
 Strange Things in Fact and Fiction. 95 
 
 John Brown made no reply, and we 
 walked up and down the deck twice or thrice 
 without a word ; but he must have been 
 thinking upon the subject, for, when he 
 stopped and leant upon the side of the ship, 
 he said : 
 
 ' This is about the time the sisters should 
 come to the surface ; we may be lucky 
 enough to see one, Gertie.' 
 
 He spoke so seriously that I could not at 
 the moment think he was joking. 
 
 ' You don't believe in mermaids, do you ?' 
 I asked. 
 
 He looked at me with a curious interest 
 in his face, and then, smiling, he said : 
 'No; but I believe in sirens.' 
 T did not at all understand what he 
 meant. His manner perplexed me. 
 ' You believe in sirens ?' I said. 
 ' Yes, if I'm not mistaken in my mytho- 
 logical notions. They were rare young
 
 OG Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ]-)crsons who cTianq-ed tlic Argonauts into 
 l)rutes, weren't tliey?' 
 
 ' No, oh no ! They failed to make any 
 impression on the Argonauts because 
 Ulysses made them deaf tliat they might 
 not hear their singing. Then the sirens 
 killed themselves in despair. It was Circe 
 who champed them into brutes. She was 
 an enchantress : but the sirens were half- 
 monsters and half beautiful nymphs.' 
 
 ' Ah, it's so long since I left school !' said 
 John Brown. ' The siren I spoke of is a 
 mixture of the two — rather more than half 
 monster, addicted to the use of dress, and 
 for the rest, beautiful enough. Hans 
 Andersen's nymphs are ten thousand times 
 better to think about. Let us look for 
 them.' 
 
 ' But I should like to know about the 
 siren. I am very fond of fiction.' 
 
 ' Oh. but this is a fact !'
 
 Strange Tilings in Fact and Fiction. 97 
 
 ' I'm almost as fond of facts,' I said, 
 laughing; for, to tell the truth, I was 
 curious to know what he really did 
 mean. 
 
 ' So you will know more — eh ?' he asked ; 
 and then, rising from the side, he thrust 
 his hands in his pockets, and we again 
 walked along the deck. ' She lives some- 
 where over there,' he said, nodding his 
 head towards the north. ' I^obody loves 
 her, and she loves nobody ; but, as she 
 never did love anyone, it requires a good 
 breadth of philanthropy to feel any pity 
 for her.' 
 
 ' But some one must have loved her, 
 or there wouldn't be any story.' 
 
 ' That's true. Well, once upon a time, a 
 young fellow — he must have been a prince, 
 he was so very stupid — went sailing along, 
 with the wind in his favour, a clear sky 
 above, and not a care in his heart until he 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 came to tliG island wlierc this siren lived. 
 She sat upon the yellow sands and sang 
 of pleasant things, and beckoned to the 
 prince to come and sing with her. You 
 may be sure she took care to conceal all 
 that was objectionable about her, so that 
 the prince saw only that which was beauti- 
 ful, and heard no more than the sweet 
 sound of her voice. The nearer he came 
 to her the more beautiful she seemed to 
 him ; and, as she smiled and beckoned, 
 he lost all thouo-ht of w^hat mi^'ht become 
 of him, and, altering the course of his boat, 
 he made straight for the yellow sands. If 
 he had been a careful sailor, he would have 
 kept a little way from that dangerous shore 
 and parleyed with the doubtful lady, and 
 made himself sure that she was concealing 
 nothing unpleasant from his sight. But, 
 being only a prince, he took so little heed 
 that his boat — which was called, if I
 
 Strange Things in Fact and Fiction. 99 
 
 remember rightly, the Good Fortune — struck 
 upon the hidden rocks and went to pieces 
 there and then. So there was no ofettino- 
 away from the siren after that ; and he soon 
 found that, though she could sing so sweetl}/ 
 of love, she had none at all in her heart 
 and that, except her beautiful face, all was 
 hideous and loathsome. And now that she 
 saw he was in her power, she made scarcely 
 any attempt to deceive him as to her 
 real nature. With that the romance of 
 that young fellow's life came to an end, 
 and he had to resisfn himself to the dis- 
 agreeable necessity of living a loveless life 
 in the society of this very repulsive young 
 person. But that was not the only punish- 
 ment entailed by his recklessness. You, 
 who remember so well your " Magnall's 
 Questions," may divine that worse was in 
 store for the prince. The process of brutal - 
 ization began. When he found his likeness 
 
 7—2
 
 ICO Little Lady Linton. 
 
 in a pool, lie ])erceived that his features were 
 losing their (lelicacy ; and when he heard 
 his own voice, which was now seldom used 
 for singmg [)urposes, he discovered that 
 it had lost its sweetness. The change was 
 going on in his whole being. He could not 
 see things as he had seen them with his 
 youthful eyes ; he could not even think 
 of things in the old young spirit. It 
 puzzled him at first where this change 
 would end ; but he soon saw the direction 
 his metamorphosis was taking. He was 
 gradually becoming like the creature he 
 most despised and hated ; and in his altered 
 form he detected a growing likeness to the 
 siren.' 
 
 ' And what became of him ultimately ?' 
 I asked, for John Brown ceased to speak. 
 'Oh, the story breaks off there!' 
 ' Xo story ends like that,' said I. ' If
 
 Strange Things in Fact and Fiction. 101 
 
 the tale is of your own inventing, you 
 ought to finish it off properly.' 
 
 'That is just where I fail as a good story- 
 teller. I can begin a tale well ; but when 
 I've got my characters into a difficulty, and 
 it's to bring about a happy denouement, I 
 break down. Xow, how should you finish 
 that, Gertie ?' 
 
 ' J should make his return to humanity 
 depend upon the love of a good girl.' 
 
 ' That's a capital idea!' 
 
 ' And, just as the siren's society brutalized 
 him, so the better woman's ministering 
 would humanize him.' 
 
 'Why, that's quite logical! But how's 
 he to get away from the siren ?' 
 
 ' Oh, she'd have to die, of course ; and 
 then the really beautiful and perfect nymph 
 w^ould come and marry him !' 
 
 ' Ah ! But supposing the siren wouldn't 
 die until the prince's nature had so changed
 
 102 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 that physically and morally he was loath- 
 some? AVhat sort of a })rincess would have 
 him? Not a very good-looking one, I'm 
 afraid.' 
 
 ' Yes, she would, if her heart was good 
 as well as her looks.' 
 
 ' That's the only weak part of the 
 hypothesis. A forced unnatural conclusion 
 will spoil my story. Better leave it frag- 
 mentary. I'll put the siren out of the way 
 and welcome, if you can only prove to my 
 satisfaction that the pretty princess will 
 marry my stupid brute of a prince. Do 
 you think it likely, for example, that you 
 would marry him if 3'ou were in the young 
 princess's place ?' 
 
 ' Of course I would,' said I, ' if I knew 
 that, by marrying him and using all the 
 power I had, I could bring him back to his 
 former state. Any girl would jump at 
 such a chance. That's just the very thing
 
 Strange Things in Fact and Fiction. 103 
 
 that's wanting to make marriage perfect, in 
 my opinion — the prospect of doing some 
 great work to earn her husband's love and 
 admiration, and trust and confidence,' 
 
 ' You are right, Gertie,' he said, after a 
 long silence. ' You can finish a story 
 better than I can begin one even. See 
 what a lot of stars have come out!' 
 
 Indeed, the heavens were now thickly 
 sprinkled with glittering silver points, 
 which had come out while we were discuss- 
 ing in this manner ; for I have not written 
 here one quarter of our conversation, but 
 merely the outline of it.
 
 
 T 
 
 :l). 
 
 tVJ!/^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 .s.tA- 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 THE DIARY. — GERTIe's SEA VOYAGE COMES 
 TO AN END. 
 
 ^ERE LUCAS had been drinking 
 some tisane that Peter the 
 sailor prepared for her, and the 
 little cabin was very close and stuffy, and 
 smelt very strong of rum. My j^oor old 
 bonne was very cross and fretful, and 
 would on no account allow the small round 
 window to be opened. So John Brown 
 advised me to sleep in a hammock which he 
 arranged in the room where we had dined. 
 'Go and take off any bone things you
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 105 
 
 may have on, and bring a pillow,' said lie ; 
 and I felt bound to do as he told me, for he 
 spoke in an authoritative Avay that would 
 not allow of question. I took off my 
 corsets in the little cabin, and put on my 
 flannel matinee in place of my dress, and 
 then I took the pillow into the other cabin. 
 He was still arranging the hammock, which 
 was curious and beautiful — of Mexican 
 make, he told me — wdth its open network 
 and deep fringes of coloured silk. 
 
 ' I've been thinking, Gertie, that I should 
 like to look at that book your father wrote,' 
 said he. ' Have you any objection to my 
 seeing it ?' 
 
 Of course I had no objection. I went to 
 my box and carried one of the parcels of 
 manuscript to John Brown — one was as 
 much as I could easily carry at a time. 
 
 ' Is it all here ?' he asked, taking the 
 parcel out of my hands.
 
 106 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ; there are live more like 
 tliat ! ril fetcli them.' 
 
 ' One'U be about enough for to-night,' he 
 .said, laughing. ' Xow then, your ham- 
 mock's ready for you.' 
 
 It Avas about two feet from the ground ; 
 but it swung lightly with the motion of the 
 boat. And I stood wondering how I 
 should get in, remembering how liobinson 
 Crusoe fell over on the other side when he 
 first attempted to get into a hammock ; but, 
 Avhile I was holding it, John Brown lifted 
 me up as though I had been no heavier 
 tlian a kitten, yet as tenderly as possible, 
 and, before I knew what was happening, I 
 found myself lying in the hammock with 
 my head on the pillow. He laid some 
 warm soft skin rugs over me, and tucked 
 them under my feet, which I had slipped 
 into my chaussons ; and then, commg to my 
 head, asked me if I felt quite comfortable.
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. "107 
 
 I thanked him, and held out my hand, 
 saying ' Good-night ;' for he seemed now 
 quite an old friend, or as I should think 
 an uncle would be to me, by reason of his 
 easy manner and a certain kind of pro- 
 tective familiarity which was unlike the 
 behaviour of any man I have ever met 
 except my dear father. 
 
 He held my hand for a few moments, look- 
 ing down into my face the while ; then he 
 bent down and kissed my forehead, and I 
 think he sighed as he turned away and left 
 me. When I had said my prayers, I began 
 to wonder whether John Brown had left 
 the cabin or not. The light was still burn- 
 ing, and I had not heard liim go upstairs, 
 and, being very curious to know whether 
 he Avas reading my father's book — of which 
 I cannot help being proud — I presently 
 turned my head round very quietly and 
 glanced round the room. He was seated
 
 108 
 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 by the table, with liis hand upon the parcel 
 of manuscript, which was unopened ; but 
 he was not looking at it, and he did not 
 move his hand. I wondered what he could 
 be thinking about, as I turned silently to 
 my former position. And soon afterwards 
 I fell asleep, saying to myself that, if my 
 countrymen were all like John Brown, the 
 French were not to be compared with them 
 for niceness. 
 
 No one was in the cabin when I. awoke 
 the next morning. The sunlight streamed 
 through the glazed opening above, and the 
 lio:ht reflected from the water, coming in 
 through the little window in the side, 
 danced fantasticall}" upon the ceiling. I 
 got out of my hammock without difficulty, 
 there being even less movement than on the 
 preceding evening, and, opening the port, 
 peeped out. To my surprise, I found that 
 the ship was quite stationary, and that the
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 109 
 
 land was but a little distance away. I 
 could see children on the shore in front of 
 the pretty houses. I made haste to get 
 upon deck ; but it took me a little time to 
 decide whether I should put on my leather 
 shoes and old dress, or my best frock and 
 my Louis Quinze shoes. I finally dressed 
 myself in my best, for the sea-water had 
 taken all the polish off my other shoes, and 
 my old merino would not go at all with the 
 pretty ones ; and, besides that, I did not 
 want eJohn Brown to remember me as a kind 
 of half-savage peasant-girl. It was the first 
 time of wearing my new dress ; and, when 
 I looked at myself in the glass, I found it 
 very becoming, the black-net sleeves and 
 bodice making my arms and neck look very 
 nice. 
 
 John Brown was seated with a book on 
 his knee ; but he saw me the moment I 
 stepped upon the deck, and, dropping the
 
 110 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 book in his capacious pocket, came to meet 
 me. 
 
 'That's tlie Isle of Wight,' said he. 
 ' Portsmoutli is beyond — over there. 
 We're waiting for the wind. If it freshens, 
 we can go on ; if it flon't, we must stop 
 here. But tliere's a rail which will take 
 you to the other side of the island, and 
 thence a steamer will run you over to 
 Portsmouth. You can go that way if 
 you're in a hurry to escape.' 
 
 His brusqueness and the short manner in 
 which he laid this matter before me, vdth- 
 out even shaking hands or exchanging 
 the ordinary morning greetings, surprised 
 and, I will own, frightened me; and for 
 the moment I heartily wished I had not 
 been so foolish as to put on my best dress — 
 for to that only could I attril)ute the great 
 difference in his behaviour to me. He 
 thought me a peasant, and treated me
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. Ill 
 
 with parental familiarity and kindness 
 because he liked peasants ; and now my 
 appearance, and perhaps my father's book, 
 showed him that he had been in error, 
 and he set me down for a 'young lady,' 
 that sort of person for whom he had 
 expressed his dislike. 
 
 ' I am not in a hurry to escape,' I said ; 
 and then, feelino^ rather indignant at his 
 unreasonable treatment, added — ' Are you ?' 
 
 ' In the manner of Captain Kidd,' he 
 replied, a little crease forming under his 
 eyes. ' Here comes Barton with your 
 goiite ; I thought you would like to have 
 it here rather than below — the mornins; is 
 so beautiful. That'll do. Barton. Fetch 
 me some beer.' 
 
 He handed me a serviette, then the bowl 
 of milk and coffee, and a crisp new roll, 
 for which he must have sent to the island 
 expressly, I thought.
 
 1 1 2 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 With tlie serviette spread on my lap, and 
 the bowl upon my knees, I could soak the 
 bread and eat, looking at the beautiful 
 i>land tlio while. 
 
 ' I needn't ask how j'ou are,' said he, 
 ' unless you decline to give me your hand 
 without that formality. You slept as I 
 should think angels sleep, and you look 
 like ' — he paused, as if to find a suitable 
 comparison — ' like nothing in the world 
 that ever I've seen but yourself. You 
 seem to have brouglit tlie sparkle and life 
 and wholesome purity from your beloved 
 waterfalls away there in Xeufbourg. I 
 believe this little liand of yours could heal 
 by touch. I shall send for you when the 
 
 doctors give me up ^^"hy, you little 
 
 goose, what's the matter ? Do I look as if 
 I were going to die ?' 
 
 ' No But, all the same, I'd rather not 
 talk about it.'
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 113 
 
 I took my hand from his, and busied 
 myself with my breakfast. He said not 
 a word for some minutes. I believe he 
 was regarding me, but I would not look 
 up, because the tears were m my eyes, 
 and I did not want him to see how stupid 
 I was. It is true — I am a goose ; my heart 
 will ache at the thought of death and loss. 
 A strong man can have but little patience 
 with such weakness. When he spoke again, 
 it was of the island, and in quite another 
 mood. He had seated himself near me, 
 and sat leaning forward with his arms 
 resting on his knees. He said we were 
 looking at the prettier end of the island, 
 and that it would disaj^point me to see 
 it closer, by reason of the people on it. 
 There were a rather vulo-ar set of visitors 
 on this side, who came, as it appeared, 
 chiefly for the pleasure of carving their 
 names on any unscathed surface they were 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 1 1 r Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 lucky enoiiij^h to find. They would stare 
 very hard at me — staring was one of their 
 peculiarities — and they would in all likeli- 
 hood lauuh at Mere Lucas — to lauo-h at 
 anyone unlike themselves being a special 
 characteristic of Cockneys. The natives, he 
 assured me, Avere harmless, though bom 
 with instincts which would have led them 
 to be brigands had they not found it more 
 remunerative to let lodgings. The other 
 side of the island was dull and relegated to 
 ' swells' — persons who Avere rather ridiculous 
 than offensive, and amused themselves Avith 
 toy-boats called yachts. He pointed out a 
 most graceful and beautiful-looking ship 
 not far from where Ave Avere anchored, and 
 assured me thnt the decks were AA^ashed 
 every morning Avitli rose-water, and manned 
 Avith sailors Avho Avore kid gloA^es and 
 patent-leather pumps. It seemed to me 
 that he found nothing to admire in mankind
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 115 
 
 and a great deal to despise ; but one thing 
 was certain, he was not discontented with 
 me, though he had had ample time to 
 observe my new dress and my shoes as 
 well. His manner to me was as kind as 
 it had been the night before, and this set 
 me wondering why his behaviour at first 
 had been so different, and what he meant 
 by saying he wished to escape in the manner 
 of Captain Kidd, These speculations so 
 completely occupied my mind after a while, 
 that I took very little notice of what he 
 Avas talking about ; but, when he ceased 
 to speak, I said to him, as I folded up my 
 serviette : 
 
 ' Who was Captain Kidd ?' 
 
 ' A consummate rascal, I should say,' he 
 replied. 
 
 ' Then why did you wish to do anythmg 
 that he did ?' 
 
 ' Oh, that's what you've been thinking 
 
 8—2
 
 IIG Little Lady Linton. 
 
 about these last few minutes — eli ?' he 
 cried, after a moment or two of reflection. 
 ' I couldn't make out at first what you 
 referred to. You want another story, I 
 sup2")ose ?' 
 
 ' I want to know what you meant.' 
 He had filled his pipe when I finished 
 my coffee, and now he lit it. 
 
 ' Captain Kidd, if I remember rightly,' 
 he said, punctuating his sentence vdt\\ a 
 whiff of smoke, ' was an honest mariner — 
 until he fell in love. If he smuggled any- 
 thing, it must have been British brandy, 
 for he loved his country and hated the 
 French, like a good mariner of the old 
 school. Kow one day, as he was walking 
 about in Bristol citv, with no sort of 2;uilt 
 in his heart, and his hands in his pockets, 
 he was accosted by a young gentleman, 
 who said he wished to speak a few words 
 with him on a matter of business. Captain
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 117 
 
 Kidd, who never let slip an opportunity of 
 turning an honest penny, at once turned 
 into an adjacent tavern and called for a 
 bottle, which he generously shared with 
 the young gentleman. Stimulated by half 
 a pint of Madeira, the young gentleman, 
 who showed symptoms of nervousness at 
 the offset, put his affairs plainly before 
 Captain Kidd. He was desperately in love 
 with a young lady of Bath, named Susan, 
 and they had resolved to be married. But 
 as both parties were minors, and the parents 
 on each side were opposed to the match, their 
 union could only be effected clandestmely. 
 ^o\Y the question was, Would Captain 
 Kidd, for a purse of gold, take the young 
 people beyond the reach of their guardians 
 where they could be married in peace ? 
 The Captain, after mature deliberation, in 
 which he assured himself that, if he did 
 not take the purse of gold and the young
 
 118 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 people, another captain would, consented to 
 oblige the young gentleman, if, after seeing 
 the young lady, he was convinced she was 
 a consenting party to their elopement. This 
 assurance was easily to be obtained, and 
 the two men drove over to Bath in a post- 
 chaise that very afternoon, where the blush- 
 ing Susan confirmed with her own lips all 
 that her lover had attested. It was agreed 
 'that at daybreak the next morning these 
 three persons should meet upon the quay 
 at liristol, and thence embark aboard the 
 Captain's barque. As an earnest of his 
 intention, the young gentleman gave Kidd 
 the purse of gold in advance, and they 
 separated amicably. But the Captain had 
 fallen in love with Susan at the first glance, 
 and, for the rest of the day, and the whole 
 of the ensuing night, he could do nothing 
 but walk about in a state of frantic excite- 
 ment, murmuring the name of Susan and
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 119 
 
 cursing his fate. It was gall and worm- 
 wood to him to think of uniting the young 
 person he adored to the young man he 
 heartily detested; and, if he had not re- 
 ceived the purse of gold, and possessed the 
 traditional honesty of a British tar, he 
 would have set sail and left the young 
 people in the lurch, to be caught by their 
 parents and torn asunder. However, at 
 the appointed hour, there he was upon the 
 quay, with his boat ready to start. As luck 
 would have it, Susan had brought her 
 boxes with her, and there was only just 
 room in the Captain's gig for the young lady 
 and her luggage and the Captain ; so it was 
 arranged that the young gentleman should 
 wait on the quay until the Captain had put 
 his cargo on board and returned for him ; 
 and there he might have waited until this 
 day without seeing the fulfilment of his 
 wishes. For, no sooner had Kidd shoved
 
 ] 20 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 off fi*om the quay than, tempted by the 
 ravishing beauty of Susan and the evil 
 prompting of his jealous heart, he boldly 
 determined to play his rival false; and he 
 did. As soon as he had Susan and her 
 luggage on board, he slipped liis cable, 
 and sailed away to the southern seas.' 
 
 * What became of them ?' I asked. 
 
 ' I don't know. Captain Kidd never 
 returned to Bristol, you may be sure; but 
 he was subsequently heard of in the South 
 Pacific. What became of Susan I can't 
 tell. As usual, my story breaks down in 
 the middle. Can you finish it happily ?' 
 
 ' I don't see how such a story could 
 finish happily.' 
 
 ' It's pretty certain that Susan did not 
 care greatly for the young gentleman, or 
 her e^es wouldn't have been so ready to 
 bewitch Captain Kidd. Evidently* she had 
 no affection for her joarents. The Captain
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 121 
 
 could be very agreeable now and then ; and 
 there are some vastly pleasant places in 
 the South Pacific. Don't you think they 
 might have settled down on an island, and 
 lived happily ever after ?' 
 
 ' That depends upon whether she was a 
 nice girl or not.' 
 
 ' Oh, there's no doubt about that ! She 
 was a little thoughtless perhaps, being 
 young ; b ut she had the qualities that make 
 a good woman.' 
 
 ' Then she could never have been happy, 
 nor he either ; and the better they grew, the 
 more wretched they would have become.' 
 
 ' You're right, Gertie. They would have 
 had to strangle conscience to be happy, 
 and get but a poor, shabby sort of happi- 
 ness, after all. And, heavens, how they 
 would have quarrelled in bad weather !' 
 After a pause, he asked, ' Have you read 
 '• The Corsair," Gertie ?
 
 122 Little Lachj Linton. 
 
 'Xo. Why?' 
 
 ' I was wondering whether the hcrohie in 
 that story would have been the same if 
 Byron had known you.' 
 
 It was after luncheon, when the ship 
 was once more under sail, and John Brown 
 and I were leaning upon the side, looking 
 at the beautiful island as its woods and 
 downs and grand cliffs passed before our 
 eyes, that he said to me : 
 
 ' I dipped into the " Cosmographical Dic- 
 tionary " last night, Gertie.' 
 
 ' Did you like it?' I asked, feeling a little 
 glow of pride in my heart. 
 
 ' Moderately,' he replied. ' I don't re- 
 member ever being very much carried away 
 by facts. Nature has bumped my head in 
 queer places, and my brain is dull to per- 
 ceive charms which strike many others 
 with admiration, ^[y limited judgment 
 only permits me to speak in a general way,
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 123 
 
 and in a general way I stiould say that the 
 " Dictionary " is a great work.' 
 
 ' Papa was fifteen years compiling it.' 
 
 ' He must have had a great deal of 
 patience.' 
 
 ' He loved me very dearly.' 
 
 He said nothing until the pain this recol- 
 lection caused me had passed ; then : 
 
 * He must have had a lot of books and 
 maps, and so on, for reference.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but they were all sold with the 
 furniture. Papa had not written any articles 
 for the Anthropologist for a long while — he 
 was so anxious to finish the " Dictionary." 
 And there were a good many bills to be paid 
 at the last.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said he thoughtfully. ' What are 
 you going to do when you get to London ?' 
 
 ' I shall find the editor of the Anthro- 
 pologist, and ask his advice about papa's 
 book. I wrote to him from Neufbourg,
 
 124 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 but no answer came ; so I suppose the 
 otHce of the magazine is removed. Of 
 course, I can find that out by inquiry.' 
 
 ' Yes ; and, if he can get you a good 
 price for it, what shall you do — go back to 
 } our friends at Keufbourg ?' 
 
 ' I shall not go back there.' 
 
 ' AVhy not ?' 
 
 I reflected a moment ; and then, per- 
 ceiving that it would be false modesty to 
 conceal my reason, I answered as firmly as 
 I could : 
 
 • Because I believe there is something 
 better to do than to rest all one's life in 
 a remote \dllage amongst half- educated 
 people.' 
 
 ' Oh, Lord ! You don't think of becom- 
 ing a doctor, or of giving lectures to the 
 working-classes, or elevating the tone of the 
 stage, I hope ?' 
 
 ' Xo,' said I. ' If I do stupid things, it
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 125 
 
 will not be in any of these directions. I 
 think I should like to travel with pleasant 
 people — a lady with two or three nice 
 daughters who don't mind my being a little 
 io-norant, or some maiden ladies with culti- 
 vated tastes and refined manners — gentle- 
 women such as I have read of ' 
 
 ' And are not likely to find ' 
 
 'If I look only for their faults,' I said 
 sharply, capping him as he had capped me. 
 
 ' That's true, Gertie. I know my mother 
 was the best woman in the world ; but 
 I dare say there are many sons who can 
 say the same thing. Don't mind what 
 I said ; you will find friends. I don't 
 know who might, if you can't. Have you 
 thought what you should do if the publishers 
 don't give a good price? I should think 
 the dictionary would be costly to produce, 
 with all those little maps ; and the reading 
 public, so far as my observation leads me to
 
 126 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 tliink, don't juiii}) at " cosmo<^ra])liic{il dic- 
 tionaries." Xow, supposing the booksellers 
 won't snap it up, but keep you in suspense, 
 danoflinfj: about their offices — eh ?' 
 
 * I iiave thought of that. I don't expect 
 to succeed tlie very first day. I know 
 it may be weeks or months before it is all 
 settled.' 
 
 ' Yes. Do you mind telling me how 
 much money you have, Gertie ?' 
 
 ' Over twelve hundred francs.' 
 
 ' About fifty pounds — yes. And suppos- 
 ing, Gertie, some Humboldt of a fellow 
 has just produced a big work of this kind, 
 and the publishers daren't take your father's 
 book at all ?' 
 
 ' Do you think that is likely ?' 
 
 ' It is an ngly possibility.' 
 
 ' After all,' I said, Avhen I had looked at 
 the matter in this new light, ' it is only 
 a question of time and patience. In time
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 127 
 
 there will be a demand for another work of 
 this kind, and then papa's " Dictionary " will 
 be accepted. I don't think papa would 
 have given so much time and labour to 
 his book if he had not been quite certain of 
 the result.' 
 
 ' Very likely ; but a literary man secluded 
 from the world is likely to miscalculate 
 results, I should say. He may think, for 
 example, that literary excellence will ensure 
 the success of a literary work ; whereas, so 
 far as my observation goes, literary excel- 
 lence is the last thing that publishers are 
 concerned about. If I dishearten you, 
 it is not wilfully nor wantonly. You have 
 enough troubles to face without those that 
 careless conversation may add. But, you 
 see, I want to find out if you are prepared 
 to meet the worst that may befall you. 
 You've made me responsible for your 
 welfare, to a certain degree.'
 
 128 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' I ?' 
 
 ' Yes. If a flcd<''Hni'' liad the mischance 
 to flutter do"\vn from his nest in the cliff 
 out there, and fell upon this deck, I should 
 feel bound to see that he could use his 
 wings and feet before I suffered him to 
 flutter away into the sea. And, before I 
 let you go, I want to know how you 
 are prepared to buflet against adversities. 
 What W'ill you do, for instance, while the 
 publishers are settling the destinies of the 
 " Cosmographical Dictionary?" 
 
 ' I shall take a very small apartment in 
 London, and live as cheaply as ever I 
 can.' 
 
 ' You don't know what London is like, 
 Gertie — less than the fledgling up there 
 knows of the waters down here and their 
 dangers. Of living chea])ly in apartments 
 I have only a vague notion ; but it is 
 enough to make me shudder at the thought
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 129 
 
 of your attempting it. AVhat kind of 
 people would you mix with ? What sort 
 of existence could you lead ?' 
 
 ' The same as other girls in my position. 
 It's no good thinking I am better if I'm 
 not.' 
 
 He took no heed of my reply — he seemed 
 not to hear it, but looked steadily across 
 the water, under his bent brows, in silent 
 thought. 
 
 ' I know what we'll do, Gertie,' he said 
 presently, turning to me with a more 
 cheerful expression on his face ; ' we'll run 
 into a little place on the other side of the 
 island, instead of going over to Portsmouth, 
 and you shall take lodgings there. You'll 
 find them cheaper and better than any you 
 could get in London, and stand a fair chance 
 of finding the publishers you are in search 
 of all the same. You can keep your old 
 bonne with you ; and I'll go up to London 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 anrl sell your "Dictionary." A man can 
 baro:ain witli another man better than a 
 young girl couhl; and, if the fellow won't 
 jnihlisli it at once, I'll make him give me 
 some money clown — enough to keep you for 
 a year or two — and an understanding that 
 the rest shall be paid upon publication.' 
 
 ' Oh, you are s^ood !' — that was all I 
 could say or think of at the moment. 
 
 ' It's the first time I've ever heard it said 
 of me — with any appearance of sincerity,' 
 he replied, with a laugh. 
 
 ' But it won't do,' I went on, as I 
 began to see the impossibility of candying 
 out his plan. 
 
 ' Oh, don't let's have any young-lady 
 nonsense !' he exclaimed. ' You need not 
 fear that I shall take advantage of your 
 good-nature in permitting me to do this 
 little service. When I've brought you 
 back the money for your book, I'll bid 
 
 1
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 131 
 
 you good-bye — perhaps I'll kiss your fore- 
 head as I kissed it last night. And then 
 I'll set sail, and give you my oath never 
 to see you again.' 
 
 Had he struck me with his hand I should 
 not have felt more pained. 
 
 ' I'd rather anything happen than that/ 
 I said. 
 
 He looked at me most strangely for 
 a moment — with a kind of violence, as 
 it seemed to me ; then his aspect softened^ 
 and he said : 
 
 ' You don't know what an unlucky 
 beggar I am, Gertie. Do you believe in the 
 porte malheur ?' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' I do. The best thing that can happen 
 to my friend is to see me no more.' 
 
 ' That is why you tried to get rid of 
 me so quickly this morning ?' said I. 
 
 'Perhaps. No good can come of our 
 
 9—2
 
 lo'2 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 being friends, but a good deal of harm. 
 Well, that's settled!' he cried, with a 
 change of tone. ' We will put in to 
 Yarmouth, and you'll forsake that absurd 
 notion of "•oinii^ to London.' 
 
 ' No,' said I ; ' I would go to London, 
 if only to prevent the fulfilment of your 
 threat. I don't want to say " good-bye 
 for ever" to you.' The tears came into 
 my eyes as I thought of this possibility : 
 for in this short space of time I had 
 come to like John Brown very much — 
 perhaps because he filled that aching space 
 in my heart which had been filled by 
 the friends I left behind me in Neufl)ourg. 
 It was like parting with them all over 
 aiifain, to tliink of scein"; John Brown 
 no more. But I was angry with myself 
 for showing this emotion ; and, stamp- 
 ing my foot pettishly, I cried, ' It is 
 nonsense to believe in su2:)erstitions of that
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 133 
 
 sort! You are as wrong as the poor 
 peasants you laughed at yesterday, and 
 without their excuse. It is quite unreason- 
 able to suppose that you can bring harm 
 to your friends involuntarily ; for it is 
 only by doing wrong you can harm 
 them.' 
 
 ' But if one can't always do right, Gertie?' 
 he said, with a mingling of tenderness and 
 pleasantry in his voice. 
 
 ' It is only feeble persons — women and 
 children and sick persons — who cannot 
 control their will. You,' said I, looking 
 at him and wondering at his size and 
 strength, ' you should be able to do just 
 what you please.' 
 
 ' Then it will please me to leave you 
 at Yarmouth and take your book to 
 London.' 
 
 ' Mere Lucas must go back to her 
 family.' >
 
 134 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' She can be replaced.' 
 
 ' You have doubts about papa's book 
 being accepted — you said so.' 
 
 ' For the sake of argument, I'll under- 
 take that the book shall be produced, and 
 you well paid for it.' 
 
 ' At your own risk ? Tell me — is not 
 that your intention ?' 
 
 ' That is my intention if the publishers 
 are so foolish as to lose the opportunity 
 of making money by it. I have ventured 
 upon speculations a thousand times more 
 hazardous than this.' 
 
 When I could bring mys'elf to speak : 
 
 ' I don't know how to thank you for 
 your goodness. I didn't .think I should 
 find such a friend so quickly, and my 
 surprise and pleasure make a little fool 
 of me,' I said, turning away my head 
 and dashing the stupid tears out of ni}- 
 eyes with my handkerchief. I got the
 
 Gerties Sea Voyage comes to an End. 135 
 
 better of my feelings very quickly ; and 
 then I said, as calmly as I could, * But 
 1 will go to London and abide by the 
 result. I went through all this when 
 I decided to refuse the assistance of my 
 friends over there. I don't want to be your 
 pensioner. If the book is worth nothing, 
 I must find some other means of earning a 
 living. You wouldn't have me your 
 dependent, would you ?' 
 
 He did not respond directly ; but, after 
 a Httle consideration, he said : 
 
 ' I suppose I should be sorry if you 
 consented. So to London you shall go, 
 you brave, right-thinking, obstinate, good 
 little person !'
 
 
 
 CHAPTER Ylll. 
 
 THE DIARY. — GERTIE GOES TO LONDON. 
 
 ^^rCHO to London you shall go, j-ou 
 ^ brave, right-thinking, obstinate, 
 ^ good little person !' 
 AYhat has happened since John Brown 
 said that to me ? I can hardly tell dis- 
 tinctly, because of the multiplicity of things 
 that have in turns occupied my mind. It 
 is as if, after looking for some time into a 
 kaleidoscope, one tried to set down what has 
 met the eye : certain outlines of angles and 
 stars and roses are remembered ; but their 
 details are all confused in the memory. I 
 
 I 
 I
 
 Gertie goes to London. 13 7" 
 
 remember that, when he had seated me in 
 the railway-carriage, John Brown went to 
 get my ticket, and I began to think how I 
 should say good-bye to him, and that I had 
 great ado to keep my tears down, though 
 the words were yet unsjioken. He came 
 back, and took the seat opposite to me; and 
 I could say nothing for watching the hand 
 of the clock that was creeping towards the 
 minute when he must get out and leave me. 
 
 ' A minute and a half,' said I. 
 
 ' The guard will blow his whistle just 
 before starting.' 
 
 Then I sat and listened for the sound, 
 wdth great j^ain in my heart. Presently 
 the guard whistled, and, holding out my 
 hand, I tried to say good-bye, and could 
 not. 
 
 ' Why, you dear little goose !' he cried. 
 ' Do you think I'm going to let you find 
 your way to London alone ?'
 
 138 
 
 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 At that moment the triiin moved, and, 
 finding that he was really gom<^ with me, I 
 was so moved with delight and gratitude 
 that 1 caught hold of his hand with both 
 mine, wanting, with all my heart, to lift it 
 to my li^JS and kiss it. 
 
 And I remember how we went about 
 ].ondon looking for an ajjartment in a cab, 
 which, 1 think, is the most delightful thing 
 in the world — the cab, I mean — to lean 
 back in the comfortable seat and see the 
 endless rows of bright shops and grand 
 buildings, and the hurrying throngs of 
 vehicles and people. Ikit the whirl and 
 hurry of everything confused my ideas ; 
 and certainly I must have lost myself com- 
 pletely had I attem23ted to find lodgmgs 
 alone. I should have taken the first one 
 we looked at, but it did not satisfy John 
 Ijrown ; and I believe we looked at a dozen 
 before he decided that this miffht suit me.
 
 Gertie goes to London. 139 
 
 It is in the corner of a square, on the third 
 floor. There is a little circular enclosure of 
 trees in the centre of the square ; but the 
 trees are very dirty and unhappy-looking, 
 and there are no birds in them save sparrows. 
 One thing this bustle and confusion did, 
 which I am grateful for — it prevented my 
 taking deeply to heart the final parting with 
 John Brown. I had so much else to think of. 
 He promised to come and see me ; and, 
 oh, how I look for his coming ! I am sure 
 he will keep his promise, despite what he 
 said about the advisability of our separating 
 entirely. Every time the j)ostman comes 
 into the square, I watch him, hoping he 
 will bring me a letter from my dear friend. 
 He did not promise to write, but I cannot 
 help hoping and expecting that he will. I 
 received a letter from Mere Lucas on 
 Friday ; she got home quite safely and 
 very quickly ; and she says that John
 
 140 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 Bro^vll \vtis very kind to her. It is odd 
 that, ill writing an account of what lias 
 hapi)encd to ine since I left Neufbour*^, I 
 ha^•e so for«^otten wliat concerns my dear 
 old bonne; I suppose my ideas are still 
 unsettled by the tumult of this wonderful 
 city. I have written a long, long letter to 
 her, and to my old friends at Neufbourg. 
 
 The day after my arrival, the landlady's 
 dausrhter took me to the street where the 
 Antltropulofiist Avas published ; and it Avas 
 strano-e to see how^ that child went com- 
 posedly through the crowded streets, while 
 I was like one dazed. It seemed as though 
 I was the child and she the woman. But I 
 found that another magazine is now pub- 
 lished at the office, and the Antliropolotjist, 
 I was told, is dead. So there was no possi- 
 bility of getting advice from the editor. 
 Thence I went to ^Ir. X., the publisher, 
 and, as clearly as I could, told him the
 
 Gertie goes to London. 141 
 
 object of my visit. He promised to look 
 at the book and give me an answer on 
 Wednesday. On that day I went to him and 
 learnt that the ' Dictionary ' is rather ' out 
 of his line,' but that it would suit Messrs. 
 A. and Co. So to them I went with the 
 same story I had given Mr. X. The 
 gentleman told me to go on Saturday for 
 his reply ; and yesterday I called upon him, 
 to learn that it was not exactly in his way, 
 but would most likely be taken by Mr. X. ! 
 When I told him that Mr. X. had sent me 
 to him, he said I might try Mr. Z., in 
 whose hands I yesterday left the volumes 
 of MS. But my heart sinks as I think of 
 the result of his consideration ; and it seems 
 to me quite clear now that John Brown 
 perceived that the work was unsaleable. 
 Each of the three publishers said they 
 would print the book if I would take the 
 risk ; but all looked grave when they
 
 142 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 lieard I had no money. I wish I knew the 
 worst. 
 
 It is very (hill liorc. I spend tlic morn- 
 ing at the British Museum, but that does 
 not delight me as it should ; and I fear I 
 am a great dunce, and very dull to what is 
 beautiful in antiquities. I ought to be 
 quite happy in looking at the beautiful 
 statues and the broken earthenware, and 
 find endless amusement in the instructive 
 collections ; but I wander about, and, half 
 the time my eyes are fixed upon the fossils, 
 I am thinking- of the sea and recollectino- 
 my two days on the Tub, and the bright 
 dancing waves and the sunlight ; and the 
 sea-birds sweeping above the rocks come 
 between my eyes and the fossils. I spend a 
 good deal of time in the Egyptian depart- 
 ment ; there is a mummy which fascinates 
 me. AVhat a little stupid I am ! John 
 Brown called me a little goose ; but ijeese
 
 Gertie goes to London. 143 
 
 are wiser than I, for wherever they go they 
 seem content with the things they find. I 
 suppose I look stupid, for I have remarked 
 that everyone stares at me, especially the 
 Sfentlemen. Some follow me about as if 
 they thought I was one of the curiosities of 
 the Museum. The young men have an un- 
 pleasant trick of going to the opposite side 
 of a case I am examining and looking 
 throuo^h it at me. Sometimes the at- 
 tendants follow me and watch me, as if I 
 was there with some wrong purpose. 
 
 I think I should like the Museum if any- 
 one could explain the things to me kindly. 
 How pleasantly John Brown would talk 
 about them ! There seemed to be nothing 
 in the sea or heavens about which he had 
 not something agreeable to say. 
 
 I dare not go farther from the square 
 than the Museum without Katie, my land- 
 lady's daughter ; and I do not like to ask
 
 144 Little Ladi/ Linton. 
 
 liivours of ]Mrs. Thompson. She was very 
 kind the first few days, but has been 
 extremely uncivil and brusque since 
 AVednesday. I have done nothing, to my 
 knowledge, to offend her. So I stop at 
 home a good deal, and read and write best 
 part of the da}'. This morning I thought 
 for the first time of my neglected diary — 
 how it came to be forf;otten so lone: I can- 
 not tell — and I have spent the whole day in 
 writing the events of the past eleven days, 
 with such pleasure as I have not experi- 
 enced since John Brown and I were sitting 
 together in the cab. I am quite tired with 
 writing: — and sad too. 
 
 June 27th, 188-. — This has been a day 
 of passionate anger and bitter humiliation 
 for me. In the morning, when I rang the 
 bell for Katie to take away my breakfiist- 
 things, Mrs. Thompson came up, and, 
 havinf closed the door, said she would
 
 Gertie goes to London. 145 
 
 thank me to suit myself with another 
 lodging by the end of the week. I could 
 see by her face that she was in an ill-temper 
 
 — indeed, I had heard her quarrelling 
 fiercely with her husband before he went to 
 the office, where he is eno-ag-ed durino- the 
 day as a clerk, and, peeping over the balus- 
 ters, I had caught sight of the librarian's 
 wife on the second floor, and the artist, who 
 uses the first floor as a studio, out on their 
 landings listening to the storm below. 
 But I saw no reason why her ill-temper 
 should be the cause of my going, and I 
 asked her for an explanation. She was 
 evidently only waiting for that ojoportunity, 
 and at once made a charge against me 
 which fairly bewildered me. For some 
 time I could not realize what she meant, or 
 believe that we were both in our sound 
 senses. She accused me of ' carrying on ' 
 
 — that was her expression — with her 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 hiisljand ! If she bad not been so fearfully 
 in earnest, I tbink 1 sbould have laughed 
 at this charge, for I certainly have never 
 given two thoughts to Mr. Thompson ; and 
 he is the last man in the workl I should be 
 likel}" to fall in love with, even if he were 
 single, for he is a most miserable, thin, 
 ugly man, and has a way of looking out of 
 the corners of his eyes in a sly co^vardly 
 manner that would make any girl dislike 
 him, I should think. She told me that she 
 had had her suspicions from the first, as he 
 had been a deal too kind in saving her the 
 trouble of running ujd and down stairs, and 
 tliat yesterday convinced her, as I had not 
 been out of the house the whole day, and 
 Thompson had done nothing from morning 
 till night but run upstairs into the attics 
 with some pretext or another. She said also 
 that Mrs Flick had complained of my 'carry- 
 ing on * with her husband and Mr. Travers
 
 Gertie goes to London. 147 
 
 the artist. I have observed that, whenever I 
 go downstairs, Mr. Travers's door is open, 
 and he is in sight. He has nodded to 
 me, and, bemg his neighbour, as it were, I 
 have thought it proper to bow in return. 
 What else could I do ? But, as to Mr. 
 Flick, I declare I have only seen him once 
 when he was with his wife ; and a very- 
 feeble, ailing old gentleman he looked. I 
 do not remember to have done anything 
 even carelessly to provoke the jealousy of 
 these two women. The more Mrs. Thomp- 
 son talked, the more angry she grew. 
 Finally she said it was easy to see what 
 kind of a person I was by my having no 
 employment, and living on a third floor ;. 
 and that, if everything was known, she 
 would dare to say that Thompson was not 
 the only married man I was leading to 
 destruction ; that she had always borne a 
 reputation for respectability, and did not 
 
 10—2
 
 148 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 intend to lose it and get lier house a bad 
 name for ten shillings a week — the price 
 I paid for my two rooms. Tliere appears 
 to me now somethin^• ridiculous in this 
 woman's charge; but at the time it pro- 
 voked my indignation to such a degree that, 
 had she said another word, or remained in 
 the room after I bade her leave it, I should 
 have taken her by the shoulders and shaken 
 her. I put on my bonnet at once, and, 
 trembling with excitement, went out to find 
 another apartment. By good fortune, I 
 found one not many doors away, on the 
 adjacent side of the square, in a house kept 
 by a widow, who sympathized greatly with 
 me, laughed heartily at ]\Irs. Thompson, 
 and assured me I ran no risk of exciting 
 the jealousy of any married lady in her 
 house, as she took only single lodgers. I 
 then returned to my first apartments and 
 packed my boxes. After that, I wrote my
 
 Gertie goes to London. 149 
 
 new address on a card, and, having paid 
 Mrs. Thompson the week's rent she de- 
 manded, I gave her the card, mstructmg 
 her to orive it to Mr. Brown if he called. 
 She took it without saying a word, being 
 now as reticent as previously she had been 
 voluble. But I do not think she will 
 trouble herself to take care of it, or be just 
 enough to give it to John Brown when he 
 comes ; and this possibility I had in view 
 when I took my new apartment, and for 
 that reason would have none but a room 
 from which I could see the street-door o 
 Mrs. Thompson's house. I have been 
 sitting at the window all day. I dare 
 scarcely leave it for a minute, lest he should 
 come in my absence. And now, though it 
 is dark, and there is little possibility of his 
 arriving to-day, I cannot hear the sound of 
 wheels, or of a knock at a distant door,without 
 going to peep across at the house I have left.
 
 1 50 Little Lad J Linton. 
 
 June 28. — Anotlier day ,irone, and he 
 lias not come. I begin to feel tlie sickness 
 of lio])e deferred, and with that a painful 
 forebodino- that I shall see John Brown no 
 more. It has been raining all day, and 
 everything looks sad and miserable, and 
 just in harmony with my feelings. I have 
 been thinking- what I mis^ht do to earn 
 money if papa's book is refused ; and the 
 consciousness of my inability to do 
 anything especially well has helped to 
 depress me. It is hard to believe that any- 
 one should be gay in London on such a day 
 as this, when there is not one single bright 
 thing to be seen. It seems to rain smuts. 
 The cuffs and collar I put on this morning 
 are not fit to put on to-morrow. I might 
 have worn them a week at Xeufbourg, and 
 still found them clean. A man with an 
 organ came and j^layed in the square this 
 morning, but, much as I love music, I could
 
 Gertie goes to London. 151 
 
 not find liapjDiness in listening to him. 
 There is a lady lives downstairs, and 
 another over my head, and they were both 
 singing this afternoon as though they found 
 this the pleasantest place in the world. My 
 own trouble makes me so miserably selfish 
 that their gaiety is more painful to my ears 
 than silence. I cannot fix my attention on a 
 book — I cannot forget when I work — I can 
 do nothing with satisfaction, and I am 
 angry mth myself. 
 
 June 29.— I received a visit fi'om Miss 
 Drelincourt, the lady who lives on the first 
 floor, this morning. She is a very hand- 
 some young woman, with particularly dark 
 eyebrows and red lips, and beautiful soft, 
 fair hair, cut short like a boy's. She came 
 in, after tapping at the door, and having 
 looked hard at me for a moment, she 
 crossed the room with a good natured smile 
 and kissed me.
 
 1 5:2 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 * I've come to cheer you up a bit, dear/ 
 said plic. ' Don't ])c astonished — there's no 
 harm in me. I hate all ceremony. The 
 widow ' — that is our landlady — ' told me 
 you were down on your luck, and did 
 nothing but sit at the window moping over 
 a book ; so T tliought I had better come 
 and talk to you than go upstairs to Kitty 
 ]>urnes, who, I shouldn't wonder, isn't 
 awake yet. One must talk to some one, 
 you know. Which is the broken chair ?' 
 
 I told her the chair in the corner had a 
 leg that came out. 
 
 ' There always is a lame chair in lodg- 
 ings,' she explained, with a laugh ; ' and I 
 take precious good care to find him out 
 before I attempt to seat myself !' 
 
 I had resumed my place by the window, 
 not to lose sight of the house in the corner 
 of the square ; and she seated herself oppo- 
 site to me before it entered my head to ask
 
 Gertie goes to London. 153 
 
 her to be seated. She wore a pink silk 
 dressing-gown, rather the worse for wear, 
 scarlet silk stockings, and a pair of 
 decidedly dirty blue kid shoes, which she 
 was at no pains to conceal, for, perfectly 
 unconstrained, she leant back in her chair 
 with her hands clasped over her knee, 
 moving her foot with a little swinging 
 motion that kept one shoe dangling from 
 the toe-part. 
 
 'What awful weather!' she began. I 
 noticed that she employed the strangest 
 adjectives to express her feelings. ' It's 
 enough to give anyone the blues. Kitty 
 and me got wet through last night coming 
 home from the theatre. Xot a cab to be 
 had, let alone a 'bus. If it don't hold up I 
 shall book a two-wheeler to fetch me. It 
 won't run to that every night, you know.' 
 
 ' You go often to the theatre ?' I ventured 
 to say.
 
 154 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' Katlier ! I'm a pro, don't you know ! 
 So's Kitty. I'm at the Gaiety ; she's at the 
 Globe. You'll like her ; she's just one of 
 your sort. Very pretty, but as quiet as a 
 mouse. You'd never think she could go on 
 tlie stage, to see her off it. But it isn't the 
 rackety ones who have the most courage. 
 Look at me — you'd think I was bold 
 enough for anything, wouldn't you ? Well, 
 I'll take my oath I was ready to drop 
 through the boards the first time I sneaked 
 on in a back row.' 
 
 'It must be very pleasant to be an actress 
 when one has ability and courage as well.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's a jolly life, whatever people 
 may say! And I don't know what girl 
 would stick in a milliner's shop if she could 
 get on at a theatre. I was at a milliner's 
 in Regent Street once. Kitty was in a bar. 
 There you are, don't you know! You'd 
 never think such a genteel girl would go in
 
 Gertie goes to London. 155 
 
 a bar. You'll be astonished. She's just as 
 ladylike as you to look at.' 
 
 ' I don't see why an actress should not 
 be a lady,' I said, feeling a little annoyed. 
 Then, to turn the subject, I asked Miss 
 Drelincourt if she played in Shakespeare's 
 plays. 
 
 ' Not much,' she replied, with consider- 
 able emphasis. 
 
 ' Only occasionally ?' I suggested. 
 
 She burst out laughing. 
 
 * Fancy me doing the heavy business !' 
 she exclaimed. ' Not me ! Half a dozen 
 speaking-lines, and any amount of chorus, 
 that's my form !' 
 
 She talked about her profession and 
 Kitty Burnes for some time, and then asked 
 me if I would go with, her to the theatre in 
 the evening, promising to pass me in to see 
 ' the show ' from the front, or to take me 
 into the dressing-room, whichever pleased
 
 156 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 me. I thanked her fur this kindness — 
 indeed, despite a certain degree of levity 
 and, I think I may add, vulgarity, she is 
 an agreeable and most amiable girl — and 
 told her I could not go, because I expected 
 a visitor. 
 
 ' Ah,' said she, ' I know all about that ! 
 Spoony Travers told me about the row 
 at Mother Thompson's. That woman's 
 mad, I believe. When Travers and I were 
 on nodding terms, she came here and kicked 
 up no end of a row because she had caught 
 her husband spending his Sunday at the 
 attic window. A little insignificant wretcli ! 
 I wouldn't look at him throuii'h the wrono- 
 end of an opera-glass! You're quite riglit 
 in looking out for your friend, for of course 
 Mrs. Thompson won't tell him where you 
 are. You think he'll come — do you, dear ?' 
 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course ! One always does hope
 
 Gertie goes to London. 157 
 
 as long as possible. Don't you know where 
 he lives?' 
 
 ' I think he lives in his ship.' 
 
 ' He's a sailor ?' 
 
 'N'ot an ordinary sailor. The ship 
 belongs to him, and I think he sails in it 
 for pleasure.' 
 
 ' Pity to lose him,' she said reflectively. 
 ' What shall you do if he don't come, 
 dear ?' 
 
 ' I hardly know. I think I shall have to 
 find some employment. I scarcely know 
 what I can do. I have no special talent.' 
 
 ' Then I should advise you to try the 
 stage. They don't bother much about talent 
 so long as you are pretty and have some 
 sort of a voice. I'll get you on, I know. 
 You can come into our dressing-room first 
 of all, and see how you like the girls. I'll 
 do all I can to make it easy for you.' 
 ' That's very, very good of you,' said I.
 
 158 Little Lachj Linton. 
 
 ' Come -vvitli me to-night. We'll have a 
 cab from the door.' 
 
 ' No, no. My friend promised he -would 
 
 come.' 
 
 ' Oh, they'll promise anything, my dear ! 
 But they forget their promises, or think 
 better of 'em as soon as you're out of 
 sight.' 
 
 ' I am sure he will keep his promise,' I 
 said quickly. 
 
 ' Well, I hope he vdW, for that will show 
 he's better tlian most men. If he does — 
 you take my advice — coax him to take you 
 with him.' 
 
 I don't know whether she intended what 
 her words conveyed to my mind at that 
 moment. She said she meant no harm 
 when I asked her angrily to explain what 
 she meant by that advice ; but she turned 
 the subject awkwardly, seeing how uncom- 
 fortable she had made me, and soon after
 
 Gertie goes to London. 159 
 
 left me. And I have seen notliing of her 
 nor of her friend Miss Barnes since, thono-h 
 I heard their voices humming an hour 
 afterwards in the room overhead. When 
 the humming sound of their voices ceased, 
 I did not hear Miss DreUncourt's foot upon 
 the stairs ; and now they are gone to their 
 theatre. I can scarcely see to write. I 
 must light my lamp, and so cease to hope 
 
 for the rest of 
 
 He has come ! I am too happy to write 
 more than that to-night. I want to think.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE DIARY. — GERTIe's GREAT HAPPINESS. 
 
 lULY 4. — I have five days to write 
 about, for my happiness has been 
 so great that I have been quite 
 nnable to compose my thoughts into 
 words. 
 
 In the middle of that sentence I heard 
 the sound of wheels. A cab ran along the 
 farther side of the square and stopped 
 before ^Irs. Thompson's door. I stood up 
 and strained my eyes to see who had come. 
 In those minutes of suspense I do not 
 think I drew a single breath. The doors
 
 Gerties great Hajjpiness. IGl 
 
 were thrown open with a clatter, and lie 
 stepped out. There was no mistaking his 
 great manly figm'e and fair beard. For 
 a minute after, I could not move — my legs 
 shook under me ; I had to cling to the 
 curtains for support. I felt as if in a 
 terrible dream, where one sees a beloved 
 soul in imminent peril without having the 
 power to stretch out a helping hand. The 
 cab turned round and moved slowly away, 
 and I saw John Brown ascend the steps 
 and lift the knocker. The sound of it 
 seemed to awaken me ; and, with a cry of 
 terror, lest he should be gone before I 
 reached him, I flew out of the room and 
 down the stairs. I did not understand the 
 fastenings of the street-door, and for 
 another minute I stood wrenching at the 
 handles and bolts one after another in 
 inexpressible excitement. The landlady' 
 came, wondering, I dare say, at my frenzy. 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 lr;2 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 i do not know what I said to her, but, 
 after a moment or two of delay, she opened 
 the door witli a touch, and I ran out into 
 the road and through the drizzUng rain 
 without any covering. I heard Mrs. 
 Thompson's door close with a sharp bang, 
 and I saw John Brown thrust his hands in 
 his pockets and turn about in perplexity. 
 
 ' I am here — I am here !' I cried. 
 
 And the next moment I rushed \i\> to 
 him, gasping and sobbing with emotion. 
 I think I must have fallen if he had not 
 held me up with his strong hands. 
 
 ' Where have you sprung from, you poor 
 little thing ?' he asked. 
 
 I pointed across the square to where my 
 landlady stood looking across at us. 
 
 ' Take my arm, like a sensible young 
 woman,' he said. 
 
 And I obeyed, and avc walked so to my 
 new apartments. And there I fell to laugh-
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 1G3 
 
 ino^ and chattlno: like a mad thinn: ; and I 
 broke my lamp-glass in a clumsy attempt 
 to put it on after John Brown had lighted 
 the wick with a wax vesta. I got my 
 bedroom candle and lit that ; and I was 
 ashamed of the miserable light and the 
 broken glass on the floor, and my wild 
 untidy look. He said very little, but he 
 never took his eyes off me, I thought, and 
 that added to my confusion. I was so 
 afraid he would pity me. But when he 
 spoke, it was only to ask if I had 
 dined. 
 
 ' Yes, I think so,' said I. ' In London 
 people dine at one o'clock, and eat bread- 
 and-butter about dinner-time. But, if you 
 are hungry, I will send out for something ; 
 only my landlady is not a good cook, and 
 there is no stove that I can use, and the 
 chops are fried in grease, and I don't think 
 you will like them.' 
 
 11—2
 
 1G4 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' I don't think I should. Put on your 
 l)onnet, Gertie, and we will go out and find 
 somethinfi;: nice to eat.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes !' I cried, laughing — I can- 
 not tell why; I felt just as ready to cry. 
 ' But I don't like to leave you in the 
 dark, and this room is so different to j^our 
 cabin.' 
 
 Just then the landlady came 'uith a lamp, 
 havino; ' heerd ' me break the fflass, she 
 said ; and, smiling inclusively at John 
 Bro^^'n, asked if he would take a bottle of 
 ' hale ' or some ' Irish,' which she always 
 ' kep' in the 'ouse.' 
 
 ' I Avill take your lamp, madam, but 
 nothing more,' said John Brown ; and, 
 with that, he made my landlady a bow 
 which seemed to fi-ighten her out of the 
 room. ' I shall not grow impatient,' he 
 said to me, when I j^romised I would not 
 keep him long.
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 165 
 
 * There is a guide to the British Museum, 
 if you would like to read something,' 
 said I. 
 
 ' Thanks, dear,' he said, in his tender 
 parental tone. It was the first time he 
 had called me ' dear,' but the word made 
 my heart leap up within me. ' What's 
 this ?' he asked, turning to the quire of 
 paper I had been writing. 
 
 ' My diary — part of it. I was writing it 
 when I heard the wheels of your cab.' 
 
 ' Your diary — the chi'onicle of yom' acts 
 and thoughts. It would save a lot of 
 explanation if I might glance over the 
 history of the past eight or ten days.' 
 
 ' You may,' said I. ' You may do what 
 you like.' 
 
 He put his hand upon my head, and 
 stroked back the hair that had got loose 
 and fallen over my forehead. I could not 
 see his face for the tears that sprang into
 
 IGG Little Lady Linton. 
 
 my eyes. He said notliing for ti minute, 
 and then : 
 
 ' Run away, Gertie, and put on youi* 
 /jonnet.' 
 
 I left liim, and went into my bedroom 
 with the intention of putting on my bonnet 
 as he bade me, and getting back again 
 without delay ; but I found I had sjjlashed 
 my dress with grey mud, and covered my 
 boots and a good deal of my stockings as 
 well with filth in running across the scjuare 
 so heedlessly, wherefore I had to take off 
 these things, and I was not ill-pleased to 
 put on my little shoes and my best dress, 
 though it kept me longer than I wished in 
 my bedroom. 
 
 When I came back to my sitting-room, 
 I found John Brown sittin^: where I had 
 left him, with my diary on his knee, but 
 his head turned towards the Avindow. He 
 must have been in deep thought, for it was
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 167 
 
 quite dark, and there was nothing to be seen 
 now outside. 
 
 'Ah, now you look yourself again!' he 
 said, rising and looking at me as he heard 
 me close my door. ' I've read this. Put it 
 away, and lock it up. Are you ready to 
 start ?' 
 
 ' Yes — quite.' 
 
 ' How are you about the feet ?' 
 
 I pulled back my skirts and showed my 
 shoes. He did not look in the least dis- 
 pleased, although they were 'young-ladyish,' 
 in my opinion. 
 
 * There's one advantage about those 
 shoes, Gertie, they'll keep your heels dry,' 
 he said, laughing. ' Can you walk in them 
 to the other side of the square ?' 
 
 ' I could dance in them.' 
 
 ' I'm glad to hear it, with all my heart. 
 You couldn't have danced in them or any 
 other shoes half an hour ago, if I judge
 
 3 08 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 the confessions in your diary riglitly. Come 
 along ; we will dance away the rest of this 
 day, at any rate.' 
 
 So we went out, I witli my hand under his 
 arm ; and upon the other side of the square 
 Ave got into a delicious cab with dazzling 
 lamps, and were whisked away amongst 
 hundreds of other frleamino: lio-hts and 
 hurrying cabs, and I could say nothing but 
 ' yes ' and ' no ' when he spoke ; but I put 
 my hand under his arm and kept it there, 
 just as if we had been Avalking along. 
 Then, amongst all the brilliant lights from 
 the street-lamps and shops, I saw — for the 
 first time, I think — that London, even on a 
 rain}^ evening, is indeed a gay city, and a 
 pleasant one to be in. We dined in the 
 most beautiful room I have ever seen, where 
 the tables glittered with silver and crystal, 
 and were Ijcautiful Avith flowers and hun- 
 dreds of lights. Wq had a little table all to
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 169 
 
 ourselves, and, though I could not eat 
 much, I enjoyed the dinner exceedingly. 
 Afterwards we got into another cab, and 
 went to a theatre. There I felt as if I had 
 been transported into fairyland, for the 
 wonders of it surpass all imagining. An 
 opera w^as being played upon the stage — 
 ' Don Giovanni.' We were not in time for 
 the begmning, and so I hardly know what 
 the story was, especially as it was all in 
 Italian, of which language, I am sorry to 
 say, I know nothing at all. But John 
 Brown said it was a good thing not to un- 
 derstand the words, for they s^^oilt the 
 enjoyment of the music. Of course he was 
 right ; still, they must have been very bad 
 indeed to have robbed those melodies of 
 their charm for my ear. There was a solo 
 and a trio which sent a tlu'ill right through 
 me, and filled my heart with the most 
 tender emotions. I forgot everything, even
 
 170 Little Ladtj Linton. 
 
 John Brown, as I listened ; and, at the end 
 of the trio, I found that I had risen from 
 my seat and was standing upright. No 
 douht I beliavcd strangely in other respects 
 without knowing it, for between the acts I 
 saw many people looking at me through 
 their opera-glasses, and the old gentleman 
 who sat upon my left hand Avas looking at me 
 and chucklini'- whenever I o-lanced that way. 
 
 John Brown did not take me hack to the 
 square. 
 
 ' I don't intend to let you go there again,' 
 was all he said upon the subject ; and, after 
 my late experiences, I was only too willing 
 to submit to his decision, feeling how help- 
 less I was. 
 
 He took me to an hotel not far from the 
 theatre, where a pleasant chambermaid led 
 me to a handsome apartment of two rooms 
 and a toilet- chamber, after I had said 'good- 
 night ' to John Brown.
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 171 
 
 When we were taking breakfast together 
 the next mornmg, he said : 
 
 ' Now, Gertie, let us talk about business. 
 Tell me what you have done about the 
 "Dictionary."' 
 
 I told him all that the publishers had 
 said to me about it, and that I ought to 
 have gone to see Mr. Z. the morning 
 before. 
 
 ' And why didn't you go ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Because I was afraid of losing you,' I 
 replied. 
 
 ' And supposing you have lost a fortune 
 by looking out for me ?' he asked, gazing 
 across the table at me. 
 
 I thouo-ht that I would far rather lose the 
 fortune than John Brown, and I was just 
 about to tell him so, feeling wonderfully 
 happy and careless, when it struck me that 
 perhaps I ought not to let him know how 
 much I liked him ; so, after looking at him
 
 172 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 in confusion for a minute, I dropped my 
 eyes, feeling tlie colour rush into my face, 
 for 1 did not know what to say if I could 
 not tell the truth just as it stood in my 
 mind. 
 
 ' Well, we'll go and see Mr. Z. together/ 
 he said, ' and find out definitely what the 
 fate of the book is to be. Do you want 
 anything before starting ?' 
 
 ' I've no tooth-brush ; and I want clean 
 cuffs and collar.' 
 
 ' Some one shall go with you to buy 
 what you want, while I settle another little 
 matter of business. AVlien that's done, 
 we'll go to oui* publisher's.' 
 
 The chambermaid went out with me, 
 and, having found that John Brown really 
 did not object to ])retty things, I bought 
 a new bonnet and a pair of lovely gloves 
 with six buttons, and several other things 
 which I needed. It was fully an hour
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 173 
 
 before I got back to the liotel, though 
 how so long a space passed without my 
 knowing; it I could not imasfine. 
 
 ' I have settled with your landlady,' said 
 John Brown, when I came down from 
 my room ; * and your boxes will be brought 
 here this afternoon. Now, if you're ready, 
 we'll be off. The cab's at the door.' 
 
 It seemed to me quite natural that he 
 should take my affairs in hand, and I 
 did not attempt to argue with him as 
 to the advisability of leaving the square. 
 To tell the truth, I was more concerned 
 at the moment as to what he would think 
 of my new bonnet and gloves. 
 
 We went to the publisher. His manner 
 was much more deferential to John Brown 
 than it had been when I was alone. I 
 have observed that John Brown's j)resence 
 obtains respect from everyone ; even the 
 rude men in the street, who would push
 
 174 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 ine off tbc ])aveinent if I did not make 
 Avay lor tliciu, got out of his way — wisely, 
 no doubt, for very few could have pushed him 
 an inch from his path. lUit the publisher said 
 he must beg to decline the work so kindly 
 placed at his disposal ; it was not precisely 
 John lirown waited loni>- enouo-h 
 
 O O 
 
 for him to finish tlie sentence; but as he 
 only made a little gesture and smiled very 
 blandly, John Brown said : 
 
 ' J^ot precisely what, sir ?' 
 
 ' Not precisely in my way,' replied the 
 publisher, looking very ill at ease. 
 
 ' Why did not you say so when it was 
 offered you ?' 
 
 'Oh, I do occasionally publish works 
 of this kind, and, had it been by a well- 
 known writer, or strikingly original in 
 design and execution, I might have ventured 
 to produce it ! But, even under those condi- 
 tions, the risk would have been enormous.'
 
 Gertie's great Happiness. 175 
 
 ' Would you publish it if you were 
 secured against loss ?' 
 
 ' Not without a distinct understanding 
 that I should be held free from moral as 
 well as substantial responsibility for its 
 failure.' 
 
 John Brown turned to me, and raised his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 ' Papa made a mistake,' I said. 
 
 * Undoubtedly,' said the publisher. ' There 
 is no class of intelligent men so prone to 
 make mistakes from a business point of 
 view as literary men. I say nothing whatever 
 to disparage the "Dictionary;" the author 
 may be as correct as Euclid and as talented 
 as Buckle, but he did wrong to devote 
 his attention to such a work as this. He 
 is not alone in this. I could take you 
 to the British Museum and point out a 
 dozen men of undoubted ability and 
 acknowledged learning who are literally
 
 17G Little Lachj Linton. 
 
 starviiin: hccause they icill use their brains 
 to a wrong })urpose.' 
 
 ' From a husiness point of view,' said 
 'Tolm T)ro'\\Ti curtly. ' P>e good enough, 
 if you please, to liave these packets brought 
 out to my cab.' 
 
 It seemed as if nothinji; could dishearten 
 me now ; and, as soon as we were in the 
 cab and moving, I forgot the pang of regret 
 I had felt for my dear father's wasted life. 
 As for the fixilure of the book, so far as 
 it concerned my prospects, that did not 
 distress me in the least. John Brown 
 seemed much more unhappy than I. 
 
 ' Shall we try another publisher, Gertie ?' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' ]N'o,' I said ; ' we have tried the best. 
 It would be only waste of time and a 
 source of little worries and disappointments 
 if we went to all the rest, one after the 
 other. Mr. Z. was quite right, perhaps.'
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 177 
 
 ' What shall you do ?' he asked, after 
 looking gloomily at the street before us 
 for some time in silence. 
 
 'I think I could teach children, if they 
 were not too clever.' 
 
 'I don't think I care greatly for that 
 suggestion. Try another.' 
 
 ' I fancy I might learn to be a good 
 nurse in time. There are a great many 
 hospitals, aren't there ?' 
 
 'Oh, lots!' 
 
 ' If I hadn't to look at any very dreadful 
 operations.' 
 
 ' Tr}^ agam, Gertie.' 
 
 I thought for a few minutes, and then I 
 said : 
 
 ' What do you think of my going into a 
 bar.?' 
 
 He turned his head and looked at me in 
 blank astonishment; then — 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 Little Liuhj Linton. 
 
 ' Good heavens !' said he. ' What put 
 tliat notion into your head ?' 
 
 ' Kitty Burnes was in a l)ar, and Miss 
 DreUncourt says I am just hke her.' 
 
 ' Miss DreUncourt made a very great 
 mistake. You're not at all like Kitty 
 Jjurnes, and never can be, thank heaven! 
 You behind a bar!' he exclaimed. And 
 then he burst out into a loud laugh. 
 
 After that I dared not suggest going into 
 a milliner's, because that had been Miss 
 Drelincourt's business; but I hinted that T 
 could use a needle very well. 
 
 ' I suppose the best thing, after all, will 
 be governessing,' said he ; ' but you'll find 
 it a horrid kind of life, Gertie.' 
 
 ' You don't think I expect to be always 
 happy, as I am now?' 
 
 ' The majority of girls think that's all 
 they're born for.' 
 
 ' Ah, they arc young ladies,' said I.
 
 Gerties great Hajjpiness. 179 
 
 ' Yes, that's just what they are — youno- 
 ladies,' he said bitterly ; and then I recol- 
 lected his repugnance, 
 
 ' And you think you should like to teach 
 children as well as anything?' he asked 
 soon after. 
 
 ' Better than anything else,' I replied. 
 
 ' Then we will take the first steps at 
 once.' 
 
 He thrust up the little trap-door in 
 the top of the cab and said, ' Printing 
 House Square,' to the driver, who turned 
 his horse round and drove in a different 
 direction. 
 
 When the cab stopped agam, John 
 Brown got out, and, after being absent for 
 about five minutes, he came back and told 
 me that to-morrow morning the world 
 would know that I wished to' be a gover- 
 ness, explaining to me that he had put an 
 advertisement in the Times. 
 
 12—2
 
 180 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 ' Lombard Street,' he said to tlie driver ; 
 and aAvuy we went again. 
 
 At Lombard Street he went into a bank, 
 and stopped for nearly ten minutes. As he 
 came from the bank to tlie cab, he was 
 followed and overtaken by a little stout 
 gentleman with a shaven fat red face and 
 very stiff shirt-collar. They spoke a few 
 words, shook hands, and separated. 
 
 After luncheon Ave went out for a walk, 
 the afternoon being beautifully fine and 
 bright, and looked at the shops, which was 
 a very great pleasure to me, but must have 
 been rather tedious to him : thouc^h he 
 showed no signs of impatience, and actually 
 made me stop to look at some bonnets, 
 which could not possibly be of any interest 
 to him. lUit in little things, just as much 
 as in great, he was generously considerate 
 of my happiness, I found. Then Ave entered 
 a picture-gallery, Avhich opened a ncAv field
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 181 
 
 of wonder and delight to my mind ; and I 
 thought I could stay there for ever, and talk 
 with John Brown about the beautiful things 
 we saw, without growing tired ; but I found 
 that my head ached by the time we left to 
 go to dinner. I said nothmg about it ; but 
 his quick eye detected what I wished to 
 conceal. 
 
 ' You are tired, Gertie, said he. ' Do you 
 want to see your beloved fields and breathe 
 the pure air again?' 
 
 ' I want nothing,' I said. 
 
 ' Nothing ?' 
 
 I shook my head. I was not forgetful 
 of the friends I loved at Neufbourg ; yet 
 I thought how wretched I should feel 
 to be transported to that still village and 
 beg^in ao'ain the old life, with its dull 
 routine of little duties, its irritating 
 jealousies, its petty prejudices, and pur- 
 poseless existence.
 
 182 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 ' Nevcrtlicless, I tliink wc will spend to- 
 morrow ainoii^i^' the Avater-lilies.' 
 
 To be ill the country Avith John Brown 
 — that was another thing. I started from 
 my chair — we Averc dining in the private 
 room — and clasped my hands Avith delight. 
 He saw hoAA^ pleased I AA'as, and smiled. 
 
 * Come here, Gertie,' he said, in a tone of 
 fervent tenderness. 
 
 I put my serviette on the table, and Avent 
 round to his side, Avondermg Avhat he Avanted 
 me for. But his manner changed suddenly, 
 and, pushing back his chair, he rose, turned 
 his back upon me, and looked to the open 
 window. 
 
 ' Fetch my pipe, Gertie — it's on the 
 chimney-piece, I think,' he said, almost 
 harshly. 
 
 We Avent out on the balcony- he smokino^ 
 his pipe, and avc looked doAvn and Avatched 
 the people floAving in an endless stream
 
 Gerties great Hcq^piness. 183 
 
 along the street below, and gradually we 
 came to talk in our usual unconstrained 
 way about what we saw. But it was a 
 long while before I ceased to wonder what 
 had passed in his mind while I w^as in 
 the course of going to his side, and why 
 he wished me to go to him, and then why 
 his tone so suddenly changed. Even now 
 I cannot understand it. 
 
 A waiter came while we were on the 
 balcony, to know if he should light the 
 gas. 
 
 ' Yes,' said John Brown. ' And now, 
 Gertie, as you had better be up and dressed 
 by eight to-morrow morning, go to bed 
 now.' 
 
 * Are we going in the country ?' I asked, 
 with some hesitation. 
 
 ' Yes ; there'll be no answer to the 
 advertisement to-morrow. After to-morrow, 
 there's no knowing what may hapjDen; the
 
 184 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 liollday win be ended, and your troubles 
 taking a new departure pcrliaps. Good- 
 night.' 
 
 He gave me his hand without changing 
 his attitude, and kept his pipe, the only 
 thine: he has which I dislike, between his 
 teeth. 
 
 I suppose it was the aching of my head 
 that depressed me ; but certainly I felt sad 
 and disappointed as I went to my room. 
 
 Yesterday we w^ent to Pangbourne, a 
 little village on the Thames, where the 
 river is more lovely than anything at 
 KeufbouriT, or between there and Noailles. 
 AVe had luncheon at a lovely little inn, 
 quite unlike the dirty auberges in Normandy, 
 where you must eat at a table without 
 cloth, and with your own pocket-knife. 
 Everything was clean and fresli and quaint ; 
 and through the open window we could 
 look at the river bordered by beautiful
 
 Gerties great Hcippiness. 185 
 
 trees that hung right over the water, 
 and see the ducks swimming among the 
 rushes, and the boats lying all ready for 
 us to choose from, and the leaves of 
 the convolvulus, trained uji the window, 
 swaying gently in the soft air that just 
 tempered the heat of the blazing sun. 
 Oh, it was beautiful indeed! And there 
 Avas a lovely currant and raspberry pie, 
 which made me feel that, with all my 
 skill in cookery, I had a great deal 
 to learn yet, for nothing I have ever 
 made or eaten in France could at all 
 compare with that pie. The wasps must 
 have smelt it from a long way off, for they 
 came in with a buzz and a hum one after 
 the other, just as I have seen Mere Aumont's 
 children come running home from school 
 to dinner, Laocadie first, because of her 
 long legs ; and then Yirginie ; and, after 
 her, the rest according to their age.
 
 18G Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 If I told all that hapi)cned during- the 
 day, 1 should not finish writing to-day 
 nor to-morrow either. Wc had the prettiest 
 little boat I could find — for John Jkown 
 left the choice to me — but not the 
 smallest, for I feared that his great weight 
 would surely sink it ; and I was told 
 how to steer by pulling the little ropes 
 attached to the rudder ; but I could not 
 think of them for two minutes together, 
 for every stroke of the oars brought some 
 new beauty of the river into sight, and 
 I could think of that only. If John Brown 
 had not been accustomed to ships, I fancy 
 we should have been run ashore very 
 often ; but he kept the boat straight despite 
 me, and could do just whatever he wished 
 to do. I found some most beautiful large 
 white Avater-lilies, and it seemed a shame 
 to pull them up out of the Avater which 
 they made to look so lovely ; but I took
 
 Gerties great Haj^j^iness. 187 
 
 some, all the same. And then I rowed. 
 At first I made a dreadful business of it ; 
 but, after a while, mider John Brown's 
 guidance, I got to row without hurting 
 my knuckles, and the banks ceased to go 
 the wrong way — a httle. AYe were ver}^ 
 hajDpy and gay. While I was rowing, John 
 Brown, who sat in the back seat and 
 could look up the river, exclaimed 
 suddenly : 
 
 ' Oh, damme !' and then, pulling his 
 jacket, which hung on the back of the 
 seat, over his head, as if to shield his face 
 fi'om the sun, he said, ' Pull away steadily, 
 Gertie — a little harder with your right.' 
 
 The next minute a long narrow boat 
 shot past, rowed by three ladies and three 
 gentlemen, and steered by a fourth gentle- 
 man. The ladies were dressed in white 
 flannel, with blue trimmings and straw 
 hats. They looked very hard at me, and
 
 188 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 tlie o-entleinan .steeriii''' turned round when 
 they had passed. 
 
 ' Let me know when they're out of sight/ 
 said John lirown. 
 
 It Avas clear that he knew the people, 
 and I think the gentleman had recognised 
 him, and that all suspected who he was. 
 This made me feel very uncomfortable 
 for a time, thinking that John BroANTi 
 was ashamed of me in my poor black frock j 
 but I think I did him Avrong to susj^ect 
 that, and that it was only liis strange 
 horror of young ladies which made him 
 anxious to escape observation. 
 
 We went as far as a village called 
 Streatly, and, after resting there some time, 
 we returned ; and I rowed nearly the whole 
 distance, having got accustomed to the use 
 of the oars, and liking the exercise ex- 
 tremely. It was much easier going down, 
 moreover, as there was no disagreeable
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 189 
 
 current to twist the boat in amono- the 
 reeds and catch hold of the oar when one 
 did not expect anything of the kind. The 
 sun was setting as we reached Pangbourne ; 
 the air was clear and still, and a delicious 
 mellow light softened the view. High up 
 in the air swallows were skimming with 
 sharp cries ; a few swept swiftly over the 
 water, touching it with their breasts, flutter- 
 ing upwards, and away; gnats gave promise 
 of a fine day to-morrow ; the ducks were 
 still busy amongst the reeds ; there was a 
 sound of falling water that came from the 
 weir ; there was a smell of wild-thyme and 
 new hay — there was something to delight 
 every sense. 
 
 I slept in a sweet little chamber, with a 
 low ceiling and a latticed window that 
 looked out towards the mill. In the morn- 
 ing, quite early, I was awoke by the 
 swallows. They had a row of nests built
 
 190 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 under tlie eaves, and from eacli a little black 
 head peeped out tlirougli the liole in the 
 side; and there was a great deal of noise 
 when the parent with a sharp cry swept up 
 to the side, and, clinging for a moment, 
 conveyed the insects he had caught to his 
 hungry family within, and then darted off 
 again for a fresh supply. The ri\-er looked 
 very soft and grey, Avith a thin veil of 
 mist spread over the water. Xo one was 
 moving, and I was wondering whether I 
 should dress, when a church clock struck 
 four. I crept into bed and fell asleep. 
 When I woke again, the sun was shininof 
 through the window ; and now, as T peeped 
 out of the window, I found that the mist 
 was gone, and everything stood out sharp 
 and clear, and particularly bright and 
 happy-looking. The swallows were still 
 very busy. There were sawyers at work 
 near — I could hear the long sweep of the
 
 Garties great Happiness. 191 
 
 saw through the timber ; and a man was 
 mopping out the boat we had used the day 
 before, while the ducks foraged round and 
 about for the morsels of biscuit I had let 
 fall in the boat. Then a hen came into 
 siofht, leadino' her brood of eleven little 
 yellow chicks, which were just old enough 
 to be tiresome — they tvould lag behind and 
 get through palings that did not easily 
 admit of their return, and lose themselves 
 in the long grass of a paddock, where they 
 cried distressfully for their mother, who 
 seemed perversely disposed to seek in the 
 most barren places for food, and, having 
 scratched up a cloud of dust, would begin 
 to peck vigorously and call loudly to her 
 young ones, who seemed wise enough to 
 understand that she was making a great 
 fuss about nothing. 
 
 I wanted to get dressed, yet I could not 
 get away from the window, until I caught
 
 192 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 si^'lit of John Brown coniinfi: down the hill 
 Avitli frrcat strides. Then I felt ashamed of 
 my laziness, and lost not another moment 
 in dressing-. I Avent down into the room 
 below, where the snowy white table-cloth 
 was spread and the breakfast-things laid 
 out — large cups and saucers of homely 
 earthenw^are, and forks with steel prongs, 
 but all very bright and clean, and a bio- 
 brown loaf that made me hungry to look at 
 it. The window was open, and a whole- 
 some fresh breeze wafted the hanofinfr foliasfe 
 of the convolvulus and one or two <rreat 
 purple blooms, just opened, to and fro. 
 The good-looking fresh-coloured old land- 
 lord came and asked me if I would have the 
 bacon cooked, and I said ' Yes, by all 
 means,' thinking of my own hunger rather 
 than of John Brown's convenience — as I 
 told him afterwards. I leaned on the sill of 
 the open window, and looked at the lovely
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 193 
 
 river covered with a ripple that set the 
 boats dancing gaily; and, while I leant 
 there, with an inexpressible feeling of 
 gratitude and happiness in my heart, 
 John Brown came up on the outside with 
 a pleasant smile on his handsome open face. 
 His head only came as high as the window- 
 sill, and he had to look up at me as he said 
 good-morning. He looked handsomer than 
 ever that way, I thought ; and I would 
 have given the world to put my arms round 
 his neck and kiss him as I used to kiss my 
 dear father. And I don't think he would 
 have objected either, for his expression had 
 all that was sweet and amiable in it as I 
 looked at him, with this wish in my heart. 
 
 'If you were only my sister!' he said 
 softly, still holdmg my hand. 
 
 ' And if you were only my brother !' I 
 thought ; but I dare not say so. And my 
 face flushed and my heart beat, and a 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 104 Little Lad// Linton. 
 
 number of tlioui'-lits ruslicd into nn- licad 
 that made it giddy. Wli}' should there l)e 
 constraint between u.s just because Ave 
 happened not to be of one mother ? I 
 tliouglit. Why, if I love him like the 
 dearest brother, and lie loves me like a 
 sister — why should we not say so and kiss ? 
 That seemed so natural at the moment ; 
 }'et the ver}- thought of his kissing my 
 lips made me tremble so that I knew it 
 must be somehow wrong. He put his lips 
 to my hand, and let it go, turning his head 
 away and looking up the shining river in 
 silence. Just then the landlord bustled 
 into the room and set down a tray ; and, as 
 I turned, T smelt a delightful odour of 
 coffee and toasted bacon that turned my 
 thoughts in a new direction, 
 
 ' Oh, come in quick I' I said to John 
 Brown. ' The breakfast is served, and I 
 am so liungry !'
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 195 
 
 I think I ate almost as much as he — whicli 
 is saying a great deal for my appetite — and 
 there was no further constraint between us ; 
 but we laughed and talked as much as 
 eating and drinking would allow — he 
 tellino' me of what he had seen in his walk, 
 and I describing to him the ways of the 
 young chicks and their mother, and the 
 never-tirino' swallows. After breakfast we 
 took the boat and rowed down to a j^l^ce 
 called, I think, Maple Durham, where some 
 artists, with white umbrellas over them, 
 were painting. And I do not wonder that 
 they chose that spot, for it is extremely 
 beautiful. 
 
 After an early dinner at Pangbourne, we 
 bade the dear little village of Pangbourne 
 good-bye, and took the train to London. 
 John Brown thouo^ht I should be grieved 
 to go back to London ; but I was not, for 
 it seemed to me that wherever I went witli 
 
 13—2
 
 19''» Little LaJy Linton. 
 
 liiiii I must be liappy — the happiness 
 difFerinir ^nly in kinrl. Xevertheless, I 
 "was sad before the day was over. 
 
 At the hotel a letter was given to me. 
 This is a copy of it : 
 
 ' Gauntly House, Camden Square, N.' 
 {Printed in gold letters.) 
 
 ' Mrs. Gauntly Gower ' — written in a 
 very scratchy angular large hand, about 
 three words in a line — ' having seen ]\Iiss 
 Graham's advertisement in this morning's 
 Times, will be pleased to see her at the 
 above address "witli regard to instructing 
 her children in the French lanii;ua2:e, et 
 ccetera, between the hours of twelve and 
 three o'clock to-morrow or the day fol- 
 lowiniz;. 
 
 'Jidy\st,\d>^—: 
 
 I handed the note to John IJrown in 
 silence, my heart sinking at the thought of
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 197 
 
 separating' from him, which was, of course, 
 unreasonable and wrong ; but I could not 
 help it. 
 
 * If the mamma can take some lessons in 
 English from you amongst the et c cetera, it 
 won't be amiss,' he said, throwing the note on 
 the table. ' Well, Gertie, you'd better go 
 to-morrow and see if you like the engage- 
 ment ; but don't let the old woman impose 
 upon you. I know what she means by 
 et ccetera — doins^ work that she ouo-ht to 
 employ some one else to do. Ask her 
 what she means by that et ccetera ; and let 
 her know that, if you accept the post of 
 governess, you will do only that which 
 a governess does. And don't let her know 
 anything about your private affairs. 
 There's no bounds to the curiosity of that 
 woman — of a woman, that is, who writes 
 in such a style as that. She'll ask a 
 hundred thousand questions, and never
 
 198 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 stop until slic lias turned you inside out, or 
 is quietly snubbed.' 
 
 ' AVhat can she ask me ?' 
 
 ' Oh,' he replied, with an uneasy, im- 
 patient air, ' I dare say she'll want to know 
 what you have been doing since you came 
 to London — how you came, who you know, 
 and all the rest of it !' 
 
 ' That's natural,' said I ; 'and I don't see 
 why I should not tell her.' 
 
 ' She'll insult 3'ou if you do, and refuse 
 to take you as Avell.' 
 
 ' AVhy ?' I asked in astonishment. ' I 
 liave done nothini]: wrons^.' 
 
 ' Of course not ; but perhaps I have. In 
 the opinion of the little world you propose 
 to enter, it is highly improper for a young 
 woman to receive any sort of help from a 
 man.' 
 
 ' I know it is tliou2:ht so in Neufbour2f : 
 but papa always laughed at those restric-
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 199 
 
 tions, and said that they did not exist in 
 England.' 
 
 ' I don't think your father knew much 
 about modern society in London. I don't 
 care to talk about these things lo you ; they 
 make me sick. I should like you to be for 
 ever as innocent and ignorant as you are 
 now.' 
 
 ' My ignorance makes me feel very help- 
 less. What shall I say to this lady ? I 
 can't tell lies — you wouldn't have me do 
 that ?' 
 
 * I would rather your lips were silent for 
 ever than guilty of falsehood. Damme,' he 
 exclaimed, turning aside with impatience, ' I 
 told you 1 should do you no good ! Look 
 here, Gertie — there's no need to mention 
 my name at all. Tell her as much as you 
 like about the " Dictionary " and your failure 
 in selling it. Say you have been staying at 
 this hotel, and that if she desires further
 
 200 Little Lcuhj Linton. 
 
 particuhirs respectin*^ your career, the most 
 satisfjictor}- means will be to write to tlie 
 Cure of Xeuf bourg and Madame Piquois for 
 particulars. And then you can draw your- 
 self up at a full stop, and decline to say 
 anything more on the subject.' 
 
 With that he sauntered to the windoAv, 
 and I went up to m}- room to take off my 
 bonnet and things. I made haste to rejoin 
 John Brown ; for, in the first place, 
 realizing that in all probability we must 
 soon separate, I begrudged every moment 
 that was spent away from him ; and next, I 
 felt that, if I gave myself time to think of 
 that parting, I should cry, which Avas what 
 I wished wdth all my heart to avoid, fearing 
 that he would misunderstand me, and at- 
 tribute my grief to the discovery that liis 
 friendship had compromised me in the 
 opinion of society. Just as much I feared 
 that he should understand me, and see that
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 201 
 
 I was like a child over-excited with pleasure, 
 and broken-hearted to think that happiness 
 cannot exist for ever. 
 
 I did my utmost to be gay and light- 
 hearted that evening. We sat near the 
 window that opened upon the balcony. 
 The lamp, deeply shaded, cast a circle of 
 light which did not reach us ; the reflection 
 from the street was sufficient to show me 
 his face. A little table was between us, on 
 which our coifee-cups stood. He smoked 
 and I talked. He was thoughtful and 
 silent. It is quite likely my perpetual 
 chatter about little things wearied him ; 
 but I talked with a kind of desperation — 
 just as, when the clouds are heavy, the wind 
 seems to be trying its utmost to prevent 
 the rain from falling. The shops on the 
 opposite side of the way shut up ; the throng 
 of vehicles diminished ; and it grew so quiet 
 that we heard Big Ben strike the hour.
 
 202 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 • Time to say " Good-night," Gertie,' lie 
 siiid. 
 
 I rose, fearing I knew not what, and held 
 out my liand to him. He took it, and, 
 holding it tenderly, said : 
 
 ' You will go to-morrow and see about 
 that engagement ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I suppose you will take up your resi- 
 dence in Camden Square at once — in a week 
 or ten days, say — if }0U accept ?' 
 
 I nodded my head. I could not speak 
 now. My courage was all gone. 
 
 ' You will he quite safe here. I shall 
 speak to the manageress and see that }ou 
 are not neglected.' 
 
 ' Are you going away — soon ?' I asked, 
 my voice sounding strange to my own ear. 
 
 ' To-night. If you fail to get that place, 
 or if you feel in need of help, send me 
 a few words by telegraph — " John Ih'own,
 
 Gerties great Happiness. 203 
 
 Marine Hotel, Dover," will find me. But 
 you are going to be a brave girl, Gertie, 
 and carry out your idea of being inde- 
 pendent — ell?' I had dropped my eyes 
 from his face, and a tear was trickling down 
 my cheek. ' Otherwise I shall believe more 
 firmly than ever that I bring evil to tho.se 
 whom I most desire to see happy.' 
 
 ' I will be brave,' I said, gulping down a 
 sob. ' And, oh, please don't think that 
 anything but happiness and good will come 
 by your seeing me sometimes !' 
 
 ' That's what I want to think ; so good- 
 night.' 
 
 I turned away, saying ' Good-bye,' but 
 my voice was hardly audible; and, as I 
 walked fi:-om him to the door, the recollec- 
 tion of all his kindness from the first day 
 of our meeting passed in a flash of thought 
 through my mind ; and then I felt what 
 trouble would have befallen me but for his
 
 204 Little Lculi/ Linton. 
 
 help, and liuw terrible this beautiful city 
 would ha\'e been without him ; and thereat 
 my conscience reproached me with in^Tati- 
 tude, for I had parted without giving him 
 even a word of acknowledirment. I could 
 not bear to think of his going away and 
 leaving me with all that debt unpaid, and 
 I turned about that very moment and ran 
 back to where he stood, meaning to say 
 something suitable ; but when I was before 
 him I could find never a word to say, but 
 stood there looking up into his face, like the 
 dumb creatures that can do no more than 
 that to express the love they feel for their 
 masters. Suddenly every consideration 
 broke down before the resistless rush of my 
 heart's desires, and I flung my arms around 
 his neck and held my mouth up to be 
 kissed. And he kissed my lips twice, and 
 then, having gently disengaged my anns, 
 led me by the hand to the door, and bade
 
 Gerties great Happiness. '205 
 
 me ' Good-night ' for the second time. 
 And I went up to my room in the dark, 
 and cried there as if my heart would break 
 with too much joy.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE DIARY. A NEW LIFE. 
 
 KN^OW now that I am a woman ; 
 I only tliought so before, when 
 in realit}- I. was still a child. I 
 love! Oh, I could write those words a 
 hundred times, and yet feel pride and 
 delight in repeating them! Love must l)e 
 the beLi'innini'- of womanliood — indeed, I 
 think it is the true beginning of life, for 
 hitherto I have seemed to exist without 
 purpose, a very unnecessary young person, 
 the source of mucli anxiety to my father, 
 and of so little to the rest of the world that
 
 A New Life. 207 
 
 my best friend would have mourned ui)^ 
 death but little more than the loss of a pet 
 bird. I knew nothing of love, except a 
 very vague notion I had got by reading 
 books. A blind girl might get just as true 
 an idea of stars and the young moon by 
 the mere description of them. Girls older 
 than I never talk of love before their 
 marriage — and very little afterguards — in 
 Neufbourg. Clara Chenoux only saw her 
 Monsieur Pitou three times before she 
 became his wife ; and I know she never 
 felt for one instant towards him as I do 
 towards John Brown, or else she would 
 not have wished that he looked less like 
 a weaver and more like a bourgeois. I 
 think if John Brown had any defect I 
 should like him the better for it. It 
 seemed to me that love was like chivalry, 
 a beautiful sentiment of past times, greatly 
 exaggerated by poets of the present. Men
 
 208 Little Lachj Linton. 
 
 and women never did anvtliiii"- i!:enerous 
 or noble for love at Xeufbouri^. There's 
 nothing noble in patching blouses, and 
 that is the best the women did for their 
 husbands; and it is not generous to give 
 a wife just as many sous as will Iniy the 
 necessary things at market; Init the best 
 of husbands "-ave her no more, and if 
 she had not cheated him, she would never 
 have had money to buy anything at a 
 bargain when it was offered. I suppose I 
 should have fallen in love at Xeufbourir 
 if there had been anj'one there really worth 
 loving, for I am sure no one was ever more 
 inclined that way than I. Xo story was 
 ever perfect, in my opinion, unless there 
 was a great deal about love in it ; and I 
 liked or disliked heroines in proportion as 
 their conduct approached what I thought I 
 should have done under the same con- 
 ditions. 1 was a mistress of the theory of
 
 A New Life. 209 
 
 love, but I regarded it only as theory — ■ 
 very much as I took for granted the move- 
 ments of certain heavenly bodies only to 
 be seen through a long telescope. When I 
 ceased to speculate as to whether fairies 
 and elves really existed or not, I began 
 to wonder whether I should fall in love 
 and be Avretched for a time, or marry some 
 one I did not care very much about, and 
 grow indifferent to love, like Clara Chenoux ; 
 and, just as I had given up fairies as a 
 hopeless improbability, so I came to look 
 upon myself as a most unhkely heroine of 
 romance. But now all that is chamred, 
 and that which was but romance is noAV 
 reality. I love; and I know that love 
 is not a mere dream, but a beautiful 
 passion, that inspires one with the ambition 
 to be in the highest degree good, and the 
 resolution to do right always, and the 
 courage to suffer, if need be. I am sure 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 that men and women may become heroic 
 tliroiio'h love : for even I, thouuli but an 
 ordinary girl, feel that there is no danger I 
 •would slu'ink from to serve him I love, 
 nothing in the world I would not give up 
 for his sake. 
 
 It was when our lips met that I first 
 noticed the nature of mv love for him. 
 I mistook the feelinsr which made me 
 return to him — it was more than gratitude ; 
 that was why I was dumb, there being 
 no words that could express what I felt. 
 In the mornins: I had fancied I should 
 like of all things to be his brother, or 
 a man, tliat I misfht be his comrade and 
 friend ; but at night I saw how poor 
 an exchange I should have made for my 
 womanhood and its dearer ties. I think 
 he must have perceived that I loved him 
 before I knew it myself. Tliat is verv 
 likel}' ; it explains his sudden departure.
 
 A New Life. 211 
 
 He has been always so thoughtful of my 
 happiness that he would not have left me 
 at this moment had he not seen that it 
 was for my welfare he should go. He 
 said to himself perhaps, ' This friendless 
 child has fallen in love with me because 
 I have been kind to her, and am better 
 than the peasants she has known. She 
 will forget me as soon as I am out of 
 sight and she sees other cultivated men. 
 A love that springs into existence and 
 attains its growth so quickly cannot endure ; 
 it is like the ephemera whose little life 
 begins and ends with the sunshine of a 
 day; let it finish so.' 
 
 He told me that, if I needed him, I 
 was to send a telegram to Dover. That 
 shows that he has not any voyage to 
 make in his ship. And why should he 
 stay in Dover rather than in London ? To 
 spare me pain, as he thinks — that is why. 
 
 14—2
 
 2J2 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 The more 1 loved Liiu the more dreadful 
 it would he to part from him. and of 
 course we should have to })art, unless 
 we married. He has thought ahout that, 
 I dare say, and perhaps he would not 
 marry me on any consideration ; certainly 
 not, knowing so little as he does of my 
 character and disposition. He does not 
 know that I shall love him for ever and 
 ever. He does not know whether I am 
 ii simpleton or an over-clever person, and 
 it is clear that he dislikes hotli characters. 
 He seems to hate society ; lie may think 
 that it will please me, and that I could 
 not be happy to live in the only Avay 
 which pleases him. He cannot know 
 wdth any feeling of certainty whether I 
 have patience, or amiability, or fidelity, 
 or truth, or any of the virtues that are 
 necessary to make a good wife. Perhaps 
 he has no wish to marry anybody, but
 
 A New Life. 213 
 
 prefers to live a bachelor, and go sailing 
 about carelessly in his ship, without any 
 of those anxieties which one must feel who 
 has a wife and loves her. Yet I feel sure 
 he loves me ; for his kind eyes seemed 
 to reflect just the feelings that were in 
 mv heart when I looked in them ; and 
 when I kissed him he was not irritated, 
 but kissed me again. Without love, could 
 he be so considerate for my happiness ? 
 Would he not be careless or indifferent ? 
 Oh, I am sure he loves me ! And if 
 he sees that I am not very silly, and 
 that I am doing all I can to be reasonable 
 and good, and that my love for him only 
 grows with time, can he cease to love 
 me ? Then, again, if he continues to love 
 me, is it not fair to suppose that he will 
 desire to have me with him always ? I 
 do not think I am unreasonable or carried 
 away by impulse in thinking this ; and
 
 'J 1 4 Little Lady J Anton. 
 
 whatever arguments I can find against my 
 hopes I have considered iairly, yet still 
 my hope exists and swells my heart with 
 
 joy- 
 
 I have been thinking what I may do 
 to be wiser and worthier of his love. I 
 certainly shall not attempt to learn the 
 piano, though I liave had a great wish to 
 do so, and it has seemed to me that music, 
 even such as an untalented girl may with 
 patience learn to play, would be very 
 pleasant as a resource when other amuse- 
 ments fail ; nor do I think I shall try 
 to paint pictures, because I have no natural 
 talent for that art, and, unless one can 
 paint very well indeed, it is but a selfish 
 source of pleasure : but I shall set myself 
 to learn German and Italian, so that, if ever 
 the day comes when we go abroad together, 
 he shall not be forced to regret my ignor- 
 ance.
 
 A New Life. 215 
 
 It has just occurred to me that this 
 is a very odd way of keeping a diary. 
 In all that I have written to-night there is 
 not one line of what I have been doing during 
 the day ; but mdeed the events of the day 
 seem so unimportant beside the first event 
 of my life that I find it difficult to fix my 
 thoughts upon them for five minutes at a 
 time. 
 
 After luncheon, I sent for a cab to take 
 me to Camden Square. The manageress 
 asked me if I would have ' a young person ' 
 go with me ; but I declined, for I never felt 
 more light-hearted and courageous, and, 
 had I only known my way, I would have 
 walked to Mrs. Gower's house just to prove 
 to myself that I was no longer the helpless 
 little simpleton I had been. No, I was no 
 longer a child ; and, with that thought, as 
 I leant back in the cab, a cloud of warm 
 and radiant fancies of the most volatile ajid
 
 21G Little Lady Linton. 
 
 gassy kind came into my mind, of which all 
 I have written that is most hopeful and 
 brig-litest is, as it were, but the cold distilla- 
 tion. The rapid drive helped to exhilarate 
 me and make my brain giddy. I am rather 
 ashamed now to think how confident and 
 self-important I felt as I threw back the 
 rattling doors and stepped on to the pave- 
 ment. I think I told the driver in a very 
 haughty tone of voice to wait for me ; I am 
 sure that I was gratified by the silent respect 
 with, "which he touched his hat. 
 
 Gauntly House is one of a row of 
 splendid houses with stone porticoes ; the 
 others are numbered, and nameless, but 
 ' Gauntly House ' is written on the two 
 gate-posts of Gauntly House — for the con- 
 venience of cab-drivers, I suppose. There 
 are very handsome curtains to the windows, 
 and in one hano^s a cockatoo in faience. 
 There are two bells, with brass handles that
 
 A New Life. 217 
 
 might be gold, with little plates underneath, 
 teUing which is for servants and which is 
 for visitors ; and there is a large handsome 
 knocker on the door as well. I concluded 
 from these observations that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gower were very solicitous for the con- 
 venience of people coming to their house, 
 and very grand also. I wished, though, 
 there had been another plate to say whether 
 I should knock or rins:. 
 
 The inside of the house was just as 
 stately as the outside. I passed through a 
 small kind of vestibule, where there were 
 two chairs and a table, a barometer for 
 people sitting there to amuse themselves 
 with, and a stag's head by way of orna- 
 ment, which recalled the British Museum to 
 my mind, it looked so very lifeless and sad. 
 I was shown into the room where hunof the 
 faience cockatoo, and there I waited, won- 
 dering why that cockatoo was hung in the
 
 21 S TAtth Lady Linton. 
 
 ■window, until ^Irs. Gower came into the 
 room. I knew her directly ; she is so in 
 character with her house, so dignified and 
 stately ; there is no sort of nonsense about 
 her. I can almost believe that had I, for 
 the first time, seen lier looking out of the 
 window with the cockatoo, I might, after 
 being deceived by the first glance at the 
 bird, have doubted for a moment whether 
 the woman was not of faience also. 
 
 ' You are the young person who ad- 
 vertised in the Times, I suppose ?' she said, 
 in a freezing tone of voice. 
 
 ' Yes. My name is Gertrude Gra- 
 ham.' 
 
 ' I asked, because it is very unusual for 
 young persons seeking a situation as gover- 
 ness to go about in hansom cabs.' 
 
 ' I didn't know there was a special vehicle 
 for governesses,' I said. 
 
 ' You do not pretend to be facetious,
 
 A New Life. 219 
 
 Miss Graham, I hope ?' she said, looking 
 harder and more severe than ever. 
 
 ' Oh no, indeed!' I should as soon have 
 thought of joking with one of the mummies 
 in the Egyptian department ; but I did not 
 say so, of course. ' I shall be very grateful 
 if you will tell me how I ought to have 
 come here.' 
 
 ' A four-wheeled cab would be more 
 appropriate to a young jDerson m your 
 position.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I was told they were for 
 people who couldn't get into hansoms. 
 I have been in London only a short time.' 
 
 ' You are staying at an hotel. Have you 
 no friends in London?' 
 
 ' None. I hope you do not disapprove 
 of my staying in an hotel?' 
 
 ' No. Perhaps, having no friends and 
 knowing nothing of London, you did well 
 to go to one of the best, if your means allow
 
 220 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 you to. You have chosen certainly one of 
 the most expensive.' 
 
 ' I have made no inquiry as to the price 
 I am to pay.' 
 
 ]\Irs. Gower looked at me in silence for a 
 few moments, with an expression that 
 seemed to imply that I was the most 
 singular young woman she had ever had to 
 do with ; and then — 
 
 ' You have been in a situation before ?' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' No. I have lived with my father all 
 my life in France. He was a student, an 
 author, a writer of great books. When he 
 died, I was left without a single parent. I 
 came to London to sell the " Dictionary" he 
 had taken many }'ears to write, and which 
 he believed would provide me with a com- 
 petency. But for various reasons the pub- 
 lishers decline to buy the work. That 
 obliges me to earn my living. I am more
 
 A Neia Life. ' 221 
 
 capable of teaching French than of doing 
 anything else well ; that is why I have come 
 to you. Now I have told you all that I can 
 tell you. If you wish to know more, I will 
 give you the address of some families in 
 France who have known me since my in- 
 fancy, and also of Monsieur le Cure.' 
 
 I saw the immediate advantao;e of follow- 
 ing John Brown's advice. It put a stop to 
 a line of questioning which seemed to me 
 rather impertinent. Mrs. Gower found 
 notliing to say, but sat looking at me with 
 a kind of forlorn haughtiness in silence for 
 a minute or so. 
 
 ' I am afraid, by your reference to the Cure, 
 that you are a Eoman Catholic,' she said. 
 
 ' N'o. Papa refused to let me take any 
 of the sacraments, thinkins: it wrono^ for 
 young people with immatured judgment to 
 pledge themselves to a faith which wiser 
 and older persons were not agreed upon.'
 
 222 Littlr Lady Linton. 
 
 ]\Irs. Gower tapped her knuckles with her 
 pince-nez reflectively, and presently said : 
 
 ' Being the daughter of a literary man, 
 and having lived in France all your life, 
 you should be a mistress of both the 
 English and French languages ; but, at the 
 same time, I should have preferred a young 
 person of more experience — one who under- 
 stands the routine of teaching, and whose 
 acquaintance with the manners of English 
 society would be a safeguard against her 
 making those social errors which it is 
 evident you are liable to fall into.' 
 
 I said nothing ; but I thought of Mere 
 Lucas at market, who, before asking- the 
 l)ricc of the fowl or rabbit she wanted to 
 buy, took care to represent that it was not 
 of the kind she liked, and made a great 
 pretence of not wishing to have it at all, in 
 order that it mio'ht be offered to her at the 
 lowest possible figure.
 
 A New Life. 223 
 
 ' Young persons in your position also,' she 
 continued, ' are inclined to be independent 
 and unwilling to comply with the regula- 
 tions of the house they enter as employees^ 
 under the impression that their former con- 
 dition entitles them to special privileges.' 
 
 ' I hope to be independent and mindful of 
 my duties at the same time.' 
 
 ' And what salary might you require ?' 
 
 ' I really cannot say. I want enough to 
 pay for my clothes ; but I do not know 
 how much they will cost.' 
 
 ' There is a very excellent work pub- 
 lished showing how one can dress like a 
 lady on five pounds a year. Living in the 
 house and having no occasion to go out of 
 it except with my children or me, you will 
 be at no expense whatever beyond your 
 clothing. Of course, as I said, there are 
 many inconveniences to me in taking an 
 inexperienced teacher, while to you the
 
 '22 [ Little L(i(hi Linton. 
 
 a(lvanta<^L's of obtaining a situation in my 
 LuLiise arc very considerable. 1 think, there- 
 fore, that if I offer you twelve pounds a 
 year ' 
 
 ' Oil, that's amjjle!' I cried, astonished by 
 her generosity. 
 
 ' Of course you cannot be teacliing all 
 <lay ; in your spare time you will have no 
 objection to making yourself useful. My 
 daughter Gwendoline is in very delicate 
 health, and the doctor has prescribed ex- 
 ercise and amusement for her. I should 
 wish you to take her for a walk every day 
 up the Camden Koad, talking to her in 
 French upon the objects of interest that you 
 encounter, so that she may obtain healtli 
 and entertainment and instruction at the 
 same time.' 
 
 ' I shall be glad to do everything I can for 
 her good. Will there be only one child to 
 teach ?'
 
 A New Life. 225 
 
 ' Only one child of mine. The three 
 daughters of Mr. Gower by his former 
 marriage will require instruction. Their 
 education has been extremely neglected, I 
 regret to say. They are out at the present 
 moment. Are you fond of needlework, 
 Miss Graham ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I have a dressmaker in the house occa- 
 sionally, and, as we all are busy at that 
 time, I should expect you to assist.' 
 
 I thought of wdiat John Brown had said ; 
 but, as a little employment with the needle 
 is pleasant at times, and Mrs. Gower had 
 shown great generosity in the matter of 
 payment, I saw no reason to make objec- 
 tions which I did not feel ; and so, after a 
 little more couversation of an unimportant 
 kind, I left ]\Irs. Gower, who promised to 
 write to me as soon as she had decided to 
 accept my services or not. 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 
 
 w^^ 
 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE DIARY. GERTIE S PUPILS. 
 
 ULY 10. — I sent a telegram to 
 Jolm Brown, telling him that 
 Mrs. Gower has en2:a2:ed me as 
 teacher to the children, and that I am in 
 the very best health and spirits. I have 
 been anxious to let him know this. 
 
 July 11. — I am writing in my own little 
 room at the top of Gauntly House; the 
 cook sleeps in the next room. 
 
 I took care to come in a four-wheeled 
 cab, and Mrs. Gower led me into the 
 cockatoo - room and told me that her
 
 Gerties Pupils. 227 
 
 husband was well acquainted with m\' 
 father's writings, and that she had con- 
 cluded to engage me upon that recom- 
 mendation without writing to my acquaint- 
 ances in Neufbourg, as she considered it 
 her duty to take me from the hotel with 
 as little delay as possible. She then 
 acquainted me with certain rules of conduct 
 she wished me to observe, and afterwards 
 took me into the ' study,' where I was 
 introduced to my new pupils. Gwendoline 
 is a thin pallid child of ten or eleven years, 
 with a languid irresponsive manner which 
 may be the result of feeble health. Edith 
 is sixteen, Beatrice is eighteen, and Maud 
 is about my own age ; all three are robust, 
 fair, good-looking girls, witli well-opened 
 eyes and a frank, rather bold bearing. One 
 was playing the piano, another was drawing 
 with the aid of a stump and a large well- 
 worn jDiece of india-rubber, and the third 
 
 15—2
 
 2'2b Little Lu(i(/ Linton. 
 
 Avas catecliizini;- Gwendoline on the verb 
 ' avoir ' when we entered the room. Only 
 the moment before the door was open I 
 heard nothing of the piano or the verb 
 ' avoir^ but a great confusion of sound, as 
 tliough they were all chattering together. 
 
 I began to teach as soon as I came down 
 from my room, imder Mrs. Gower's direc- 
 tion, and the four girls were very attentive 
 until their mamma was called away to 
 entertain a visitor. The moment the door 
 closed behind her, the three elder girls put 
 down their books, and, gathering about me, 
 beo:an to talk, and all to^'ether, askino^ me 
 more questions than ever I could reply to. 
 Was I en^aixed ? — that was the first. Were 
 the young men in France nice ? Did I like 
 five-o'clock teas ? AVas I a flirt ? Did I 
 like Ouida's novels ? Would I like them 
 to get one from the library for me without 
 ma knowini,^ anvthini'- about it ? Was I
 
 Gerties Pupils. 229 
 
 awfully strict? Was I firm J* Was I a 
 teetotaler ? Would I prefer to go to tlie 
 theatre and see one of Gilbert's 'jolly' 
 operas, or to the Albert Hall and sit out 
 an oratorio ? Did not I know wdiat an 
 oratorio was ? Did not I feel glad I did 
 not know w^hat an oratorio w^as ? Did I 
 like dancino- ? Did not I think the redowa 
 awfully nice ? Would I like to learn the 
 redowa when ma w^ent out ? Did not I 
 like sitting on stairs and eating ices after 
 dancing, and being aw^fully indiscreet ? 
 Should not I like to dance in a ball-room ? 
 Did not I think I should like it better than 
 dancing in the open air imder apple-trees, 
 wdiere there was a lurkinsf horror in the 
 shape of earwigs and long hairy cater- 
 pillars ? Did Frenchmen talk much rubbish 
 between the dances ? Did not I think it 
 absurd to !>it beside an old lady, as I said 
 was the custom at fetes, and only be with
 
 230 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 your partner just whilst the music was 
 going? Did they never talk rubbish in 
 coMiplinients — and that sort of thing ? Did 
 I like compliments ? Should not I like to 
 have a ' good long spoon ' ? These are 
 only a tithe of the questions they asked ; 
 and all were so odd and confusing that I 
 hardly knew^ how to reply, and in con- 
 sequence gave one or two answers that 
 made them ' scream ' with laughter, as they 
 said — especially when, in reply to that 
 about the spoon, I told them I had no 
 preference for long spoons, except when my 
 coffee was served in a long glass, and that I 
 liked short ones quite as well if they were 
 not unpleasant to my lips. I can see now 
 why they were so amused by this reply. 
 However, my responses upon the whole 
 seemed to give them a very good opinion 
 of me, so that, at the end of twenty 
 minutes, Edith had her arm round my
 
 Gertie's Pupils. 231 
 
 Avaist, and all three addressed me as 
 ' dear.' Then, their confidence in me being 
 fixed, their questions took a less personal 
 form. 
 
 'What do you think of ma?' asked 
 one. 
 
 ' Ain't she monumental ?' asked another. 
 
 ' Ain't she quite too awfully awful ?' 
 asked the third. 
 
 ' T say, Edith, do you know what I 
 always think of, when I see ma walking 
 along the street ?' 
 
 ' No. What ?' 
 
 ' A hearse-horse in a cheap funeral !' 
 
 At this there was a general peal of 
 laughter, in which I could not help joining ; 
 for somehow their merriment was con- 
 tagious, and there really was a kind of 
 resemblance between the stately carriage 
 and gloomy complexion of Mrs. Gower 
 and the general look of a long-visaged black
 
 232 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 liorse I had seen the da}- l)eibre drawing 
 A funcral-liearsc. 
 
 ' I say, dear, have you heard anjtliing 
 3''et about Lady Linton ?' asked ]>eatrice, 
 wlien the Laughter was over. 
 
 ' No. Who is Lady Linton ?' 
 
 ' Ma's daughter. Oh, 3-ou'll hear enougli 
 about her ! She's our sister — very much 
 removed, you know! Ma's been married 
 twice, Hke pa. Iler first luisband's name 
 was Gauntly. She's done her best to 
 canonize him on the gateposts. He was 
 in a Government office ' 
 
 ' I wish he was in a Government office 
 now', for pa's sake.' 
 
 ' Yes, but not for ours. Pa woukln't 
 be so nice to us, you know, if ma didn't 
 nac: him so.' 
 
 ' Did ma read the Riot Act to you, 
 dear, before she brought you up to us ?' 
 
 ' Don't interrupt like that, Maud — I'm
 
 Gertie's Pupils. 233 
 
 telling ducky all about Lady Linton ;' 
 then, kissing me, Edith clasped my waist 
 tighter, and, drawing me down upon a 
 box that served as a receptacle for school- 
 books, she continued : 
 
 ' Well, when ma was Mrs. Gauntly, 
 she had a daughter — Elgitha — good name, 
 isn't it ?' 
 
 ' I wish I had her hair,' remarked 
 Beatrice. ' Oh, it is lovely !' 
 
 ' I wish I had her figure — or, at any rate, 
 one like it,' said Maud. 
 
 ' Oh, figures don't comit for much now !' 
 remarked Edith, who herself was very 
 well formed. ' I would rather have her 
 face than anything.' 
 
 ' I'd rather be ten times plainer and 
 uglier than I am !' exclaimed Maud, who 
 was neither plain nor ugly in the least. 
 ' Ten times — rather than be as beautiful 
 as Elgitha, if I had her disposition !'
 
 2?>4 Utile Lmhj Linton. 
 
 * Oh, she's hateful !' 
 
 ' Poor pa ! Uscn't he to catch it between 
 them !' 
 
 ' So used Ave. She made our lives 
 miseral)le — nasty deceitful thing ! Don't 
 you remember, Trix, when we were little 
 tots, and pa was a "wddower, how she 
 used to kiss us and make fi-iends ? And 
 she wasn't more than fourteen then, a 
 little hypocrite ! I believe she knew just 
 as well as her mother that it would be 
 to their advantage for pa to marry ]\Irs. 
 Gauntly.' 
 
 ' She's a nasty thing ! I would believe 
 anything against her. I know that, when 
 her horrid ways made me feel spiteful, 
 I used to pray that she might never marry 
 anyone, and that all the gentlemen Avho 
 used to come and make love to her would 
 one day turn round and liave nothing to 
 do with her. But then, when she made
 
 Gerties Pupils. 1235 
 
 us more wretched, I altered my prayer? 
 and asked that she might get married, in 
 order that we should get rid of her !' 
 
 ' Well, ducky,' said Edith, coming back 
 from this digression to the subject she 
 started wdth, ' she married Sir Gilbert 
 Linton ; and now she is Lady Linton.' 
 
 ' I wish he hadn't married her,' said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 ' So do I. There mio'ht have been a 
 chance for one of us,' said Edith. 
 
 ' Oh, I'm not thinking about that ! It 
 ain't likely that anyone with a title will 
 take us,' said Maud. ' We're not handsome, 
 and we're not accomplished, and we're 
 not what ma calls " carriage young 
 ladies." ' 
 
 ' Oh, and a good job too ! I hate stuck- 
 up people ; don't you, dear ?' — this to 
 me. 
 
 Before I could reply that I didn't quite
 
 23G Little Ladii Linton. 
 
 uuderstaiKl ubat ' stuck-up people ' were, 
 Maud continued : 
 
 * I'm just as sorry on his account as 
 our own. Look how nice lie was before 
 he married, and see liow dull and sour he is 
 now !' 
 
 ' I think all men are nicer before they 
 marry than after,' said Edith. 
 
 ' Ah, but he wouldn't have altered so 
 if he had married a nice amiable girl — a 
 reall}- good girl, you know, with no nasty 
 secrets ! T wish one of us had found 
 enough courage just to tell him what we 
 knew about her before the marriage. It 
 was a bad return for all his kindness to 
 us to see him deceived without attempting 
 to save him.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's all very well, Trix ; but what 
 girl could do that? 'Sides, he wouldn't 
 have believed us, he was so over head-and- 
 ears in love ; and, if he hadn't attributed
 
 Gerties Pupils. 237 
 
 our action to jealousy, don't you think ma 
 and Elgitlia would have been sharp enough 
 to explain things their own way, and cheat 
 him after all ?' 
 
 ' It was cowardly of us, all the same, 
 and cowardly of pa too. He knew all 
 about it. I don't think Gilbert has ever 
 forgiven us or him for our want of courage ; 
 he can't help despising us. He never 
 comes to see us, ducky,' Maud continued, 
 turnino- again to me. ' And once he used 
 always to be taking one or another of us 
 out ; and, Avhen we meet by accident, he 
 always makes some sarcastic remark that 
 stings just like a cut with a piece of whale- 
 bone.' 
 
 ' He never forgets our birthdays, though.' 
 
 ' T^o ; but I'd rather by half — rather a 
 
 hundred times that he'd just come and give 
 
 me a good kind kiss, instead of sending 
 
 a present with " affectionate remembrances.''
 
 238 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 There's a kind ot" rcproacli in that — at any 
 rate, I feel it .so.' 
 
 ' Doesn't he hate ma !' 
 
 ' Of course he does ; she's too much part 
 of her beloved daufi;hter to be lovable or 
 even likable I I believe he's as good as 
 forbidden ma to go to the Abbey when he's 
 there. She never goes till the day after 
 she's received a letter from Elgitha. 
 Haven't vou noticed that ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; and I wish she got a letter every 
 other day.' 
 
 At this moment the door opened sharpl}-, 
 but noiselessly ; and the maid, putting her 
 head in the room, made some movement 
 with her lips, withdrew, and closed the 
 door as suddenly and quietly as she had 
 opened it. 
 
 ' Ma's coming up,' whispered Edith, dis- 
 engaging iier arm from my waist. And 
 the three girls hurriedly took their places at
 
 Gertie's Pupils. 239 
 
 the table and began to find their places in 
 the books they had thrown aside. 
 
 The behaviour of the three step-daughters 
 of Mrs. Gower had not surprised me so 
 much as that of her own child, Gwendoline. 
 This frail little creature took no part in the 
 conversation, but, with her book upon her 
 knees, sat by the corner of the table, listen- 
 ing with perfect composure to the vilification 
 of her mother and sister. There was some- 
 thing to my mind exceedingly pathetic in 
 the child's apathy, for it proved that she 
 received less kindness from her own mother 
 than from her step-sisters. But there was 
 another explanation of her quiescence, for, 
 while I was resuming my efforts to show 
 the proper French . pronunciation of the 
 phrase, ' I have the grey goose of my uncle's 
 fi'iend,' the question was rapidly whispered 
 fi-om one sister to the other, ' Who has the 
 chocolate ?' and the sweetmeat being- at
 
 240 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 length discovered in Claud's pocket, a piece 
 Avas passed (puckly under the table into 
 little Gwendoline's ex})ectant hand. 
 
 In the afternoon 1 took the child for a 
 ■svalk in the Camden Road ; and, according to 
 my instructions, I sought to amuse her by 
 telluig her the French names for the objects 
 of interest there. ]>ut the Camden Road 
 has so few interesting objects, and Gwendo- 
 line seemed so entirely indijOferent to their 
 names, either French or English, that I 
 gave up the attempt in despair, and, at the 
 risk of incurring Mrs. Gower's censure, pro- 
 ceeded to tell her in English the story of 
 Riquette a la Ilouppe, which so enlivened 
 lier that she would not consent to 1^:0 home 
 until the tale was ended. AVhen ]\Irs. Gower 
 asked her if she had enjoyed her walk, she 
 re2)lied, without tlie slightest hesitanc}^ : 
 
 ' Yes, mannna ; ]\liss Graham has been 
 talkini!: French to me all the time.'
 
 Gerties Pupils. 241 
 
 Here was a trial of conscience ! For a 
 moment the falsehood, coming from those 
 young lips, quite confounded me ; the next 
 I felt inclined to correct this statement ; 
 but, reflecting that the child would pro- 
 bably be punished for her untruth, and that 
 punishment would possibly make her more 
 careful in future deceit, I resolved to correct 
 the child as best I might when we were alone. 
 
 I dined with Gwendoline in the study, and 
 did not see Mr. Gower until I took her into 
 the drawing-room to bid him good-night, 
 when, to my great astonishment, I perceived 
 that he was the very gentleman who had 
 followed John Brown from the bank and 
 shaken hands with him in parting — at least, 
 I feel sure it must be he, for he is short and 
 stout, with grey hair and a fat red shaven 
 face ; and he wears very stiif white collars 
 that prevent him from moving his head 
 without his body, and a very glossy suit of 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 Little Luihj Linton. 
 
 ]jlack cloth. ^Moreover, T learnt from Edith 
 that her papa was the manager of a branch 
 bank — and it was certainly outside a bank 
 of some sort that I saw just such a little 
 gentleman. It is not at all unlikely that 
 John lirown, after putting that advertise- 
 ment in the Times, spoke to his friend 
 about it, and that he has had something to 
 do with my engagement. I remember,- 
 when the letter was given me at the hotel, 
 John Brown asked, in a tone of irritation,' 
 if there was no more than that one. But 
 clearly, if this is John Brown's friend, and 
 I have procured my engagement through 
 his agency, it is without the knowledge of 
 ]\Irs, Gower, and in some sort a secret, or 
 Mr. Gower would not have spoken to me 
 as if he had never in his life heard of 
 my existence.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE DIARY.- 
 
 -' WHEN THE cat's AWAY. 
 
 lULY 12. — I took the occasion of 
 our being alone this afternoon 
 to talk seriously to Gwendoline 
 concerninoc her falsehood. She listened 
 with as much surprise as is possible to her 
 apathetic nature, but made no reply ; she 
 seemed to be reflecting on what I had said 
 like a grave little old woman. When I bega n 
 to give her the French words for * carts,' 
 ' children,' and the like, she asked me to 
 tell her a story, as I had done yesterda3\ 
 I promised to do this only on condition 
 
 16—2
 
 214 Little Ludij Linton. 
 
 that, when slie got lioinc, she should tell 
 the truth. She nodded lier head, and I 
 narrated the liistory of Jean Pouce, bring- 
 ing it to a conclusion when it Avas time to 
 return to Gauntly House. Some time 
 afterwards ]\Irs. Gower called me into the 
 drawinii'-rooni, and said : 
 
 ' I find, Miss Graham, that, instead of 
 amusinii' and instructing' Gwendoline in the 
 way I directed, you have chosen to do so 
 upon a plan of your own. I do not find 
 fault with that method, for my child 
 evidently has profited more by the lesson of 
 to-day than that of yesterday. She remem- 
 bers perfectly the French words and phrases 
 you introduced into your story and ex- 
 plained to her, whereas she could recall to 
 memory none of the terms you used yester- 
 day. AVhat I object to is that you were 
 secret in this matter. Had you proposed 
 your scheme to me, I should doubtless have
 
 Whe7i the Cat's away' 245 
 
 assented to it. You are young and inex- 
 perienced, and I readily look over this fault. 
 But I wish you to understand that I abhor 
 anything in the form of deception, and 
 pride myself on keeping my family free 
 from that vice. Js'othing escapes me in this 
 house ; for, though my sweet Gwendoline 
 is neither treacherous nor inclined to tell 
 tales, she, from a sense of duty, informs me 
 of any proceeding which shows a want of 
 respect to me. Mr. Gower's daughters, I 
 regret to say, fi-om early associations and a 
 want of proper education, have acquired 
 tastes and a mode of expression highly ob- 
 jectionable, which I am endeavouring to 
 correct. ISTot a vulgar word, not an in- 
 elegant gesture made in my absence, escapes 
 my knowledge. Gwendoline acquaints me 
 with everything. I tell you this that you 
 may be more guarded in your future 
 conduct. That is all I have to say. Do 
 not reply, if you please.'
 
 246 Little LiuUj Linton. 
 
 To-niyiit, soon after I luul come up to 
 lay room, the door opened, and the three 
 sisters came in — to have a chat with me, 
 the}'' said. There heing but one chair in 
 my little room, Edith sat on my box, and 
 Beatrice beside me on the bed, Maud on the 
 chair in a line "svith the door. Holding up 
 her hand, she showed me a piece of black 
 cotton tied round her finger. 
 
 ' Gwenny's got the other end ; she's 
 on the landing; below lookino; over the 
 l)alu.sters, and if she sees ma cominji; out 
 of the drawing-room, she'll give a pull ; so 
 there's no danger, and we can have a good 
 long gossip.' 
 
 I told them of my interview with Mrs. 
 Gower, and of Gwendoline's behaviour. 
 
 'Oh, that's Gwenny all over!' said 
 ]jeatrice. ' She's the artfuUest little imp 
 tliat ever lived! We three put together 
 haven't as much cunninsi; as she has m her
 
 ' When the Cat's away.' 247 
 
 little finger. If we want to get out of 
 a scrape, we have only to appeal to lier 
 ingenuity. I'll be bound it would never 
 have occurred to you to defend your own 
 kindness to her as she has done. If you 
 had said you did it to please the child, 
 Mrs. G. would have told you that she was 
 the best judge of what was right for her 
 daughter, and forlndden you to tell her any 
 more fairy-tales. The child knew that, and, 
 wanting to hear more tales, stored up in 
 her fertile little brain all the words of 
 French you perhaps told her without 
 serious intention. Oh, she is deep !' 
 
 ' There's not a day that she doesn't 
 tell her mother something about us, but 
 never anything that would cut off her 
 chocolate or make us keep secrets from 
 her.' 
 
 ' Isn't she just like Elgitha ? Don't 
 you remember, Trix, how she used to
 
 248 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 cheat licr luotlier in the same way, when 
 she wanted to be good friends with us?' 
 
 ' Yes, right up to the time you quarrelled 
 with her and let out the secret.' 
 
 ' And nicely she served us all (jut for it 
 afterwards 1' 
 
 ' Gwenny's just the same. You see ; 
 one of these days, when the truth comes 
 out, she'll go over to her mother's side and 
 find some means of huniiliatinir us and 
 making our lives wretched, exactl}' as her 
 sister did.' 
 
 ' Surely,' I said, ' a child of eleven cannot 
 be so wicked as you suggest ?' 
 
 ' Jjut she is; it is in her nature. I don't 
 believe all that stuff about children beinir 
 angels. I think they may be just as good 
 and simple, or as wicked and designing, as 
 older people. If jjeople are pure and 
 spotless the first part of their life, why 
 should they be incurabl}' bad the latter
 
 ' When the Cat's aivay.^ 249 
 
 part ? Do you think anything would 
 make you suddenly a scheming, designing, 
 sly hypocrite, ducky ?' 
 
 ' I can't tell,' said I. * I only know that it 
 seems very shockmg to think that a child 
 has no option but to grow up a bad deceit- 
 ful woman.' 
 
 We were all silent for a minute or two, 
 and then Beatrice, speaking with her loud, 
 frank voice, and pouting out her lips with 
 an air of decision, said : 
 
 ' I don't know. Ducky's right, and so's 
 Maud, I think. I don't pretend to be a 
 philosopher ; but I'll tell you what I think 
 about Gwenny and children like her — 
 they've got too much head and too little 
 heart to be anything like ducky here.' 
 
 ' That's not much of a complmient to 
 ducky's head.' 
 
 ' Xever mind that ; ducky doesn't want to 
 be flattered. If I meant anything uncom-
 
 2r)() Little Lathj LinUm. 
 
 plimentary, I shouldn't say it so openly per- 
 lia])S. What I mean is this. Ji"a child has a 
 tender heart, she won't do anything to hurt 
 anyone Avillingly. Gwenny has no heart 
 at all. It's only aches that make her cry. 
 AVhen Ave were all crjing our eyes out over 
 poor little Punch — that's our dear little 
 dog, ducky, that was run over — Gwenny 
 only asked if she might have his skin for a 
 muff. She doesn't care for anything but 
 chocolate and foiry-tales, and she'll do 
 anything to get them. But look at her 
 ingenuity and imagination 1 She'll give 
 you a long account of something that hap- 
 2:)ened in the street, with the minutest cir- 
 cumstances ; and you couldn't detect that it 
 Mas all a make-up if you weren't told that 
 she had never been in that street at all, 
 or seen anything of the kind she's been 
 talkins; about. I don't call it Avicked for 
 a child like that to tell falsehoods, because
 
 ' W/ie7i the Cat's away! 251 
 
 she may do it without any wicked intention 
 whatever. I beheve Gwenny will be a 
 clever woman, and that a really clever 
 woman must have in her childhood certain 
 peculiarities quite unlike those of ordinary 
 women — such as we shall be. I think 
 circumstances have a great deal to do with 
 vvdiat people become, and I believe that, 
 under good conditions, Gwenny might 
 become a brilliant and admired woman, 
 and under others, just such a woman as 
 Elgitha.' 
 
 ' In that case,' said I, ' you oughtn't to 
 bribe her to deceive her mother.' 
 
 ' Oh,' cried Maud, ' that's the best thing 
 she can do !' 
 
 ' Don't, Maud,' remonstrated Beatrice ; 
 ' ducky's not laughing.' 
 
 ' I'm not joking,' replied Maud. ' If we 
 did all our plotting in bed, with our heads 
 all together under the blankets, what good
 
 252 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 would that do to Gwcnny ? »SlieVl creep 
 up in the dark, or hide under the bed, or 
 resort to some treachery more ingenious 
 than I could think of, to find out what we 
 were doing, and then she wouhl repeat what 
 she knew to her mother for wliat gain that 
 would bring her. Do you think that would 
 improve her character ?' 
 
 AVe talked upon this subject until the 
 cotton was pulled, and the three girls, after 
 kissing me affectionately, slipped downstairs 
 with their shoes in their hands. And, 
 though I have considered the subject since, 
 I can find no argument to upset Maud's 
 theor}- concernmg Gwendoline. But, as 
 regards myself, I feel that I ought to tell 
 Mrs. Gower all I know, though doubtless 
 that would result in my discharge and 
 make the girls no better ; and then, again, 
 I can hardly think that Mrs. Gower's elder 
 daughters are more faulty than other girls ;
 
 ' WIie?i the Cat's away' 253 
 
 they are quite truthful amongst themselves, 
 and very amiable and good-hearted, so I 
 might never be able to keep a situation at 
 all if I acted quite strictly upon principle. 
 Oh, I wish I had some wise guide to direct 
 me in this matter ! I wonder what he 
 would advise me to do ? If I could only 
 ask him ! I almost hoped he would write 
 a few words to me. Three days have 
 passed since I sent him that message by 
 telegraph, and I have received no letter, 
 and despair of getting one. Perhaps it is 
 best that I should master my . difficulties 
 alone. He will certainly respect me more 
 if I do ; that is some consolation. 
 
 July 18. — I told the girls to-night that, 
 unless they could come up to my room 
 with their shoes on their feet, I would 
 rather they did not come at all, and I 
 protested as forcibly and reasonably as I 
 could against their doing things secretly
 
 12 .VI Litdc Lady Linton. 
 
 which they ought tu do openly or not 
 at all 
 
 ' Oh, you know well enough nia wouhhi't 
 let us couie up il" she knew it !' said ^laud, 
 ' and we ?r/// come and see you at night. 
 It's the only time we can talk without 
 reserve, and you're the only nice person in 
 the house. You're the dearest darling that 
 ever lived, ducky!' and with that she began 
 to kiss me. 
 
 ' But don't you see that you are making 
 me a i)arty to your deception, and that it is 
 unfair to place me in a position that I dis- 
 like very much ?' 
 
 '■ Oh, you must put up with that, for our 
 sakes!' said Edith, who had seated herself 
 on the other side of me, and had her head 
 pillowed upon my shoulder. 
 
 They laughed at this ; but, seeing that I 
 would not yield and looked grave, Beatrice 
 said :
 
 ' When the Cat's away^ 255 
 
 ' It isn't fair to ducky, that's true. She's 
 too nice to tell of us, and it's horrid mean 
 to take advantage of her kindness in that 
 way ! If she says we're not to come 
 up, we must make up our minds not to 
 come.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'm sick of making good resolu- 
 tions !' said Maud. ' We never can keep 
 them.' 
 
 ' They only make you want all the more 
 to do wrong,' said Edith. ^ I only see one 
 way in which ducky can keep us from 
 coming up to see her, and that is to come 
 downstairs and see us.' 
 
 This set them all lauo-hino- ao-ain. 
 
 ' I suppose we appear awfully mean and 
 cowardly to you, ducky ?' Beatrice said. 
 ' "We're such hardened reprobates that we're 
 scarcely conscious of our own vices. It 
 isn't nice to be mean ; but what can we do ? 
 What's the good of breaking out into open
 
 2')(] Little Lmhj Linton. 
 
 rebellion ? We are sure to ij-et the worst of 
 it. You sec what ma is ; she could make 
 life uiien(lural)le to us if she liked to. 
 Tliere's no one to helj) us. Pa's just as 
 Aveak as we arc. and just as much afraid 
 of ma.' 
 
 This is quite true. He is afraid to look 
 at me or speak to me in 31rs. Gower's 
 presence. Yet, if we meet by accident 
 when she is away, he nods and smiles most 
 pleasantly, and has even gone so far as to 
 say, in a very low voice and rapidly, as 
 thouj^h he were afraid of beino: overheard or 
 not getting the words out before the appear- 
 ance of his wife, that the weather is verv 
 warm for the time of year. Yesterday morn- 
 ino- -vve met on the stairs, and he shook 
 hands as he murmured in a low voice, 
 ' How do you do, my dear ?' ]>ut this 
 morning, when he came into the study with 
 ^Irs. Gower to bid his daughters good-bye,
 
 ' When the Cat's aicay.' 257 
 
 he only made me a smileless little bow, 
 though he had not seen me before. I am 
 resolved that, when next he offers me his 
 hand, I will quietly refuse to take it. 
 
 I am sure he is in league with his 
 daughters. They have surreptitious meet- 
 ings, at which there is always a great deal 
 of talking and giggling — for naturally he is, 
 I think, a merry little man — and much 
 hugging, to the detriment of his wonderful 
 shirt- collars and cravats, which his daughters 
 are always careful to straighten out and 
 arrange afterwards. Yesterday there was 
 consternation in the study upon Edith pro- 
 ducing a small packet, and whispering in 
 a tone of terror, ' Pa's gone without his 
 parsley !' And it was explained to me that, 
 on the second and fourth ^Monday in each 
 month, ]\Ir. Gower attends a general meet- 
 ing which keeps him from home until a late 
 hour ; and that on these occasions he in- 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 Little Lnrhj Linton. 
 
 variably provides liimself with a small 
 quantity of parsley to eat on his way home, 
 that Mrs. Gower may not discover he has 
 been smoking-. 
 
 August 7. — I think I am growing callous, 
 like the girls. Looking hack to my last 
 entry, I am humiliated to think how 
 speedily my scruples have forsaken me. 
 Far from forbiddin*? the g-irls to visit me 
 clandestinely in my room, I look forward 
 to their coming ^vith feelings of pleasure ; 
 and I believe that it would grieve me more 
 than it would them to be deprived of the 
 stolen meeting. I did not think I should 
 miss my liberty so much, or find the services 
 of a teacher so difficult to perform. The 
 mechanical regularity with which every- 
 thing in this house is done, the absence of 
 variety, the restrictions put upon one's 
 most harmless imi^ulses, the monotony of 
 life, is so different to all that I have been
 
 ' Wlien the Cat's away! 259 
 
 accustomed to that I seem crushed and 
 stifled. The heat oppresses me ; the least 
 rebuke from Mrs. Gower weighs upon my 
 mind. I am ill and sick at heart, struo;o:lini]c 
 under a burden that I am not strong enough 
 to carry. Oh for a day's liberty among the 
 rocks and streams of Neufbourg ! Oh for 
 one hour upon the sea ! He knew me better 
 than I knew myself He saw that I was 
 only a weak, foolish girl, not brave enough 
 to be the wife of a strono- determined man, 
 with no power to face the hardships which 
 give a zest to his life. And he did the best 
 he could for me, and went his way. I shall 
 never see him again ; I feel sure of that. 
 And now I begin to see what a fool I was 
 to flatter myself with hopes, and how wildly 
 impossible those hopes were. I suppose it 
 is the knowledge that I shall see him no 
 more that makes me cling so closely to the 
 girls. They are all in all to me now. I 
 
 17—2
 
 260 Little Lady IJnton. 
 
 tliiuk ol' tbeiii when I awake. I dress 
 qiiickl}^ tliat I may go clown and meet them, 
 r am loatli to let them go from me at night- 
 time. I cannot live without loving some 
 one. Yet it is not many weeks since we 
 ]iarted. He might yet write to me. Who 
 knows but that one day he will drive up 
 to the house and ask for me? Oh, I 
 must not write thus — I must not think of 
 that! 
 
 August 8. — This morning, while Mrs. 
 Gower was scolding the new cook, I went 
 into the hreakfast-room and found Mr. 
 Gower alone. AVe have lono^ been jxood 
 friends. I stood upon my dignity two 
 days, I think, and then it gave way. He 
 shook hands with me, and said something 
 about my looking less pale than usual — T 
 hardly know what. This opportunity sug- 
 gested a thouglit to my mind Avhich brought 
 the hot blood up into my face.
 
 ' IJlien the Cat's away.^ 261 
 
 ' Mr. Gower,' I said, in a low, faltering 
 voice, 'will you tell me, please, if you 
 have seen Mr. Brown lately — Mr. John 
 Brown ?' 
 
 ' Which Mr. John Brown ?' he asked. 
 ' There's such a lot of 'em.' 
 
 ' John Brown whom you shook hands 
 with outside the hank a few days before I 
 came here.' 
 
 He looked down at his boots, and drew 
 his cliin once or twice between his thumb 
 and forefinger before he spoke. 
 
 ' John Brown — John Brown!' he said re- 
 flectively ; then, raising his head, he added, 
 looking at me with his twinkling grey eyes, 
 somewhat evasively, ' Upon my soul, I don't 
 remember shaking hands with anyone of 
 that name!' 
 
 August 13. — We are going into the 
 country for a month! The girls brought 
 the joyful news to me when they came up
 
 262 Litth' L(i(hj Linton. 
 
 to-nii!;ht, and we liave indulged our fancies 
 in the maddest, hopefullest schemes for this 
 real holiday. Mrs. Gower is going to- 
 morrow to see her daim-htcr, and make in- 
 (^uiries respecting a house at Great Marlow, 
 which, I find on the map, is situated upon 
 the Thames, and not very far from Monkden 
 Abbey, where Lady Linton lives. But what 
 makes the prospect of going there enchant- 
 ing to me is that ]\Iarlow is not a great 
 distance from Pangbourne, where I spent 
 the happiest hours in all my life. Oh, if I 
 can only go there and look at the dear little 
 inn, and the window where we stood look- 
 ing in each other's eyes that morning! 
 The girls hope that Mrs. Gower will not 
 find a house ; they want to go to the 
 seaside. 
 
 * Ah, you do not know how beautiful 
 the Thames is !' I said, forgetting my 
 secret.
 
 ' When the Cat's away.^ 263 
 
 ' Do you ?' asked Maud quickly. 
 
 ' I — I went one day before I came here.' 
 
 ' Oh, you deep, quiet, sly little ducky ! 
 You've never said a word about it !' 
 
 ' Look at ducky's cheeks ! Oh, you 
 naughty ducky!' 
 
 ' Well, it's no secret now ! I suppose we 
 can speak about it before mamma ?' 
 
 At tliis I started up, and the blood left 
 my face. They all laughed. 
 
 'I knew it!' cried Edith, clapping her 
 hands. ' I told you so ! I was sure such a 
 dear, loving, pretty girl must have a sweet 
 heart ! I've seen how you start when the 
 postman knocks at the door. You are 
 expecting a letter !' 
 
 Expecting a letter! Oh, that brought 
 me back to my senses, and made me feel 
 how it would wring my heart to look upon 
 the river without him ! I covered my face 
 with my hands to hide the cruel convulsion
 
 2G-4 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 of my face and the tears that started from 
 my eyes. The girls were silent in a 
 moment, and kissed my liands and brow, 
 and soothed me with tender words of 
 comfort and regret for the pain their inad- 
 vertency had given me. 
 
 August 15. — There is no one to teach this 
 afternoon. Mr. Gower has taken his four 
 daughters to a morning performance at the 
 Gaiety Theatre. He invited me to go also, 
 and the elder o'irls were unceasino- in their 
 endeavom's to persuade me to be one of the 
 party. I am sure they were really gi-ieved 
 by my refusal, assuring me that Gwenny 
 would be equal to the occasion if Mrs. 
 Gower made inquiries, and that there was 
 no fear of the servants betraying the secret 
 — for of course this expedition is to be kept 
 secret. J5ut, much as I wished to go, I felt 
 that this was a load I dare not take upon 
 my conscience, which is already heavily
 
 ' Wien the Cat's away: 265 
 
 weighted. Mrs. Gower had hardly left the 
 house yesterday before the girls gave vent 
 to their exuberant delight. Beatrice threw 
 her book up in the air, with a scream of 
 joy, as Gwenn}^ reported from her post of 
 / observation behind the curtain that ' ma ' 
 
 was off, and, running to the piano, played 
 a waltz which I had heard boys in the 
 streets whistling, but which, or the like of 
 which, I imagine, had never before been 
 heard in Gauntly House ; after which she 
 played and sang to the accompaniment, 
 somethmo; about her being: the ' Mash of a 
 masher named Johnnie.' Where she learnt 
 the words, or how, I cannot tell. Edith 
 caught me by the waist and whisked me 
 round the room almost faster than my feet 
 could move ] and ]\Iaud did the same with 
 Gwendoline, thouo;h not before the child 
 had stipulated upon being paid in chocolate 
 for her submission. Beatrice and Maud
 
 -'>6 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 both (lanced with me in turn, and declared 
 I was tlie liiilitest and nicest little dancer 
 that ever was. Then we all went into the 
 drawing-room, and Edith pulled back the 
 curtains and flung open the windows, which 
 were always kept closed ; and we went out 
 on to tlie little iron balcony to look out for 
 ' pa,' who had gone with ' ma ' to the 
 railway-station. 
 
 Whenever anyone passed ui^on the pave- 
 ment below, one or other of the girls would 
 cough loudly ; and then they drew back and 
 hid themselves, tittering and giggling like 
 mad things Ijecause they had made the 
 passer look up. I felt very much ashamed 
 when, after being coughed at, a young man 
 caught sight of one of us, and did nothing 
 but walk up and down before the house, 
 casting his eyes up at the open window, for 
 the next half-hour. lUit the girls enjoyed 
 it immensely, and, glancing at him through
 
 When the Cat's away' 267 
 
 the curtains, made remarks about his per- 
 sonal appearance quite loud enough to catch 
 his ear, I thought. 
 
 When Mr. Gower came back, they all 
 rushed downstairs, and, catching hold of 
 him, danced him about the vestibule until, 
 from laughing heartily, he became quite 
 cross, as he lost his breath and saw his hat 
 being kicked about on the floor. 
 
 ' Look here — you know,' he cried ; ' I 
 ought to be at the bank ! That's the only 
 hat your ma's left out, and look at it !' 
 Then, pulling his cravat, which had been 
 hugged round under his ear, into its projjer 
 place, he added, ' Now I shall have to go 
 upstairs and change my collar ! It's stupid, 
 Edith — it's dam stupid !' 
 
 At this they all exclaimed ' Oh !' in mock 
 horror, and stood regarding him m silence 
 as he brushed his hat tenderly w^ith his 
 sleeve. Pie tried to look cross ; but
 
 268 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 presently his shoulders shook, and he gave 
 a short chuckle ; and then, assuming as 
 serious a look as he could put on, when the 
 girls burst into laughter, he said : 
 
 ' Now look here ! You know, gals, 
 there's no time to lose ! AYhat about 
 dinner ?' 
 
 ' You'll bring some one home with you, 
 of course ?' 
 
 ' Yes. I shall look up Baskerville and 
 Lawson and Hedges.' 
 
 ' And Tom Langham ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I booked him yesterday ! That 
 makes five — ^just enough for loo.' 
 
 ' Oh, no cards !' exclaimed the three girls, 
 with one voice. 
 
 ' You don't suppose a set of married men 
 want to be sittiniic about talkinsj nonsense 
 with you girls all the evening, do you ? A 
 likely thing ! Cards at eight. You can 
 look on till ten ; then off you go.' '
 
 ' iriien the Cat's aimy.' 269 
 
 ' Well, you'll have to take us out to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 * Where do you want to go ?' 
 
 ' There's a morning performance at the 
 Gaiety — we want to go there ; and after- 
 wards you must take us to dine some- 
 where.' 
 
 Mr. Gower made some strange noises 
 with his teeth and tongue — a habit of his 
 when Mrs. Gower was not at hand to 
 correct him — and finally consented to their 
 arrangement ; and, after some discussion as 
 to the dinner, he kissed his girls, and me as 
 well, and departed, promising to call upon 
 the tradesmen and have the ' eatables and 
 drinkables ' sent home. And all the day 
 there were preparations for the approaching 
 feast. The excitement spread to the kitchen, 
 as baskets of fish and game and poultry 
 and fruit, and delicate vegetables and wines 
 and spirits, arrived one after the other, and
 
 270 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 were carried down h\ the ffirls to tlie larder. 
 Never was such plenty seen below- stairs in 
 their time! Tlie cook, with her sleeves 
 turned up over her elbows, went about her 
 business scolding everyone ; but it was 
 clear she was as pleased as any. She re- 
 minded me of Mere Lucas preparing for the 
 spring kssive. I looked on A\dth fear and 
 trembling, feeling like a peasant that has 
 been drawn into a conspiracy to overthrow 
 a state. 
 
 ' Five o'clock !' exclaimed Edith. ' It's 
 time we dressed. Come along, ducky.' 
 
 What was I to do ? I suppose that 
 question appeared in the expression of my 
 face. 
 
 ' Of course you're going to dine with us. 
 No horrid old study to-day,' said one. 
 
 ' I should think not. Why, you didn't 
 think we were going to leave you out ?' 
 
 ' But ' I faltered.
 
 ' WImi the Cat's aviay.'' 271 
 
 ' Oh, rubbish ! If you don't dine with the 
 rest, I won't,' said Maud. 
 
 ' Then both of you may starve before I 
 will bring a single nice thing to you,' said 
 Beatrice. ' Oh, come along, ducky ! For 
 heaven's sake don't be a goose !' 
 
 They hurried me upstairs and insisted 
 upon my wearing a pair of silk stockings 
 that were produced with others from a 
 secret store which had escaped the piercing 
 and far-seeing eyes of Mrs. Gower, and a 
 pair of bracelets that their brother-in-law, 
 Sir Gilbert Linton, had given Beatrice on 
 her birthday. When I was dressed, and 
 my hair arranged as Maud suggested, they 
 made me stand at a little distance from 
 them, and declared that I looked like a 
 little princess, of that kind one reads of in 
 story. Their compliments and praise quite 
 turned my head ; and from that time until 
 the end of the evening I lost sight of every
 
 272 Little Lady LuLtnii. 
 
 .scru])lc, and only thought of supporting the 
 character they had given nie by being as 
 nice and agreeable as I possibly could be. 
 The gentlemen were very attentive to me, 
 and I think T managed to bear my part in 
 conversation as brightly as one so little 
 used to society might. Only, seeing that 
 the attentions of ^Ir. Langham, the only 
 unmarried o-entleman in the room, made the 
 sisters a little quiet and jealous, despite 
 their sweet dispositions, I did my best to 
 shake him off by saying as little as I pos- 
 sibly could in reply to his questions and 
 observations. ^Ir. Gower made me sit 
 beside him at dinner, and Dr. IJasker- 
 ville sat on the other side of me, and we 
 were exceedingly gay. Then the champagne 
 corks flew out with a report just like the 
 corks from old bottled cyder, and the 
 laughter and noise grew louder and louder, 
 when suddenly Beatrice, in the midst of a
 
 When the Cat's away.' 273 
 
 reply, stopped quite short, and held up her 
 finger with a look of terror, as if she had 
 heard something. We were all silent in a 
 moment. The girls looked at each other, 
 biting their lower lips. Mr. Gower let his 
 knife fall on the ground, and, with his 
 hands hanging loose by his side, glanced 
 from one daughter to the other in speech- 
 less inquiry. Beatrice rose and slipped out 
 of the room. 
 
 'It was her knock!' whispered Edith 
 across the table. 
 
 Mr. Gower's face, which had been very 
 red indeed, was now a kind of slaty drab, 
 beaded above the temples witli drops of 
 23erspiration. He sat looking fixedly at the 
 end door in silence, only the breath sounded 
 like the escape of wind from a pair of broken 
 bellows as it came up through his short 
 throat. It seemed a long while as we sat 
 there in terrible suspense. We heard the 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 L'tftle Lady Linton. 
 
 hanjf of the street-door and tlie sound of a 
 voice below, and, soon after, the foldino^- 
 doors at tlic side opening, Beatrice entered 
 silently and swiftly. 
 
 ']\ra!' she exclaimed, under her breath. 
 ' She mustn't come in here and see. Oh, pa 
 dear, go outside and stop her. She's coming 
 u]) — she must be outside now!' 
 
 ]\Ir. Gower ""ave a iidance of frantic 
 despair at the table piled with fruit and 
 confections, and studded here and there 
 with a champagne-bottle ; then he looked 
 at his children as a man might look upon 
 bis drowning family in the last extremit}^ 
 and rose. 
 
 ' There's no help for it,' he muttered. 
 ' I'll have it out with the old ' 
 
 He walked down the room with a de- 
 termined step, and we were all watching 
 him as he ojiened the door. Then the girls 
 burst into a scream of laughter, for there in
 
 ' When the Cat's aivay.^ 275 
 
 the doorway Beatrice had hung the faience 
 cockatoo ! 
 
 It was a rather cruel practical joke, and 
 it was a long time before Mr, Gower could 
 join in the general mirth. Every now and 
 then he would shake his head abstractedly, 
 and mutter, ' Damned cockatoo !' after which 
 he invariably filled his glass with champagne 
 and emptied it. I am sure he must have 
 drunk more than a whole bottle. When 
 the dinner was over, Edith brought a box 
 of cigars ; and Maud, having left the room 
 for a minute, returned with an epergne full 
 of parsley, which she set down before 
 her father. They had no kind of respect 
 for his paternal dignity, and he seemed to 
 enjoy their jokes at his expense fully as 
 much as they ; and, though he at times 
 appeared to be offended by their want of 
 respect, his severity never lasted many 
 minutes, and invariably ended in a shaking 
 
 18—2
 
 27G Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 of his broad shoulders and a little fut 
 chuckle. 
 
 The card-table, which I had never seen 
 used, was opened, and the gentlemen sat 
 down to play, Mr. Gower producing two new 
 ])acks of cards from his pockets. He showed 
 himself so dexterous in using them, and so 
 familiar with the game they ])layed, that I 
 imagine he must play cards at the ' board- 
 meetings ' he attends so regularly, especially 
 as he referred to his ' confounded luck ' last 
 Monday, which was the day of the last 
 meeting. A great deal of money changed 
 hands ; and at one time ^Ir. Gower had to 
 put into the pool — and it was swept into 
 the pockets of his friends the next round — 
 more thaii would have paid my salary for 
 two years. When we were tired of watch- 
 ing the game, and almost suffocated with the 
 smoke — for as soon as one ciizar was burnt 
 out tliey lit another — we girls went to bed,
 
 ' When the Cat's aivayJ 277 
 
 it being decided by lot that I should sleep 
 with Edith in her room. But we sat 
 laughing and talking for more than an hour 
 before the other girls w^ent to their rooms, 
 and then we did not see the last of them, 
 for about five minutes afterwards Beatrice 
 and Maud came oricro'lino^ back to tell us 
 that they had hidden ]\Ir. Langham's hat, 
 and that we had better keep awake in order 
 to see what a fine bit of fun it would be 
 when he wanted to go home. Edith did 
 her best to keep awake and to keep me 
 awake also ; she talked almost without 
 ceasing" until the clock struck two, and 
 she was still talking when I fell asleep. I 
 woke with I know not what confused 
 notions, hearing a loud knocking at the 
 door. 
 
 ' Don't move — don't move,' whispered 
 Edith. ' It's pa. Pretend to snore.' 
 
 'Edith! Don't you hear me? Edith!'
 
 278 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 cried -Mr. Gower, shaking the handle, and 
 kicking the door. 
 
 Edith snored, while I tried to make out 
 what it all meant. 
 
 'Where's Tom's liat?' Edith! I'm not 
 joking. AVhere's Tom's hat, Edith?' 
 
 Then I heard ]\Ir. Langham's voice calling 
 11} ) the stairs ; and ]\Ir. Gower, replying, cried : 
 
 ' Damn it all, Tom, don't be a fool ! 
 That's the only hat I've got ! AYhat am I 
 to go to the bank in ?' 
 
 Then we heard him hammering at 
 ]\Iaud's door, and calling her in vain, and 
 then the same thing was repeated at 
 Beatrice's door, while between he kept ex- 
 postulating with Mr. Langham below. 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake don't take that hat, 
 Tom ! What's the good of yours ? I 
 can't go to the bank in a billycock. AYait 
 a moment. The girls know where it is, if I 
 can only make 'em hear. Maud ! Beatrice !
 
 ' When the Cat's away.' 279 
 
 Editli! You've hid Tom's hat, and he's 
 gone off with mine. Where is it ? Quick ! 
 and ' — here two words which 1 
 
 do not think are proper to write here. 
 ' This is no joke ! I'm angry ! It's stupid 
 — it's damned stupid!' 
 
 Mr. Langham did take ^Ir. Gower's hat, 
 and this morning the poor httle gentleman 
 was compelled to go off in the one Beatrice 
 had hidden, to the exuberant mirth of his 
 daughters, and the tittering of the servants, 
 who were looking down from the landing 
 on the stairs. Indeed, I myself could not 
 keep a respectfully grave countenance, for 
 it would be difficult to imagine a more 
 ludicrous spectacle than he presented — a 
 stumpy, stout gentleman, with a short 
 throat, dressed in speckless and glossy 
 black cloth, with immaculate linen and dark 
 gloves, and a little round, grey felt hat 
 perched on the top of his head, and so
 
 280 Little Ladij Linton. 
 
 much too small that, tilt it how he would, 
 a rim of bald head would show beneath 
 the narrow brim. Jle protested that he 
 Avould not take the girls to the theatre ; 
 but thev did not for a moment believe 
 him, and showed their faith in his forgive- 
 ness by being all ready to start for the 
 theatre when he came in a bran-new hat to 
 fetch them. The poor gentleman looks 
 very yellow and unwell to-day. Beatrice 
 said he drank too much last night, but I 
 can hardly think that, for he was so thirsty 
 this morning; he drank three bottles of 
 soda-water before breakfast. Oh, what a 
 dreadful condition the drawing-room was in 
 tliis morning, with cigar-ash and stumps of 
 cigar everywhere, and an unpleasant smell 
 of smoke which chngs to the room, though 
 the windows and doors have been kept wide 
 open ! I fear Mrs. Gower is sure to smell 
 it when she returns on Monday.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE DIARY. GERTIE REBELS : THE CAUSE 
 
 THEREOF. 
 
 lEFTmiBEUlO.—iMarloiv.—This 
 
 lias been what Edith calls a 
 ' Camden Square day,' and the 
 first of the kmd happily since we left 
 London. The rain kept us withm doors all 
 the morning, and, after luncheon, when the 
 sun peeped out and encouraged us to hope 
 for a walk, visitors arrived and stayed until 
 the rain fell again and doomed us to con- 
 finement for the rest of the day. The 
 visitors were Mrs. Robinson, her daughters,
 
 282 LittJc Lady Linton. 
 
 and a IHend whom she brought to intro- 
 duce to ^Irs. Gowcr, a rather nervous, 
 excitable, ' gusliing ' lady, whose manner 
 contrasted strongly with the sculptural 
 deportment — I am falling into Edith's way 
 of expressing ideas — of ^Irs, Robinson's 
 five daufjhters. Poor thino^ ! She mistook 
 me for a daughter of ^Irs. Gower, and 
 was on tlie point of embracing me after 
 a warm compliment to my looks, when 
 she was informed that I was only the 
 French governess. It was quite amusing 
 to see how confused she was, and how 
 eager to apologize to ^Irs. Gower for 
 the mistake she had made. Mrs. Robin- 
 son, in common with most of ]\Irs. Gower's 
 acquaintances, adopts a patronizing, some- 
 what contemj^tuous tone, in speaking to 
 me, or in referring to anyone beneatli 
 herself in social standing. I think I rank a 
 little hiiz'her than the housemaid and a little
 
 Gertie Rebels: the Cause thereof. 283 
 
 lower than the butcher's wife. At a sign from 
 Mrs. Gower I left the drawing-room and 
 retired to the breakfast-parlour, where I sat 
 reading and musing in solitude until the 
 visitors had gone and the girls came to me. 
 
 ' Oh, aren't they horrid, those Robinson 
 girls?' exclaimed Beatrice in an undertone, 
 for experience has taught them that the 
 walls of this villa are dangerously thin. 
 
 ' Hateful ! Only think of that eldest thing 
 sitting down to the piano with her bonnet 
 on to play ! Who wanted to hear her ?' 
 
 ' She only did it to show off.' 
 
 ' That's all fantasias are composed for, 
 I believe,' Beatrice observed in her em- 
 phatic way. ' I'm not surprised that 
 gentlemen slip out of the room as quickly 
 as they can when they see a girl sit down 
 before a piece of music with a flourishy 
 cover. It's no wonder they never talk 
 to us as if we were rational beinofs I
 
 284 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 They must think we have not ii grain 
 of sense, nor feeling either, to give so much 
 time to learning a thing which no one 
 on earth cares for!' 
 
 I thought of John P>rown and his 
 antij)athies. 
 
 * Shouldn't think the Kobinsons played 
 anvthinf!" but fantasias. I don't want to 
 go to their picnic' 
 
 ' I don't know why they asked us. 
 We're not at all in their way.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's just for the sake of asking 
 us before their friends how dear Lady 
 Linton is, and whether we have been lately 
 to j\Ionkden Abbey ! Haven't you noticed, 
 ducky, how every single acquaintance that 
 comes to see ma asks after Lady Linton, 
 and talks about ]\Ionkden Abbey? What 
 did Mrs. Robinson bring her friend for but 
 just to drag Lady Linton and the Abbey 
 into the conversation, and show that she
 
 Gertie Rebels : the Cause thereof. 285 
 
 was on visitino; terms with tlie mother- 
 in-law of a baronet?' 
 
 'I don't see much advantage in that,' 
 said I. 
 
 ' But there is, you may be sure, in the 
 miserable genteel little world we live in, 
 Avhere everyone is craving to be thought a 
 a little higher than she is.' 
 
 ' I suppose that sort of ambition is not 
 confined to our set,' said Beatrice. ' Isn't 
 Jane downstairs always talking about 
 her uncle who is captain of a penny 
 steamer, and doesn't that poor curate's wife 
 always lead the conversation up to her 
 godfather, the Bishop of Tobago?' 
 
 'I dare say Trix is right. But the 
 meanness of our class of society does 
 seem the meanest meanness of all. Just 
 think what a lot of people ma knows ! 
 And there's not one in the whole gang who 
 cares twopence for her !'
 
 2S6 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 ' I don't see how they can. Whiit is 
 there in ma to like? She's not witty and 
 she's not wise, and she doesn't always give 
 herself the trouble to be complaisant.' 
 
 ' And yet, for all that, people cling to her 
 — pay formal visits, and sit talking about 
 nothing at all, Avitli an uncomfortable 
 simper, by the hour together ; and now and 
 then go to the expense of giving a party, to 
 the hearty disgust of everyone invited, for 
 no purpose at all but to talk about Lady 
 Linton's mamma to their envious friends 
 afterwards.' 
 
 ' That's not all. You may be sure there's 
 M lot of talk about Eli'-itha that we never 
 hear. People must wonder what's the 
 matter with her — why she never leaves the 
 Abbey, and why Gilbert never receives 
 visitors. Fancy how delighted anyone 
 would be if she could jhuujd a little in- 
 formation on that subject out of ma!'
 
 Gertie Rebels: the Cause thereof. 287 
 
 ' She'd have reason to be proud of her 
 own abiUty if she succeeded,' said Maud 
 drily. 
 
 ' What is the matter with Eloitha ? Do 
 you know, Gwenny?' asked Edith. 
 
 GwendoUne, sitting with her elbows on 
 her knees, and her sallow little face in her 
 hands, shook her head. Behind Edith's 
 back the two elder girls glanced at each 
 other in a sio-nificant manner, which I 
 failed to comprehend ; and then Beatrice, 
 going to the window, changed the subject. 
 
 In the evening Mrs. Gower set the girls 
 to prej)are some lessons for to-morrow, and 
 gave me some material to make up into a 
 matinee for Gwendoline. I think we were 
 all glad when the day came to an end ; I, for 
 my part, feeling in an ill-humour with Mrs. 
 Gower and her friends, and things in 
 general. I know not why, but this feeling 
 of dissatisfaction is growing upon me. At
 
 288 Little Lady Linton. 
 
 first I tliou^'lit it resulted from chanfre of 
 habits ; and I believed it would pass away 
 as I became accustomed to the restrictions 
 of my position. I lioped also that learnin^^ 
 Italian in ni}- leisure would chase certain 
 thouGrhts and memories from mv mind, and 
 that the change of scene and improvement 
 in physical health resulting* from a return to 
 country life and ])ure air would restore my 
 vivacity and strengthen my courage. l>ut 
 all my hopes and expectations are reversed. 
 I am so reconciled to my condition as a 
 teacher that I can think of no occupation I 
 should prefer — indeed it would grieve me to 
 separate from the girls who love me so well. 
 My health is l^etter ; I do not suffer from 
 headache as I did in Camden Square ; I am 
 strong. I sit down to Italian tlie moment 
 I am free, and yet — oh, I am miserable ! — an 
 under-current of thought flows through my 
 mind, and I cannot check it. Even while
 
 Gertie Rebels: the Cause thereof. 289 
 
 the girls are reading and I am looking out 
 for faults in pronunciation, my memory is 
 filled mtli recollections. As I sew I repeat 
 mechanically the Italian verb I am learning; 
 but the measure of the words recalls the 
 lapping of the little waves against the side 
 of John Brown's ship. 
 
 I cannot forget, and the failure of my 
 constant efforts is maddening in its per- 
 sistency. I have taken the subject and 
 fought with it like an enemy who will not 
 be shunned. I have proved to mj^self that 
 I was a fool to think John Brown would 
 ever seek me out, or that he cared for me 
 sufficiently to write to me ; that every act 
 of kindness on his part was unavoidable ; 
 that his nature is affectionate, but not 
 passionate; that his conduct showed a 
 strong desire not to fall in love with me ; 
 that, if he had the emotions and feelings of 
 ordinary men, such as the girls are con- 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 21)0 Little TakJij Linton. 
 
 tinually talking about, lie would have taken 
 advantage of my simplicit}' and ignorance, 
 and ' spooned awfull}- ' as long as ever he 
 could, and with very little care for the 
 result to me. No ; it is not for want of 
 looking at this matter fairly and reasoning 
 it out freel}' that I still think of him. I 
 know he does not love me. I know that, if 
 we meet again, it Avill be by accident, and 
 that he will have no deeper feeling for me 
 than a kind of affectionate pity for my sim- 
 plicity and a pliilanthropic hope that I may 
 grow wiser. I know all this, and yet — yet 
 I love him, and my heart is breaking Avith 
 
 hopeless longing 
 
 September 14. — I am to go with ]\Irs. 
 Gower to the Abbey to-morrow. Mr. Gower 
 "will stay here until Tuesday, and jDroposes 
 to take the girls for a row. He sufTJrested 
 in a timid faltering way that I should go 
 with the girls, ' to look after 'em a bit, you
 
 Gertie Rebels: the Cause thereof. 291 
 
 know, my clear.' But Mrs. Gower, on my 
 behalf, declined very coldly. I think she 
 has some suspicion that her husband is 
 kinder to me than she thinks one in my 
 position deserves. Perhaps she suspects 
 that, if she left me at home, the girls and 
 Mr. Gower would take me out clandestinely 
 — as they certainly intended to do — and so 
 forces this honour of visiting Lady Linton 
 upon me. Gwendoline may have found it 
 necessary to warn her mamma of this in 
 order to avert her suspicion from some 
 greater danger. That seems more probable, 
 as I learn that ^Ir. Langham and Dr. 
 Baskerville are to meet the party, and that 
 a luncheon with champagne is to be taken 
 under the Quarry beeches. 
 
 September 17. — AVe went to Monkden 
 Abbey in a closed carriage, Mrs. Gower 
 and I. I remember that ; and, now that I 
 have started with a fact, others present 
 
 19—2
 
 292 LlttJe Luxhj Linton. 
 
 themselves tlirough the mist that seems to 
 have risen before my memory. 
 
 Monkdcn Abbe}' is a very beautiful old 
 building in red brick, standing not far from 
 the river, but screened from it bv a loni^ 
 avenue of great oaks. A hill covered with 
 firs rises behind it, forming a dark back- 
 ground tliat displays the outline of the 
 building to great advantage. A thin line of 
 smoke rising from one of the twisted 
 chimneys looked a pale-blue by contrast 
 with the dark -green of the firs. From the 
 avenue of oaks the carriage-drive curves 
 round to the chief entrance of the Abbey 
 through a beautiful smooth lawn patched 
 here and there with beds of brilliant 
 geraniums and calceolarias. There is a fine 
 flight of broad steps to the great door, 
 which is in the centre of the building 
 between the two short wind's. It seemed to 
 me that people must be very grand and
 
 Gertie Rebels : the Cause thereof. 293 
 
 proud who lived in such a magnificent 
 house ; and it was less strange that people 
 should be proud to know the mother of the 
 lady who owned it, albeit she was only, as 
 Edith says, ' the wife of a baronet ; and a 
 baronet isn't much.' 
 
 A servant came down to the carriajre- 
 door as we stopped, and, as he opened it, 
 said respectfully, and yet in a tone that 
 seemed to convey a warning : 
 
 ' Sir Gilbert is not at home, madam.' 
 
 ' I have come to see Lady Linton, not Sir 
 Gilbert,' replied Mrs. Gower haughtily. 
 
 ' Sir Gilbert instructed me to say that 
 no visitor except you was to see my 
 lady.' 
 
 Mrs. Gower, without noticing this ob- 
 servation, made a sign to me to follow her, 
 and ascended the steps. Li the hall she 
 pointed to an open door, and told me to go 
 in the room and await her return ; then,
 
 294 Lutle Lady Linton. 
 
 turning' to the servant, she or(lere<l liini to 
 conduct her to her daugliter's room. I 
 went into the room and waited there like a 
 mouse, wondering at tlie magnificence of 
 everytliing I saw. The only thing not 
 grand in the room Avas a fishing-rod that 
 lay on the table. I do not remember what 
 I thought about, or how long I stayed 
 there. A female servant brous-ht me some 
 luncheon, telling me that her ladyship had 
 desired her to brinii' it to me, and askino^ if 
 I would go upstairs and remove my things. 
 I ate a little cold chicken, but not nmch, 
 being greatly awed by the grandeur f)f 
 everything, the silence, and the circum- 
 stances in Avhicli 1 tbund myself there. 
 After eating, I dared to go to the window 
 and peeped out. I could see the river 
 shining like a stream of silver between the 
 foliage of the roses. I looked at the lawn 
 and the distant woods, and wished I could
 
 Gertie Rebels: the Cause thereof. 295 
 
 go out and pluck some flowers from the 
 beds and lose myself a little in the sug- 
 gestive shade of the trees. Then I 
 thought of Lady Linton, pitying her con- 
 dition, which debarred her from enjoying 
 the beautiful house and its surround- 
 ings. I know I wondered what was the 
 cause of her illness, and whether her hus- 
 band's cruelty had anything to do with it ; 
 for it was clear, by Mrs. Gower's manner, 
 that he must in some way be responsible 
 for her daughter's condition. Then I sat 
 down in a great chair, musing on the 
 strangeness of life, and reflecting that it was 
 not onl}^ French governesses who were un- 
 happy ; and so I fell asleep, and fancied that 
 I was lying in the hammock on board 
 the Tub, and faintly I seemed to hear, 
 as above my head, or in some distant 
 part of the boat, the low deep voice of 
 John Brown. I do not know how long
 
 29G Little Lady Jjlaton. 
 
 I slept, only, wlieii I Avoke, my eyes falling- 
 on tlic3 table, I perceived that the fishing- 
 rod was removed. Then I heard the sound 
 of wheels on the drive, and Mrs. Gower's 
 voice; and I ruse, hastily arranging my 
 bonnet. AVe got into the carriage and were 
 driven away, Mrs. Gower sitting on the 
 back seat and I opposite, on the front. 
 Mrs. Gower said nothing, and presentl}', 
 leaning back, closed her eyes ; so I looked 
 out of window and watched the Abbev re- 
 ceding from my view. We went along for 
 some distance, and then came to a long 
 wall that skirted the road. I kept my eyes 
 fixed on that side, wondering what view 
 would be revealed at the termination of the 
 \\all. The wall abutted upon a by-road, 
 which ran at such an acute angle with that 
 we were traversing, that by Ijcnding my 
 head slowly to one side I could see along 
 it for several seconds. That which made
 
 Gertie Rebels : the Cause thereof. 297 
 
 me bend ray head so was tlie sight of a 
 man's figure, a man with his back to me, 
 walking up that road. It was John Brown. 
 I knew the figure at the very first glance, 
 but for an instant I doubted my senses. 
 Then I strained my eyes, while my heart 
 beat wildly and my brain seemed to spin in 
 my head. I leaned out of window as the 
 vista narrowed with the movement of the 
 carria^re. At the last instant he turned, as 
 if the sound of those wheels had reached his 
 ears, and, though it was but for an instant 
 that I saw his face, it was long enough to 
 chase all doubt from my mind. 
 
 ' Stop !' I cried to the driver, in wild 
 excitement. 
 
 ' Miss Graham ! What is the matter ? 
 Is there a wheel off? Speak!' cried Mrs. 
 Gower, in alarm, as she was roused from 
 her doze. 
 
 ' Stop, stop, stop!' was all I could cry ;
 
 298 Liule Ladij Linton. 
 
 and then I put out my arm to get at the 
 liandle. 
 
 '^Vhat arc you about, Miss Graham ? 
 Do you wish to kill yourself? Sit down 
 this moment !' Saying this, she caught 
 hold of my arm, and being a strong, mus- 
 cular woman, easily pushed me down into 
 my seat. 
 
 'I must get out ; I must go at once!' 
 I cried. ' Please let me 2:0!' 
 
 ' What is the matter ? Are you mad ?' 
 
 ' It's John Brown. It is my friend. I 
 must go at once ! Please let me go !' 
 
 ' I will hear of no such thing. Upon my 
 word, Miss Graham, this is pretty be- 
 haviour for a governess! Go on again at 
 once!' she cried to the driver, who had 
 pulled up his horse at my cry. 
 
 ' No, stop !' I cried; ' stop, or I will throw 
 myself out of the window! Let me go!' I 
 exclaimed, turning upon Mrs. Gower in a
 
 Gertie Rebels : the Cause thereof. 299 
 
 passion. ' I will go ! I am not your 
 slave !' 
 
 ' You are my servant, and, if you get out 
 of this vehicle contrary to my orders, you 
 shall not ' 
 
 I know not what else she said, or how 
 she finished that sentence. I had shaken 
 off her hand and forced open the door, and 
 sprang into the road before she had ceased 
 to speak ; and then, as fast as I could go, I 
 sped back along the road and up the path 
 where I had seen John Brown. He was no 
 longer there ; but I ran on and on, hoping 
 that, when I gained the brow of the hill 
 that rose before me, I should catch sight of 
 his ficrure ao:ain. 
 
 My heart sank like lead, and seemed to 
 weigh down my trembling limbs as I caught 
 sight of the empty road on reaching the 
 hill-top. But still I ran on, with a des2:)erate 
 hope of overtaking him.
 
 300 Little Litdij Linton. 
 
 Xot far dowji the road there was a clear- 
 ing in the wood tliat bordered its side, and 
 there quite suddenly I caught sight of him 
 seated upon a fallen tree, lighting his pipe ; 
 the sound of the matcli beinc: struck drew 
 my eyes in that direction. I turned towards 
 him with a cry, and my arms spread out. 
 
 'Great heavens!' lie exclaimed, dropping 
 his pipe from his hand. And then he strode 
 towards me and cauc^ht me in his arms, 
 just in time to prevent me fallmg to tlie 
 ground. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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