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 S.iUi:"i_ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 MRS. MACKINLEY HELM 
 
 1 
 
 ■W^

 
 
 THE 
 
 COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES EEADE, 
 
 jirXJIOK or ' IT IS XETER too late to mend,' 'peg ■n"OFFINGTO>,', AM> 
 ' CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE.' 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1857. 
 
 IJiight of Reproduction and Translation reserved.']
 
 LONDON : PKlM'iTB BY '^^. CLO'.VES A.VD SON?, STAJirUED
 
 THE BLOOMER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Propria qu^e maribus tribuuntur mascula dicas. 
 Free Trans. — The things that are proper to males you may call 
 masculine. 
 
 John Courtenay was the son of Richard Coiirtenay. 
 Richard was the younger son of a good Devonshire 
 family : his elder brother inherited four thousand 
 a-year — he fifteen hundred pounds down from the same 
 relative, his father — vive TAngleterre ! 
 
 His fifteen hundred pounds wouldn't do in a genteel 
 country like England ; so he went to America and 
 commerce. He died richer than the owner of Courte- 
 nay Court. 
 
 John, his son, was richer still by the same honour- 
 able means. 
 
 He was also a staunch republican. The unparalleled 
 rise and grandeur of the United States might well 
 recommend their institutions to any candid mind ; and 
 John Courtenay spent his leisure moments in taking 
 the gloss off John Bull's hide. He was not so spiteful 
 against him as some of those gentry who owe their
 
 4 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 cleverness to themselves, but their existence to Bull, 
 and forget it : his line was rather cool contempt. The 
 old country was worn out and decayed ; it was pro- 
 gressing like a crab instead of going a-hcad, etc., etc., 
 etc., etc. 
 
 For all this, one fine day something seemed to crack 
 inside John Courtenay's bosom, when he saw an 
 announcement from the modest pen of Robins that 
 Courtenay Court was in the market. 
 
 He did not think such an advertisement would have 
 interested him any more than consols ninety-six and a 
 half — but it did. 
 
 This gentleman was at the moment working a loan 
 at 5 per cent, with Kentucky ; and he had promised 
 himself to be in it to the tune of 50,000/. : but all this 
 day he took more snuff than was good for him, and the 
 next day after breakfast and a reverie he suddenly 
 burst out ' Pshaw ! the worst investment in the worst 
 country : a sinking interest in a sinking kingdom.' 
 
 * Papa !' said a musical voice, ' your paying me no 
 attention will I fear end in your being worried.' 
 
 This worrying meant a certain violent system of 
 kissing with which the speaker used to fall upon John 
 Courtenay when he was very good or very bad : she 
 used it indifferently as a reward or punishment. 
 
 This time to her surprize the old gentleman 
 answered her smiling threat by opening his arms in a 
 moment and saying "My child!' 
 
 In another moment Caroline Courtenay was in his
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 5 
 
 arras : he pressed his lips to her brow and said ' I will 
 do it ! I will do it !' 
 
 ' What will you do Papa ? 
 
 'That is my business I reckon,' said he, recovering 
 •the statesman and man of business with rather a 
 brusque reaction — and off he bustled to Wall Street, 
 ' where merchants most do congregate.' 
 
 Caroline stood irresolute and had a mind to whimper 
 — she thought her affection had been for once half 
 repulsed. 
 
 Caroline ! doubt anything, everything, but a parent's 
 love for his only child. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 In three weeks after this the hammer came to Courte- 
 nay Court, and that hammer was wielded (I use the 
 term he would have selected) by the St. George of the 
 auction room. 
 
 Need I say the wood and water of the estate had 
 previously been painted in language as flowing as the 
 one and as exuberant as the foliage of the other ? 
 
 In the large hall were two fire-places where piles of 
 beech-loof blazed and crackled. 
 
 Mr. Robins made his bow and up went Courtenay 
 Court, Manor and Lordship, in a single lot. 
 
 There were present, besides farmers, some forty 
 •country gentlemen, many of whom looked business ;
 
 6 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 they had not examined their own horizon as John 
 Courtenay Merchant had. Land was in vogue 
 I don't wonder at it. 
 
 Certainly a landed estate is 'an animal with its 
 mouth always open." But compare the physical per- 
 ception and enjoyment of landed wealth with that of 
 consols and securities. 
 
 Can I get me rosy cheeks, health, and good humour, 
 riding up and down my Peruvian bonds : can I go out 
 shooting upon my parchment, or in summer sit under 
 the shadow of my mortgage d6ed, and bob for commas 
 and troll for semicolons in my river of ink that 
 mseanders through my meadow of sheep skin ? 
 
 Wherefore I really think land will always tempt 
 even the knowing ones, until some vital change shall 
 take place in society : for instance, till the globe makes 
 its exit in smoke and the blue curtain comes dov/n on 
 the Creation. 
 
 Three or four gentlemen held the bidding up till 
 about thirty thousand pounds ; it then became flat. 
 
 And now one Adam Eaves, a farmer, pushed sheep- 
 ishly forward, made an advance on the bidding, and 
 looked ashamed. 
 
 Why lookest thou ashamed, O yeoman, bulwark of 
 our isle ? 
 
 This is why. Adam Eaves farmed two farms ; and 
 he had for three years been praying his landlords for a 
 decrease of rent, upon grounds that nowise tallied with 
 his little offer of thirty thousand one hundred pounds
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 7 
 
 down on the nail for Courtenay ]\Ianor ; and therefore 
 looked he ashamed the simple-minded yeoman bulwark 
 of our isle. 
 
 Joshua Tanner, linen-draper in the market-town, he 
 whose cry for ten years had been the decay of retail 
 trade, was so surprized at this that thrown off his guard 
 he bid an hundred more — but the mask once thrown 
 off, he blushed not, but sprinkled insulting arrogance 
 on all around. 
 
 Both these worthies who, unlike us writers, had for 
 years announced themselves beneath their true value, 
 gave way to heavier metal, and the estate began to 
 approach its real worth. It was at 38,000?. 
 
 There was a pause. St. George looked jocose, and 
 felt uneasy : were they running cunning like their own 
 hounds these South country gentlemen ? 
 
 He now looked carefully all round the room : a long 
 attenuated figure with a broad-brimmed hat on, stand- 
 ing by a distant window, met his eye and, as if to 
 oblige him, now for the first time made a cool non- 
 chalant bid by nodding his head — round went all the 
 company on their heels with their backs to the 
 auctioneer, as, when in the last row of the pit two 
 personages of this our day go to fisticuffs, I have 
 seen the audience turn its back on the quarrel of 
 Brutus and Cassius, or Melantius and Amyntor. 
 
 Forty-two, three, four thousand were reached — two 
 country gentlemen bidders turned red and white — the 
 pin bid on, rythmically, at measured intervals, like a
 
 S THE COURSE OF TltUE LOVE 
 
 chafF-cutting machine, unconscious of opposition, indif- 
 ferent to result. 
 
 The estate was now at thirty years' purchase ; a hum 
 that went round the room announced this fact without 
 a word spoken — all the hounds had tailed off but one. 
 He went on. The two bidders were strangely^contrasted : 
 it seemed odd they could both want the same thing. 
 In shape one was like a pin : the other a pin-cushion. 
 
 Our friend at the window was all one colour, like 
 wash-leather, or an actor by day-light ; the other with 
 his head of white hair as thick as a boy's, and his red 
 brown cheeks, and his bright eye, reflected comfort as 
 brightly as Hampton Court with its red brick and 
 white facings, and cheered the eye like old Sun and 
 old Frost battling for a December day. 
 
 At last the thin and sallow personage uttered these 
 v/ords, ' Forty-seven thousand pounds ! ! !' in a nasal 
 twang that seemed absurdly unjust to the grand ideas 
 such words excite in elegant minds conscious how many 
 refined pleasures can be had for 47,000Z. 
 
 His antagonist's head sunk for a moment. 
 
 He sighed, and instead of bidding higher or holding- 
 las tongue, the two business alternatives open to him, 
 he said, ' then it will never be mine I' 
 
 Fie said this so simply, yet with so much pain, that 
 some of those good souls, who unless they have two 
 days to think it over with their wives or sisters, are 
 sure to take the patlietic for the ludicrous, horse-laughed 
 at him.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 9 
 
 He turned away. Mr. Robins did not waste a 
 second in idle flourishes ; when a thing- is settled, end 
 it, thought he : he knocked the lot down now as he 
 would a china tea-pot in a sale of 200 lots — and the 
 old oaks of Courtenay bowed their heads to a Yankee 
 merchant. 
 
 The buyer stepped up to the auctioneer. 
 
 Mr. Ralph Seymour, the last bidder, made for the 
 door — at the door he buttoned with difficulty his coat 
 over his breast, for his heart was swelling and his eye 
 glistened — it was a bitter disappointment — we who live 
 in towns can hardly think how bitter. Such sales do 
 Eot came every day in the country : his estate marched 
 for a mile-and-a-half with the Courtenays. He had 
 counted on no competition but that of his neighbours ; 
 he had bought it from them : but a man who hap- 
 pened to want an estate had come from London, or as 
 it was now whispered, from New York, 
 
 Any other estate would have suited lain as well but 
 he ivoidcl have this. 
 
 Poor old gentleman, he had told ]\[rs. Seymour she 
 should walk this evening- under the OTcat birch trees of 
 tiie Courtenays — and they be her's ! 
 
 They had been married forty years, and he had 
 never broken his word to her before. 
 
 The auctioneer read the buyer's card 
 
 ' Sold to Mr. Jonathan Sims,' — said be. 
 
 ' Ugh !' went one or two provincials, and then dead 
 silence.
 
 10 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Acting,' continued the auctioneer, ' for ]Mr. John 
 
 COURTENAY OF NeW YoRK.' 
 
 There was a pause — a hurried buzz — and then, 
 to Mr. Sims' surprise, a thundering 'hurrah' burst 
 out that made the rafters ring and the windows 
 rattle. 
 
 ' It's Master Richard's son,' shouted Adam Eaves. 
 'My father's ridden niany's the time with Master 
 Richard, he rode the mule, and father the Jenny-ass 
 after Squire Courtenay's hovmds, hurraih !' 
 
 Onmes] ' Hurraih !' 
 
 The thorough-bred old John Bull at the door, Mr. 
 Ralph Seymour, seemed glad of an excuse to get rid 
 of some bile foreign to his nature. In three strides he 
 was alongside Jonathan, and had he been French it 
 was plain he would have said something neat, hut as 
 he was only English he grasped Mr. Sims's hand like a 
 vice— and — asked him to dinner. 
 
 That is the English idea, — you must ask a gentle- 
 man to dinner ; and you must give a poor man a day's 
 work — that wins him. 
 
 John Courtenay came home : I omit the objections 
 he took, chemin faisant, to things in the old country. 
 They would fill a volume with just remonstrance. 
 
 He came to his own lodge gate — the old man Avho 
 opened it sung out — 
 
 ' Oh ! Master John how like you be to Master 
 Richard sure/y.' 
 
 Courtenay was astonished: he found this old boy
 
 KEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 11 
 
 had been thinking of him all that way off for sixty 
 years, ever since his birth transpired — 
 
 The old housekeeper welcomed him with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 He dined in a room enriched with massive old 
 carvings — he walked after dinner under his avenue of 
 birches with silver stems of gigantic thickness and 
 Patriarchal age. The housekeeper put him in a bed 
 his father had slept in when a boy. 
 
 Soon the country gentlemen made acquaintance with 
 him. The strong idea of distributive justice he had 
 brought from commerce, and his business habits, caused 
 him to be consulted and valued. 
 
 It is a fact that after some months in Devonshire he 
 developed a trait or two of Toryism, but they could 
 not make him believe that nations are the property of 
 Kings, and countries their home farms. They did all 
 they could think of to corrupt him. 
 
 Tliey made him perforce a justice of the peace ; he 
 remonstrated and pooh-poohed, but was no sooner one 
 than he infused fresh blood into the withered veins of 
 justice in his district. He became a referee in all 
 nice matters of rural equity. In short, his neighbours 
 had all overcome any little prejudice and had learned 
 his value when — they lost him. His time was come to 
 close an honourable life by a peaceful death. 
 
 Short as had been his career among them, the 
 Avholo county followed him to his resting place among 
 the Courtenays in Conyton church vault.
 
 12 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 He left all his land and all his money by will to his 
 daughter — to his will he attached a paper containing 
 some requests. 
 
 One was that she would provide for the aged house- 
 keeper, and lodgekeeper, who knew his father — and 
 welcomed him home — he called it home ! But there 
 was nothing about where he wished her to live — he did 
 not decide the great little question is America or 
 England the right place for us globules to swell and 
 burst in. 
 
 In other words, when he wrote this letter, John 
 Courtenay was dying, and thought less about the 
 kingdom whence came his root, or the state where 
 his flowers had bloomed, than of a coimtry he had 
 learned to look towards by being neither Yankee nor 
 Briton so much as an honest God-fearing man : so 
 his thoughts were now upon a land, older than little 
 England, broader than the great United States : a 
 land where Americans and English are brothers. 
 
 And I warn them and all men to be brothers here, 
 lest they never see that land ! 
 
 Caroline Courtenay remained at New York. There 
 was little to tempt her to leave her birth-place, and 
 visit the country which seemed to her to have robbed 
 her of her father. It happened, however, about three 
 years after Mr Courtenay 's death that a fresh circum- 
 stance changed her feeling in that respect. 
 
 Young Reginald Seymour, who had come to see the 
 States, had brought letters of introduction to her, and
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 13 
 
 had prolonged his stay from a fortnight to eight months, 
 and he was eloquent in praise of Comtenay Court and 
 of his father's place which adjoined it, and what 
 Reginald praised Caroline desired to see. 
 
 Miss Courtenay comhined two qualities which arc 
 generally seen in opposition, beauty and wit. On 
 her wit, however, she had latterly cast some doubt by a 
 trick she had fallen into. 
 
 She had been detected thinking for herself. Ay, 
 more than once. 
 
 This came of being left an orphan, poor thing : she 
 had no one to warn her, day by day, against this 
 habit, which is said always to lead her sex into 
 trouble when they venture upon it : luckily they don't 
 do it very often. 
 
 Wealth, wit, and beauty meeting with young blood 
 were enough to spoil a character : all they had done in 
 this case, was to give her a more decided one than 
 most young ladies of her age have, or could carry 
 without spilling. 
 
 It so happened one day, that a question much 
 agitated in parts of the United States occupied a 
 semicircle of ladies, of whom Miss Courtenay was one. 
 This was a new costume introduced by a highly re- 
 spectable lady, the editor of a paper called the ' Lily/ 
 and wife of a lawyer of some eminence at Seneca Falls. 
 
 The company, generally, were very severe on this 
 costume, and proceeded upwards from the pantalettes 
 to the morals of the inventor, which, though approved
 
 14 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 at Seneca by simple observation, were depreciated at 
 New York by intelligent inference. 
 
 When the conversation began, Miss Courtenay 
 looked down on the bare idea of the Bloomer Costume. 
 
 But its vituperators shook her opinion by a very 
 simple process ; — they gave their reasons ! ! ! ! 
 
 ' It is awkward and absurd,' said one, as by way of 
 contrast she glided majestically to the piano to sing. 
 As she spoke her foot went through her di'ess to the 
 surprise of — nobody. 
 
 ' It is highly indelicate to expose any portion of 
 the — in short the, the, the, — ancle,' continued the 
 lady at the piano. 
 
 'It is ! Miss Jemima,' purred a smooth deferential 
 gentleman looking over her ; his eye dwelt com- 
 placently on two snowy hemispheres. 
 
 A little extravagance injures a good cause. 
 
 At last. Miss Courtenay, fired by opposition and 
 unreasonable reasons, began to favor the general theory 
 of Bloomer. 
 
 Next she converted several friends ; still to the 
 theory only : this got wind, and a general attack was 
 made on her by her well-wishers : their arguments and 
 sneers completed the business, and she was pretty far 
 gone in blooraerism when the following scene took place 
 in her own kitchen. 
 
 Elisa the cook was making pastry on the long oak- 
 table, her face was redder than her work accounted 
 for.
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH. 15 
 
 ' Well, Elisa,' said Mrs. Trimmer the housekeeper 
 'your tongue won't stop of itself, of course not, so I'll 
 stop it.' 
 
 * Do Maam,' suggested Elisa with meek incredulity. 
 ' You shan't wear them here,' said Mrs. Trimmer. 
 ' La Maam,' said the housemaid Angelina, ' she had 
 better wear them in the house, than in the street with 
 two hundred boys at her tail.' 
 
 ' That is not my meaning,' answered Mrs. Trimmer 
 ' I hired you for a female cook, and the moment you 
 
 put on ■ things that don't belong to a woman, our 
 
 bargain's broke and you go.' 
 
 ' Well it is an indelicate dress,' observed Angelina ; 
 then turning to John Giles, Elisa's sweetheart, who 
 was eating pork at the dresser ' don't you think so, 
 Mr. Giles ?' enquired she aifectedly, 
 
 ' I-does !' said Giles with his mouth full. Giles was 
 a Briton in the suite of young Seymour. 
 ' Vulojar ?' suo'orested Angelina. 
 * And no mistake,' said Giles, ' it's as vulgar as bo 
 blovred,' added he clenching the nail with his polished 
 hammer. 
 
 ' And v.ho asked your opinion ?' eno^uired Elisa 
 sharply. 
 
 ' Anglina !' replied Giles. Giles was matter of fact ! 
 Elisa. I mean to wear it for as vulgar as 'tis. 
 Giles. Then you had better look out for another 
 man (applause). 
 
 Elisa. Oh ! they are always to be had without look-
 
 16 THE COURSE OF TIIUE LOVE 
 
 ing out ; so long as there's pickled pork in the kitchen 
 they'll look in. 
 
 Angelina. Well I think a woman should dress to 
 gratify the men (with an ceillade at Giles) not to imi- 
 tate them. 
 
 Elisa. The men ! so long as we sweep the streets 
 for them with our skirts, they are all right. You tali 
 of delicacy : is dirt delicacy ? 
 
 On this she whipped off a chair by the fire a gown 
 that had met with a misfortune : it had been out 
 walking on a wet day. Elisa put it viciously under 
 Angelina's nose, who recoiled. An accurate description 
 of it would soil these pages. 
 
 ' Is that pretty,' continued cook, ' to carry a hundred- 
 weight of muck wherever you go ?' 
 
 ' Dirt can't be helped,' retorted Trimmer, ' Indecency 
 can.' 
 
 ' Indecent !' cried Elisa with a face like scarlet 
 ' Who's a going to be indecent in this kitchen ?' 
 
 ' The gals,' suggested Angelina, ' who wear — who 
 wear — ' 
 
 ' Small clothes,' put in Giles. 
 
 A grateful glance repaid him for extricating the pair 
 from a conventional difficulty. 
 
 ' What it's indecent because it shows your instep I 
 suppose ? You go into the drawing-room this evening 
 and the young ladies shall show you more than ever a 
 Bloomer will. Women's delicacy !' said Elisa putting 
 her hand under the paste and bringing it down on the
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 17 
 
 reverse with a whack ' Gammon I Fashion is what we 
 care for, not delicacy. If it was the fashion to tie our 
 right foot to our left ear wouldn't you do it ?' 
 ' No !' said xA.ngelina with but little hesitation. 
 
 ' Then I would !' cried Elisa sacrificing herself to 
 her argument. ' What did they wear last year,' con- 
 tinued this orator ' Eh ? answer me that whiskine: to 
 and fro as they walked and drawing everybody's atten- 
 tion.' 
 
 In speaking, Elisa was worse than I am in writing, 
 she never punctuated at all. 
 
 ' So you mean to wear them ?' enquired Mrs. Trim- 
 mer, coming back from the argument to the point. 
 
 Misa. Yes ! I do ! 
 
 Observe! At the beginning of the argument she 
 had no such intention. 
 
 Mrs. Trimmer. Then I give you a montli's warning, 
 here and now, Elisa Staunton I 
 
 Elisa. And I won't take it from you, Mrs. Trimmer. 
 
 Mrs. Trim. V\\\o will you take it from then ? 
 
 Elisa. The mistress or nobody. 
 
 Angelina. La ! Lisa, you know she ne\'cr speaks tt) 
 a servant. 
 
 Elisa. She speaks to Mrs. Trimmer don't she ? 
 
 Mrs. Trim. Am I a servant, hussy ? Am I a ser- 
 vant ? 
 
 Elisa. Yes ! you are, we are all servants here : 
 some is paid for doing the work, and other some for 
 looking on and interrupting it here and there. 
 
 C
 
 18 THE COURSE OF TllUE LOVE 
 
 3Irs. Trim. (^Gfasping.) Leave the kitchen young 
 woman. 
 
 Elisa. The kitchen's mine and the housekeeper's 
 room is yours old woman. 
 
 ' Go to the mistress and tell her I want to come and 
 speak to her,' gasped the insulted housekeeper deprived 
 of motion by her fury. 
 
 Angelina took hut one step before Elisa caught 
 her, held the roller high above her head and saying, 
 ' if you offer to go there I'll roll ye up into my paste,' 
 pushed her down into a chair, where she roared and 
 blubbered. 
 
 ' Oh ! you rude brutal behaved woman,' cried 
 Trimmer — ' I shall faint.' 
 
 Helps have an insolence all their own ; they say the 
 most cutting thintrs with a tone of extra sweetness and 
 courtesy, that has the effect of fire quenched with sweet 
 oil, or brandy softened with oil of vitriol 
 
 With such sweet and measured tones Ehsa said half 
 under her breath, ' Giles ! you go — into the house- 
 keeper's room — and look behind the door — and you'll 
 find— the biggest brandy bottle you ever did see — 
 Mrs. Trimmer wants it ! ! ! ! !' 
 
 This dry little speech was hartshorn. Some spring 
 seemed to have been pressed, so erect bounced Mrs. 
 Trimmer ! 
 
 She bustled up to Elisa and with a spite that 
 threatened annihilation gave her an infinitesimal pat 
 on the back of her head, and retired precipitately
 
 XEVER DID nUX SMOOTH. 19 
 
 with a face in wliich misgiving already took tlie place 
 of fury. 
 
 Ellsa put down the roller quite leisurely and cleaned 
 her fingers slowly of dough. 
 
 ' It is lucky for you ' said she firmly, ' that you are 
 the same age as my mother, or down you'd go on those 
 bricks. Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh !' and down went she 
 on a chair opposite Angelina, and her apron over her 
 head : for these women who are going to tear the 
 house down and stand like mercury on the debris, in a 
 bloomer, with a finger pointing to truth and a toe to 
 futurity, are just two shades more faint hearted at 
 bottom than the others. 
 
 So Elisa and Angelina kept up the bawl with great 
 want of spirit, bursting out in turns, after the manner 
 of strophe and antistrophe. 
 
 Et ululare pares et Jc 'pondere paratcE. 
 
 Meantime the man of one idea at a time, Giles, was 
 obeying orders and going after the bottle specified by 
 Elisa, and had his hand on the door of housekeeper's 
 room. 
 
 ' Giles !' screamed the proprietor. He stood petri- 
 fied, ' there is no such thing in my room,' said she with 
 sudden calmness. 
 
 Giles returned to the dresser. 
 
 The present scene had lately received an addition 
 that made it perfect, a satirical spectator. 
 
 The pantry window which looked into the kitchen
 
 20 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 was opened by a footman whose head had been pre- 
 viously seen bobbing wildly up and down as he cleaned 
 his plate. 
 
 This footman had admired Elisa, but outweighed by 
 the solid virtues and limbs of Giles, was furtively 
 looking out for a chance of disturbing the balance. 
 
 Elisa and Angelina were now sobbing placidly. 
 
 Mr. Giles stretched his legs slowly out before him 
 and said very slowly, and with really an appearance of 
 reflection ' now all this — here — bobbery — comes from 
 a woman — making up — licr mind — to wear — the — 
 B-ugh a ha ho ho ! ugh !' 
 
 Elisa had bounced up in a rage and dabbed the 
 paste right over his mouth, nose, eyes, face, and 
 temples. (He should have spoken quicker.) 
 
 It was nearly his death : however with horrible 
 noises and distortions he got clear of it. 
 
 The footman roared with laughter — he thought he 
 ^ever had seen so truly funny a thing done in his life — 
 none of your vulgar jokes — ' legitimate humour,' 
 thought John, (Giles being my rival.) However turn- 
 ing suddenly grave he said — 
 
 ' Well you are drawing it mild, you are — here's the 
 mistress coming to see whose cat's dead.' So saying 
 he slammed the window and his head went bobbing 
 again over his spoons. 
 
 At this announcement histrionics commenced. ' Mrs. 
 Trimmer, madam ' began Elisa demurely with a total 
 change of manner ' I'm sure maam you would'nt take
 
 NEVER DID RUX S^iIOOTII. 21 
 
 away a poor girl's place that's three thousand miles 
 away ii'om home all for a word maam !' 
 
 * You may pack up your box, Elisa, for you won't 
 sleep in this house,' was the grim answer. 
 
 ' Oh Mrs. Trimmer ' remonstrated Elisa tearfully, 
 * if you have no heart for poor servants where do you 
 expect to go to ?' 
 
 ' I shall go nowhere,' replied the dignitary, ' I shall 
 stay here, it's you that shall march,' then hearing a 
 light step approach she astonished them all by sud- 
 denly rising into a wild sonorous recitative — 
 
 ' I have my mistress's confidence and will deserve 
 it.' 
 
 Miss Courteuay stood on the threshold. 
 
 Mrs. Trimmer's game was not to see her. She- 
 intoned a little louder. 
 
 ' No woman shall stay a day in this house.' 
 
 ' Well I never !' gasped Angelina, looking towards 
 the door. 
 
 '^Hold your tongue — no woman shall stay a day in 
 this house who thinks to put on that immoval, ondeW- 
 cate, ondecent ah ! ah ! ah !' Trimmer screamed, put 
 her nose out straight in the air — put on her spectacles 
 and screamed again. 
 
 Miss Courtenay stood at the door in a suit of propria, 
 quse maribus ! ! !
 
 22 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The world up to that moment had never seen so smart 
 a fella as caused Trimmer's recitative to die in a 
 
 quaver ; i re stood in the threshold erect yet lithe, 
 
 the serpentine lines of youthful female beauty veiled 
 yet not disguised in vest, and pantaloons of marvellous 
 cut — neat little collars, dapper shoes, and gaiters, deli- 
 cious purple broad-cloth. 
 
 'Giles!' groaned Mrs. Trimmer 'you may go for 
 vrhat Elisa said — anybody may do anything now, I 
 nursed her on these knees,' whined the poor woman 
 with the piteous tone that always accompanies this 
 favourite statement. 
 
 'Trimmer,' said the Courtenay coldly 'theatrical 
 exhibitions amuse but do not deceive — be yourself.' 
 
 ' Yes maam,' answered Trimmer coolly, dropping 
 her histrionics directly and taking up her tact. 
 
 'Hearing cries of distress from my household I 
 came to see if I could be of any service to you — what 
 is the matter?' 
 
 ' If you please maam,' put in Elisa hastily ' it is all 
 along of Mrs. Trimmer being so hard upon the 
 bloomers maam.' 
 
 A short explanation followed. 
 
 Elisa was asked why she had defended this costume.
 
 NEVER^DID RUN SMQOTH. 23 
 
 Elisa having found such a backer was fluent in defence 
 of the new costume. 
 
 The rest looked unutterable things, but could say 
 nothing. 
 
 In the middle of one of her long sentences her 
 mistress cut her short — congratulated her demurely 
 on her s'ense — informed her that she wished one of the 
 servants to assist her in a little scheme for recommend- 
 ing the dress— that she should have hesitated to 
 propose it, but having found one already so disposed 
 would use her services. 
 
 ' On my bed you will find a costume ; put it on 
 immediately and come to me for further instructions,' 
 so saying, she vanished with a sly smile. 
 
 Elisa watched her departing form with a rueful face. 
 She discovered when too late that she had never for a 
 moment intended to wear the thing, and had only 
 defended it out jof contrariness : she moved towards 
 the door like a lamb to sacrifice. 
 
 *Ahem!' said Mrs. Trimmer 'you can go into the 
 street dressed like a hobbadehoy if you like, Miss 
 Staunton, but if I might ask a favour it is that you 
 won't tell the people what house you come out of — 
 because I come of decent people in the neighbourhood 
 that might feel hurt and leave the town owing to such 
 a thinsT beings seen come out of the house whore I am : 
 that's all maam ! And I am a regular attendant on 
 public and family worship.' 
 
 This was said very politely. 
 
 ' Well maam,' answered Elisa beginning as politely
 
 24 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 but heating so much per sentence, 'I don't know as 
 Bloomers arc so like what you mention maam as your 
 own gown would be maam if it was a bit cleaner 
 maam : but whenever I meet a new married couple 
 coming from church I'll step up to tlie bride and I'll 
 say Mrs. Trimmer requests you would be so good as 
 not put on yuur night gown before supper next time — 
 she's turned so devilish modest all of a sudden. ' 
 
 So saying Elisa flounced out in a rage, and her 
 blood being put up burned now to go through with it. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Reginald Seymour was a handsome gentlemanly 
 fellow, heir apparent of the unsuccessful bidder for 
 Courtenay Court. 
 
 He had been for six months the declared lover of 
 the heiress ; and his sister Harriet, warmly invited by 
 Miss Courtenay, had at length taken advantage of an 
 escort offered by an English family, and was a guest 
 of the fiancee. 
 
 If Reginald had a fault it was too strong a conscious- 
 ness of the antiquity and importance of the Seymours, 
 and as that Was combined with a determination to hand 
 down their name as pure as he had received it, it was 
 a very excusable weakness. 
 
 He was however perhaps rather more formal and 
 stately than suited his youth. 
 , It was in the dusk of the evening that Harriet
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 25 
 
 Seymour full dressed for the ball and entertainment 
 came into a sort of antechamber with a bouquet of 
 choice flowers in her hand, and there encountered 
 Caroline, for whom in fact she was looking- : at sight of 
 her friend, Harriet did not at first comprehend ; all she 
 realized was that her friend's shoulders were not visible. 
 
 'What not dressed yet Caroline?' said she, 'it is 
 very late.' 
 
 ' I am dressed dear.' 
 
 ' Why of course I see you have some clothes on for 
 fun, — he ! he ! but it is to be a ball dear.' 
 
 ' My feet will be as unembarrassed as yours dear,' 
 replied Caroline quietly. 
 
 Harriet gave her the bouquet, and said with much 
 meaning — ' Reginald sends you these. Of course you 
 did not know he was returned.' 
 
 ' Of course I did,' was the reply ' he is to be here.'' 
 
 Harriet. Oh ! — Reginald loves you Caroline. 
 
 Caroline. So he pretends. 
 
 Harrt. He loves you with all the force of an honest 
 heart — and I love you for his sake and your own — 
 give me the privilege of a sister — let me advise you. 
 
 Carol. With all my heart. 
 
 Harrt. Yes ! but advice is apt to be ill received. 
 
 Carol. That is because it is given hastily and harshl\ 
 — but true friends like you ! and me — oh fie ! 
 
 Harrt. Promise then not to be angry with me. 
 
 Carol. Certainly — only you must promise not to bo 
 angry if I am too silly or self-willed to take it.
 
 2.6 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Harrt. I should not be angry love, though I might 
 be grieved on your own account. 
 Carol. AVell then dear. 
 
 Harrt. Well then dear — Do not receive society in 
 this costume. I will never tell Reginald and do not 
 you let him know you ever wore it. 
 
 Carol. But how can I help it when he is going to 
 see me in it. 
 
 Harrt. It is for your delicacy, your feminine quali- 
 ties he has loved you. 
 
 Carol. Has he ? {looking down.) Well those quali- 
 ties reside in our souls not our — habiliments. 
 
 Harrt. Not in such habiliments as those — He will 
 be shocked. 
 
 Carol. No ! only surprised a little, he ! he ! 
 Harrt. He will be grieved, Caroline. 
 Carol. I shall console him. 
 
 Harrt. (With color heightening.) He will be in- 
 dignant. 
 
 Carol. {With color rising.) I shall laugh at him: 
 Harrt. He will be disgusted. 
 Carol. Ah ! then I shall dismiss him. 
 Harrt. I see I speak to no purpose Miss Courtenay. 
 Carol. To very little Miss Seymour. 
 Harrt. I shall say no more madam. 
 Carol. You have said enough madam. 
 Harrt. Since you despise my advice — please your- 
 self. 
 
 Carol. I shall take your advice at present.
 
 NE\TDR DID EUN SMOOTH. 27 
 
 Han't. But you will never be my brother's wife ! 
 
 Carol. Then I shall always be mistress in my own 
 house. 
 
 Harriet who was at the door returned as if to speak, 
 but she was too angry, gave it up and retired half 
 choking. 
 
 A sacred joy filled Caroline's bosom — she had had 
 the last word ! ! 
 
 As she was about to pass out of the room who 
 should enter hastily but Reginald Seymour — her back 
 was towards him. 
 
 He called to her ' Can you tell me where I shall find 
 Miss Courtenay sir !' 
 
 Caroline bit her lips ; but she turned sharply round 
 and said ' She is in this room madam !' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Reginald — he added ' Oh ! Caroline,' 
 and looked pained. 
 
 Caroline blushed ; and if heavenly looks and little 
 female artifice could have softened censure they were 
 not wanting. 
 
 ' What beautiful flowers you have sent me ' said she 
 'see I threw away my formal bouquet for your nose- 
 
 ' You do me honor,' said the young gentleman 
 uneasily. 
 
 ' Honor ! no ! but Justice ; a single violet from you 
 deserves to be preferred to roses and camellias.' 
 
 ' Dear Caroline ! I withdraw ; you are not dressed 
 yet, and people will soon arrive.'
 
 28 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Caroline saw there was no real way of escape, so 
 with great external calmness she said sweetly — 
 
 'I am dressed, dear Reginald.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ' said he as not understanding 
 her. 
 
 •I forgive you,' said the sly thing taking him up, 
 ' there are so many who do not see the beauty of — Jt 
 this ; I have promised to wear it to-night,' continued 
 she (not allowing him to get in a word) ' and to com- 
 pare it calmly and candidly with other costumes ; you 
 will be so amused, and we shall arrive at a real judg- 
 ment instead of violent prejudices, which you are above ; 
 at least I give you credit : I should not admire you so- 
 rauch as I do if I doubted that.' 
 
 ' Caroline,' said the young gentleman gravely. 
 
 ' Yes Reginald.' 
 
 ' Dear Caroline do you believe I love you ?' 
 
 ' Better than I deserve, I dare say,' said Caroline. 
 
 ' No ! as you deserve — I will not own my .ove inferior 
 even to your merit — do you believe that when we are 
 one my life will be devoted to your happiness ?' 
 
 ' I am sometimes — goose enough — to hope so ' — 
 murmured Caroline averting her head. 
 
 ' Shall you then think ill of me if before marriage I 
 ask a fovor, perhaps a sacrifice of you ? I feel I shall 
 not be ungrateful' 
 
 ' There ' thought Caroline. ' I am not to wear it — 
 that is plain.' 
 
 Reginald continued — 'If \ou wear this dress you
 
 NEVER DID UUX SMOOTH. 29 
 
 will give me pain beyond any pleasure you can 
 •derive/ 
 
 ' Reginald,' said the poor girl ' I wished to wear it— 
 now and then ; indeed I had set my heait on making a 
 Jeiv — a very few converts to it ; see how pretty it is :' 
 — (no answer) — ' but for your sake when 1 take it off 
 •to-night I will give it away, and it shall never, never 
 offend you more.' 
 
 Reginald kissed her hand. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 ' Caroline,' said he stammering ' you do not quite 
 understand me ; it is to-day I beg you on no account 
 io wear it' 
 
 ' Oh ! to-day,' said she hastily ' I have promised to 
 wear it.' 
 
 ' I entreat you,' said he, ' consider, if you once show 
 yourself to people from every part of New York iu 
 this costume, what more remains to be done ?' 
 
 ' Reginald, be reasonable,' said Caroline more coldly 
 ■* I stand engaged to some sixty persons to wear this 
 dress to-night — I have made you a concession, and 
 with pleasure, because I make it to you. It is your 
 turn now — you must think of me as well as of yourself 
 — dear Reginald. I am afraid you must shut your eyes 
 on me for a few hours — that will spoil all my ])leasure — 
 or you must fancy as many a lover has been able to do, 
 that I consecrate a dress, not that a dress has power to 
 lower me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Caroline ! do you value my respect ?'
 
 30 THE COUi'tSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Yes I and therefore I shall keep my word, and so 
 you will feel sure I shall keep my word to you too if 
 ever I promise something about {blushes and smiles) 
 love — honour — and obey.' 
 
 A battle took place in the young man's mind. 
 
 He took several strides backwards and forwards. 
 
 At last he burst out, ' There are feelings too strong 
 to be conquered by our wishes. 
 
 ' I cannot bear that my wife should do what three- 
 fourths of her sex think indelicate. We never differed 
 in opinion before, we never shall again — if we do, be 
 assured I will bow to you — I would yield here if I 
 could, but I cannot — I think you can — if you can, have 
 pity on me, and add one more claim to my life long 
 gratitude.' 
 
 The balance trembled — the tears were in Caroline's 
 eyes — her bosom fluttered — when the Demon of 
 Discord inspired her proud nature with this idea — 
 
 'He loves his prejudices better than you' said 
 Discord 'and this is Tyranny — coaxing Tyranny if 
 you will.' 
 
 On this hint spake Caroline. 
 
 ' I find 1 have rivals.' 
 
 • Rivals.' 
 
 ' In your prejudices, Reginald. Neither person, nor 
 thing shall ever be my rival. Show me at once which 
 you love with the deeper affection, Mr. Seymour's 
 prejudices or Caroline Courtenay. I shall wear this 
 dress to-night — only for a few hours : consider ! you
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 31 
 
 will be here and keep me in countenance, or you don't 
 love me.' 
 
 'No! Caroline' said Reginald sadly and iirmlv'I 
 have spoken : our future life now rests in your liands 
 — I shall not come — I shall arrange so that if you 
 degrade yourself (I cling to the hope you will not) I 
 shall hear of it and leave the country that minute ! 
 Were I to see it, by heaven I should leave the world,' 
 he said this in a great heat, hut recovering himself s^aid 
 ' forgive me !' kissed her hand and went despondently 
 away. 
 
 Caroline on his departure wished he had gone away 
 in a pet instead of sorrowful — wished he had been her 
 husband to cut the matter short by carrying her in his 
 arms and securing her in his dressing room till the 
 ball was over : wished she had never seen the bloomer 
 costume — wished she had the courage to hide and cry 
 in an attic till all was over. 
 
 On her meditations entered a plump figure with al 
 manner of expressions chasing one another over her 
 countenance — this was El;sa, who ciu'tseyed to attiact 
 attention and failing presumed that her deportment 
 had not corresponded with her costume, so bowed 
 instead, and ducked, and as a last resource gave a pull 
 at the top of her head. 
 Caroline. Well! 
 
 Elka. If you please maam — but if you please uKiam 
 am I to say maam or sir now maam ? 
 Carol. Madam will do for the present.
 
 32 THE COUKSE OF TUIIE LOVE 
 
 Misa. If you please maam Kitty the housemaid, 
 that was to wear the short waisted gown before the 
 •company, says she won't put it on for a douLlo dollar. 
 
 Carol. Promise her four dollars then. 
 
 Misa. Yes M. 
 
 Carol. The girl's mother would have been as loth to 
 wear a long waist. 
 
 Misa. Yes M. 
 
 Carol. And to-morrow morning tell Trimmer to 
 discharge her. 
 
 Elisa. Yes ! M ! Oho ! thought Elisa, ' then now is 
 the time to trim that old fagot Trimmer.' 
 
 ' If you please maara I have the greatest respect for 
 Mrs. Trimmer, because she has been here longer than 
 I have, and is a good servant maam there's no denying 
 it ; but if you please M. there's no putting Mrs. 
 Trimmer out of her turnpike road as the saying is. 
 She says if I don't make the jellies and blamonge 
 she'll make you turn me off maam ; now how can I 
 when I'm got to learn off all those words you gave me 
 if you please maam am I take your orders or Mrs. 
 Trimmer's M. 
 
 Carol. Now I must ask you a question — who are 
 you? 
 
 Misa. La maam ! I am Elisa mum ! cook mum ! I 
 make guava jelly that you like so maam ! 
 
 Carol. Very well ! then Elisa cook, for six hours you 
 are my lieutenant here, and queen in the kitchen : give 
 your orders, and discharge Trimmer and every man
 
 NEVER UID llUX S5I00TII. 33 
 
 woman in the house that disobeys you and I'll confirm 
 all you do. 
 
 ^lisa. Yes M. (with flashing eyes.) 
 
 Carol. And if you abuse your authority you shall 
 be the first victim. 
 
 Elisa. Yes 31. (crest fallen). 
 
 ' There ' said Elisa to herself as she absconded with 
 •a modest reverence ' I've been and given you a dig in 
 your old ribs with my rolling pin Mrs. Trimmer.' 
 
 ' Until to-day ' thought her mistress ' a look from 
 me was law, and now every creature high and low 
 thwarts and opposes me, ever since I put these vile 
 things on.' 
 
 Now some would have carried the reasoning out 
 thus — Ergo, take these vile things off! 
 
 But this sweet creature never dreamed of that path 
 of inference. 
 
 ' Of this there can be but one consequence ' said she 
 ^ I shall do it ten times the more.' 
 
 She then liurtt out crying, which was an unfair 
 advantage the Bloomer took over poor Beginald : for 
 after a shower of tears the ladies acipiire additional 
 force. 
 
 Eat a tat, tat a tat, tat ! tat ! tat ! tat 1 
 The guests arrived. We shall only particularize 
 one. Mr. Fitzpatrick, an Irish gentleman, who had 
 retained the delightful qualities of his nation and 
 rubbed ofi^ its ignorance, and down its prejudices. 
 
 D
 
 34 TUE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Handsome, gay, and though not varnished, polished, 
 he was as charming a companion as either a man or 
 woman coukl desire. 
 
 He was as fond of men as Englishmen are of women, 
 and as fond of the ladies, as an Englishman is of 
 adulterated wine. 
 
 Fitzpatrick's flattery was agreeable to the ladies : it 
 •was so very sincere — he really saw en beau both theui 
 and all their ways. 
 
 At sight of Miss Courtenay in a Bloomer he w;is 
 ravished. 
 
 ' Oh ! Miss Caroline but that's a beautiful costume 
 ye've invented : the few of us that's left standing will 
 fall to-night : ye've no conscience at all.' 
 
 ' I did not invent the hideous thing ; it is Bloomer.' 
 
 ' Bloomer ? ye're joking. What ! is it this they've 
 been running down. Oh ! the haythcn barbarians ! ! ! ! 
 ye were a rainbow at the last ball ; but now ye're a 
 sunbeam — ye'll not be for dancing the first dance with 
 an uncouth Celt.' 
 
 ' You will not be for waiting till the seventh, Mr. 
 Fitzpatrick !' 
 
 ' Is it only six ye're engaged ? ? ! oh but I'm in luck 
 to-night,' 
 
 Mr. Fitzpatrick had been for some time puzzled 
 which he loved most, Harriet Seymour or Caroline 
 Courtenay : but last week he had decided in favour of 
 the latter ; without prejudice to the former. 
 
 The dancing was kept up with some spirit for two
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 35 
 
 hours ; and then Caroline's associates were observed to 
 steal out and to make for various apartments in her 
 very large house on the doors of which their respective 
 names were written in chalk. 
 
 Results, not processes, are for the public eye. 
 
 Suffice it to say at present in excuse of Caroline's 
 obstinacy that she had been at no small trouble and 
 expense to carry out her little idea. She had also 
 read, drawn, composed, and written : others that saw 
 the work had given her credit for some talent, great 
 talent of course they said : and she was mortified to 
 think her lover would not give her this opportunity of 
 showing him her wit, on which she secretly valued 
 herself more than on her beauty. 
 
 A polka concluded. A tide of servants poured in. 
 A semicircle of seats sprung up. A pulpit rose like an 
 exhalation, and almost before her guests could seat 
 themselves, Caroline was a lecturer wearing over her 
 Bloomer a B. C. L. gown from Oxford, and the four- 
 cornered cap of that University on her head. 
 
 L'Effrontee ! of whom think you she had borrowed 
 this two days before? — of Rcghiald ! 
 
 The optimist Fitzpatrick was enchanted—' she was 
 more beautiful in this than even in a Bloomer !' And 
 indeed it became her — the gravity of the dress made a 
 keen contrast with her archness. She was like a vivid 
 flower springing unexpectedly from some tiuie-stainod 
 wall — dancing, vanity, wit, pique at Reginald, and the 
 flattery of others made her cheek flush, her eyes flash. 
 
 D 2
 
 ob THE COUKSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Ahem !' said she in the dry as dust tone of a 
 lecturer, ' Ladies and gentlemen ; as you will have to 
 bear with many costumes this evening, permit me to 
 begin with this : 
 
 ' I wear it ladies and gentlemen because it is sup- 
 posed to confer a right to be tedious — a-hem ! 
 
 ' I am here to attack two principal errors. 
 
 ' One is that such fashions as embarrass the limbs are 
 of a nature to last upon earth. 
 
 ' The other is that pantaloons are essentially mascu- 
 line and sweeping robes feminine. 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen, we women can only predict 
 the future by examining the past — moles and rabbits 
 may have some other way, though I think not. 
 
 'Elisa! 
 
 ' Call back past facts with lessons fraught. 
 To teach us, — if y/e can be taught.' 
 
 Elisa opened the door. 
 
 Miss Spilman the musical associate splashed a 
 magnificent chord on the piano, and in sailed Queen 
 Elizabeth ! I mean a lady in the exact costume in 
 which that Queen went into the City to return thanks 
 for the destruction of the Spanish Armada. 
 
 Set a stomacher three feet long between two mon- 
 strous jelly bags upon a bloated bell, and there you 
 have this Queen and her successor in New York. 
 
 'Ladies and gentlemen,' said the lecturer, 'common 
 sense fell flatter than Spain the day royalty appeared 
 thus !
 
 ]S'EVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 37 
 
 ' Could a duck make a doll this would be the result. 
 
 ' Yet this costume, as much admired once as ours is 
 now, is only the principle of our own carried a step 
 farther : at the head of our principle is the sack in 
 which rustics jump at a fair — next comes Queen Bess, 
 and then come we. 
 
 ' With us motion is embarrassed. 
 
 ' With Queen Bess motion is impeded. 
 
 ' With the sack motion is obstructed. 
 
 'In rational and therefore permanent costumes 
 motion is free. Vide Time and the World !' 
 
 {A Chord.) 
 
 With a multiplicity of affectation in came a courtier 
 the point of whose shoes touched his knees, and he 
 seemed proud of them. 
 
 No remark was made : this thing spoke for itself. 
 
 Next a noise was heard, and with infinite difficulty 
 a lady was squeezed in who wore the genuine hoop. 
 
 Two short-waisted ladies came in. 
 
 Everybody laughed at the sight of them. 
 
 Straight one of them burst out a-crying ! this was 
 Kitty, who was instantly attempted to be consoled (as 
 the papers phrase it) by Mr. Fitzpatrick : he told her 
 nothing could disguise her comeliness : and really 
 thought so at the moment. 
 
 This dress set people talking : those who had worn 
 it confessed to the younger ones that they had thought 
 it beautiful, and had anticipated the destruction of
 
 38 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 nature as soon as the demise of this phase of the un- 
 natural. 
 
 Then followed jigot sleeves. 
 
 Two chords were struck on the piano, and Miss 
 Courtenay resumed her lecture thus. 
 
 Recitative. 
 
 ' All these good people when they were here thought they 
 
 must be here for ever 
 Or as long as men and women, and Primrose hill and the 
 
 Mississippi River 
 But they proved more like the flower than the hill that bears 
 
 its name — 
 And instead of the great Mississippi, they were bubbles 
 
 floating down that same.' 
 
 Sang. 
 
 ' Such fashions are like poppies spread 
 You seize the flower, the bloom is fled : 
 Or like a snow-flake on a river 
 A moment seen, then gone for ever.' 
 
 ♦We have shown you the costumes that could not stand the 
 
 shock of time : 
 You shall now see what sort of costumes have stood the 
 
 brunt of centuries — compare the Bloomers 
 With each in turn — and you will be on the path of Truth.' 
 
 Armenian, Polish, and Sicilian Peasants were then 
 introduced whose limbs were free enough goodness 
 knows— they ranged themselves in a line opposite their 
 stiff competitors — and a Bloomer took up the recitative, 
 
 * All these unlike the Bloomer confine the limbs and make the 
 ribs to crack 
 All those like Bloomers free the mind, the body, and the back. 
 So hail to great Amelia who takes a sex out of a sack.'
 
 XEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 39 
 
 Song. 
 
 ' For grace is motion unconfineil 
 Like rippling sea or sweeping wind 
 Free as the waves of yellow corn 
 That bovrs to greet the breezy morn.' 
 
 The applause bad but just subsided vvbeu a clear 
 rich quaint voice arose, and to the equal surprize of the 
 lecturer and company trilled forth the following stanza 
 to some fossil tune. Chevy chace — we really believe. 
 
 * The ass with four L'gs has the Avit 
 None of those four to tether — 
 But there's a greater ass with two 
 That ties those two together.' 
 
 While the others sat aghast. 
 
 'Now that was like honey dropping from the comb,' 
 exclaimed Fitzpatrick. 
 
 ' Now you know Mr. Fitzpatrick it was like vinegar 
 distilling from a cruet/ replied Miss Courtenay. 
 
 ' There icas an agreeable acidulation compared with 
 yours Miss Courtenay, but in itself delicious,' retorted 
 the optimist. 
 
 'Ladies and gentlemen,' said the modern Portia 
 ' the first head of my lecture is before you. I am now to 
 prove that pantaloons are not necessarily masculine nor 
 long skirts feminine.' 
 
 On this entered two Persian women in jrorceous 
 ■costume and very spacious trousers. 
 
 They salaamed to Caroline and the Bloomers, but 
 seemed staggered by the other figures — whilst they
 
 40 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 whispered and eyed the company Caroline lec- 
 tured 
 
 • Ladies this costume is worn by half the well dressed 
 women in the world : and we must not flatter ourselves 
 we are more feminine than Mussul women — on the con- 
 trary these pantalooned females practice a reserve, 
 compared with which the modesty of Europe is mascu- 
 line impudence. 
 
 A Ladi/. Make them speak. I don't think they are 
 women at all. 
 
 Carol. They are women I assure you Miss White, 
 for one has just borrowed a pin of me. 
 
 Miss W. Then why don't they talk ? 
 
 Carol. He ! he ! the inference is just. — They are 
 going to speak — unless they have forgotten all I — 
 
 Zulcima. They have feet, and even legs. O Holy- 
 Prophet here are women who muffle their feet, and 
 reveal their necks to the gaze of man. 
 
 Fatima. What dirt has this people eaten ? Can this 
 be the great Frank nation, whose ships subdue every sea, 
 and whose wisdom and probity are such that the evil 
 spirit himself cannot get the better of them in making 
 bargains : are these sea kings sprung from fools, who 
 hide their feet which were made for show and motion,. 
 and reveal their faces and necks, which is unlawful ? 
 
 Zulem. Daughter of the Commander of the Faithful 
 — your slave has an idea. 
 
 Fatim. (with some surprise) Bismillah ! In thc^ 
 name of the Prophet let mo hear it.
 
 NEVER DID EUN SMCOTH. 41 
 
 Zulem. Three revolutions of the moon arc com- 
 pleted shice we sailed in ships from Istamboul : in the 
 meantime Sheitan has doubtless obtained permission to 
 derange this people's intellects, that so they may be 
 converted to the true faith. Thus, their brains being 
 confounded, they muffle their feet, and reveal their 
 necks without shame to the gaze of man : your slave 
 has spoken. 
 
 Fatim. It is well spoken : it is also a nation which 
 sups on opium — and drinks hot wine, as a camel sucks 
 water in the desert — we will therefore sit on ottomans 
 and laugh. 
 
 Zulem. Be cheshm ! On my eyes be it ! 
 
 Fatim. Seven days. 
 
 Zulem. xVnd seven nights. 
 
 Fatim. At these children 
 
 Zulem. Of Burnt Fathers. 
 
 Fat ^ Zul. We will laugh. Seven days 
 
 And seven nights 
 
 At these children 
 
 Of Burnt Fathers ! 
 
 They then sat like little tailors on two ottomans 
 opposite each other and nodding like mandarhis 
 laughed mechanically as became people who were going 
 to make seven nights of it. 
 
 Caroline Adsis, O Cato. Call him Eliza. 
 
 Eliza If you please um would you say them words 
 again. 
 
 Carol. Adsis O Cato.
 
 42 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 JHUza. Assist us old king Cole I 
 
 Cato swept in with a ma<^nificent toga-^ 
 
 ' Adsum,' said he, ' quis me vocat ?' 
 
 Carol. Bb pleased sir to tell us which are the mobt 
 masculine and which the most feminine of these good 
 souls. 
 
 Cato folded his arms and took three antique strides, 
 * these cackling creatures,' said he ' are Persian 
 women — this (Elisa) is a native I believe of some 
 barbarous country not yet under the dominion of 
 Rome.' 
 
 Elisa. Nor don't mean to. 
 
 Cato. These with black plaister stuck to them are of 
 the Genus Simii or apes. The rest with togse, but no 
 beards, are, I suppose, of the Epicene class — dismiss 
 me. 
 
 {A Chord.) 
 
 Cato. Abeo — [chord.) Excedo (chord.) Evado 
 (chord.) Erumpo (four strides, one for each verb took 
 him out with a sharp and pleasing effect.) 
 
 This ended the lecture and a dance of all ages and 
 climes was proposed. 
 
 'I can't hop as you do now-a-days,' remonstrated the 
 hoop ' I was taught to dance.' 
 
 ' Grace was in all my steps,' said the courtier. 
 
 Said Caroline, ' Dance in your own way, dress in 
 your own way, and let your neighbours have their 
 way — that is the best way !'
 
 NEVER DID KUN SMOOTH. 43 
 
 A dance was then played with no very marked 
 accent; and mighty pleasant it was to see couples 
 polking, couples gavotting with all the superstition of 
 antiquated grace, and waltzes and jigs and tarantula ; 
 the sanctified solemnity with which polite people frisk 
 was for this once exchanged for sly gravity and little 
 bursts of merriment. Boom ! went a gun at sea. 
 
 The great steamer was starting for England. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight. 
 
 There was a general move to the supper- room, which 
 had four windows looking seaward. 
 
 One old lady lingered a moment to convey to her 
 host her opinion of the lecture. 
 
 ' You are a very clever young lady, your lecture was 
 very ingenious.' 
 
 ' I am fortunate in your friendly consideration of it, 
 madam,' said Caroline. 
 
 'The women in trousers were funny.' 
 
 ' If it gave my friends a smile, Miss Ruth — ' 
 
 ' It will make Bloomers I believe — it was as good as 
 a play Miss Courtcnay ; and I shall never enter your 
 house again madam !' with this conclusion Miss Kuth 
 became a vertical rod and marched off. 
 
 The next moment a servant brought Caroline a 
 letter; she optjncd it. A smile with which she was 
 listening to Fitzpatrick's admiration became a stone 
 smile as her eyes fixed themselves on the paper. She 
 gave a cry like one wounded, and, stretching out her 
 hands with a tender helplessness that at once gave the
 
 44 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 lie to lier dress, she sank insensible into Mr. Fitz- 
 patrick's arms. 
 
 The steamboat was taking Reginald past her win- 
 dow to England. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Several months after this event, a young gentleman 
 was seated in a study, book in hand, but by no effort 
 could he give his mind to the book ; he sighed, turned 
 the leaves and gave it up in despair ! this was Reginald 
 Seymour, whose offended dignity and delicacy had 
 borne him stiffly up for five months, but could support 
 him no longer. 
 
 He had now had leisure to remember the many high 
 qualities of her, whose one fault he had thought un- 
 pardonable. He had flung away a jewel for a single 
 flaw — ^jewels are rare — he began to think he had been 
 a fool, and to know he was wretched. 
 
 What was to be done ? he had been silent so lono- 
 that now he was ashamed to write ; and when he had 
 with a great struggle determined -to make the first 
 overtures, a letter from his sister had given him a 
 mysterious hint that it would now be too late to 
 attempt an accommodation. 
 
 Reg^inald was not one of those who babble their 
 griefs, and cure themselves in ten days by tormenting 
 all their friends.
 
 KEVEli DID i:UX S-MOOTH, 45 
 
 He was silent, distracted, reserved. 
 
 His own family, who guessed the cause of liis low 
 spirits, respected hira too much to approach the suhject, 
 or to let strangers into the secret. 
 
 They left him in peaceable enjoyment of his misery. 
 
 He thanked them in his heart, and availed himself to 
 the full of their kind permission. 
 
 He sat in a room, whose windows looked on 
 Courtenay Court, and in that room, in the company of 
 the immortal dead — s'ennuyait. 
 
 One of these painful reveries was interrupted by a 
 visitor, an old gentleman in black gaiters and a white 
 head ; the Reverend James Tremaine, perpetual 
 curate of Conyton. An old and true friend of both 
 houses, and Reginald's tutor for many years, Mr. 
 Tremaine had not seen his depression without interest. 
 He was acquainted with the cause. The Seymours 
 had few secrets from him. 
 
 Certain features in every story vary according to the 
 side we hear it from ; and Mr. Tremaine secretly con- 
 gratulated Reginald on his escape from a strong- 
 minded woman : he called not to keep his pupil's mind 
 fixed on the subject, but on the contrary to divert him 
 from it. 
 
 After noticing with regret the young man's de- 
 pression, he asked permission to be his physician. 
 
 ' I see,' said he, ' what it is — you want some fixed 
 intellectual pursuit. Will you allow me to recommend 
 you one ?'
 
 4G THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' As many as you like, dear sir,' said Reginald, ' for 
 I am wearied of my life — I have nothing to do,' added 
 he, thinking to throw dust in his mentor's eyes. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine took his cue, and then and there 
 proposed to his late pupil's attention an interesting 
 pursuit, suited to that part of the country— geology. 
 ' It is a science,' said he, ' which lifts you out of this 
 ignorant present, and transports you into various stages 
 of this earth's existence : you learn on its threshhold 
 what a mushroom in this world's great story is the 
 author of the pyramids. 
 
 ' You find that the earth was red hot for millions of 
 years, and spouted liquid stone like a whale : in that 
 stone look for no sign of vegetation, and still fewer of 
 life. Then for millions of years the heat of its upper 
 crust has been cooling, and water depositing rubbish 
 which has coagulated into stone ; and in this stratified 
 stone you shall find things, that lived or grew very late 
 in the world's history, in fact within a few million years 
 of mammoths, who precede man by a few thousand 
 years only, at least I think so, since the flesh of 
 mammoths has been found in ice in our own day, and 
 was eaten by our contemporaries the wolves.' 
 
 The old gentleman then hinted with a twinkle of the 
 eye, that this science has also its prose ; that, by 
 breaking stones with iron in them, men have repaired 
 their own shattered fortunes : that coal, silver, iron and 
 even gold are as common as dirt, though not quite so 
 easy to come at, and that geology really mastered.
 
 KEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 47 
 
 would teach its proficient tiie signs of ttieir presence ; 
 brief, how much better to circulate over the face of 
 Devonshire with hammer and book, than be a prey to 
 weariness without the excuse of work 1 1 
 
 Mr. Tremaine had not observed what we have ; that 
 snobs in fustian jackets without a single polysyllable to 
 their tongues find all the gold and all the coal that is 
 found ; and science finds the crustaceonidunculae. 
 
 Botany Mr. Tremaine recommended only as a relax- 
 ation of the more useful study ; at the same time he 
 hinted it was amusing to be able to classify plants, not 
 by their properties but their petals, and to call every- 
 thing by its long name that belongs to twenty other 
 things as well, instead of knowing each by its own 
 name as the vulgar unscientific do. 
 
 ' Oh, le plaisant projet !' exclaims my reader, ' he 
 knows the boy is in love and prescribes geology and 
 botany.' 
 
 Well, is not one folly best cured by another? But 
 is this sort of thing folly ? especially in a youth born 
 to fortune. 
 
 Experience is our only safe guide in all things — and 
 experience proves that geology and botany are roads 
 to happiness. 
 
 Other things arc constantly tried in vain — these 
 seldom fail. 
 
 Ambition is raging agitation followed by bitter dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Wit, an unruly engine, recoils on him thnt plays it
 
 48 thl: couKst: of ti:le love 
 
 Politics, love, theology, art, are full of thorr.s ; but 
 when you see a man perched like a crow on a rock 
 chipping it, you see a happy clog. You who are on 
 the look out for beauty, find irregular features or lack 
 lustre dolls — -you who love wit are brained with puns 
 or ill nature, the two forms of wit that exist out of 
 books. But the hammerist can jump out of his gig at 
 any turn of the road and find that which his soul 
 desires — the meanest stone a boy throws at a robin is 
 millions of years older than the Farnese Hercules, and 
 has a history as well as a sermon. 
 
 Stones are curious things. If a man is paid for 
 breaking them, he is wretched ; but if he can biing his 
 mind to do it gratis he is at the summit of content! 
 With these men life is a felicitous dream— they arc not 
 subject to low spirits like other men ; they smile away 
 their human day ; and when they are to die they don't 
 seem to mind so very much. Can they take anything 
 easy by giving it one of their hard names — is the 
 grave to them a cretaceous, or argillaceous, or fcrru- 
 gineous bed, I beg their pardon — stratum ? 
 
 No ! It is because their hobbies have been innocent : 
 and other men's hobbies are so apt to be vicious. 
 
 These have broken stones while egotists have been 
 breaking human hearts. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine was enlarging on such topics with 
 more eloquence and method than I, and his patient 
 became animated with a sudden expression of surprise, 
 hope, joy.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SJIOOTH. 40 
 
 He looked out of the window. 
 
 The old gentleman looked too. ' Ah,' cried he, ' I 
 see ! Yes Reginald ! that is better than science and 
 beyond the power of art.' 
 
 ' Yes I' said Reginald. 
 
 'That glorious breadth of golden sunlight that 
 streams across that foliage,' continued the savant. 
 
 'Sunshine and leaves?' cried Reginald, 'it is some- 
 thing of more importance I am looking at.' 
 
 'More importance than sunshine,' said the old 
 gentleman faintly. 
 
 ' Yes ! see ! look ! — tThe smoke fro:m those 
 chimneys !' 
 
 Mr. Tremaine looked ; and Courtenay Court was 
 smoking from a dozen chimneys ^at once. He was 
 taken off his guard. 
 
 ' She must be come home,' said he, ' or coming I ! ! 
 (aside) plague take her !' 
 
 Reginald seized him by the hand. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Mr. Tremaine was right. Caroline was expected at 
 Courtenay Court. The next day she arrived bringing 
 Miss Seymour, who went to her father's house. 
 
 They had been escorted across the water by ^fr. 
 Fitzpatrick ; but he remained in town. Before tliey 
 left New York this gentleman had declared himself 
 Caroline's professed admirer. Caroline asked him with 
 
 E
 
 50 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 some archness which he loved best her or Miss Sey- 
 mour. The question staggered him for a moment, so 
 he said, ' Can you ask ?' Cross-examined however he 
 was brought to this, that he hked Caroline a shade 
 better than Harriet. 
 
 During the voyage home Mr. Fitzpatrick lost a 
 portion of his gaiety, and was seen at times to be grave 
 and perplexed ; novel phenomenon. 
 
 Harriet Seymour and Caroline had got over their 
 tiflP, and indeed Harriet for months past had sided 
 rather with her friend than her brother. ' Caroline was 
 wrong,' said she, ' but Reginald was more wrong. lie 
 ought to have forgiven a woman a caprice.' Harriet 
 therefore spent the evening of her arrival at home ; 
 but early next morning she rode over to Courtenay 
 Court to bear her friend company. She was the more 
 eager to lend her countenance because others were so 
 hard upon her. 
 
 For the evening of her arrival Caroline was discussed 
 at Seymour Hall. The old people including Mr. 
 Tremaine spoke of her with horror : tomboy, vixen, and 
 even strong minded woman, from which heaven defend 
 us males ! They congratulated themselves and Re- 
 ginald on his escape from her. Reginald maintained 
 a dogged silence. But when Harriet stoutly defended 
 his late sweetheart, and declared that her faults were 
 only on the surface, he cast a look of gratitude at her, 
 that she caught and comprehended. Her defence v>as 
 not quite lost on others. Mr. Tremaine asked her
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 51 
 
 quietly, 'Has Miss Courteuay real]}- anything good 
 about her ?' ' Judge for yourself,' replied Harriet' 
 with a toss of the head. ' Call on her. She is your 
 parishioner.' 
 
 'Humph ! I don't like strong minded women. They 
 say she can swim into the bargain ; but I certainly 
 shall call on her, and judge with my own eyes. Her 
 father was a worthy man.' 
 
 To return, Caroline and Harriet were walking in 
 the grounds of Courtenay Court, at some distance from 
 the house. Harriet was lionizing the mistress, showing 
 her her beauties, the famous old yew tree, the narrow 
 but deep water that meandered through her ground.?, 
 and each admired view and nook. It was charminfr, 
 and both ladles did loud admiration ; and did not care 
 a button for it all. 
 
 Harrt. Is Mr. Fitzpatrlck coming to-day ? 
 
 Carol. I don't know : what a curious bridge, it looks 
 like a long gate. Shall we cross it ? 
 
 Harrt. Not for the world, the water is ever so deep. 
 
 Carol. I did not mean to cross the water, only the 
 bridge. 
 
 Harrt. But sec how crazy it is ! he vrood is so old, 
 nobody has lived here ever so long, and then it is so 
 hard to keep on it too. 
 
 Caroline looked wistfully at the primitive bridge, 
 * If I had my Bloomer on, I Avould soon be over it,' said 
 she, ' but this appendage would catch my feet and 
 draggle in tlie water at cv>ry step.' 
 
 K 2
 
 52 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Harriet implored her friend never to mention that 
 word again. 
 
 ' Bloomer ! it is the cause we are all unhappy.' 
 
 ' What are you unhappy ? what about ? Oh he will 
 be here to-day dear, ten to one.' 
 
 'Who? pray?' 
 
 *Mr. Fitzpatrick.' 
 
 ' Mr.Fitzpatrick is your lover, not mine,' said Harriet, 
 coloring all over. 
 
 ' So he is. I forgot. Oh look at the tail of your 
 gown — three straws, two sticks and such a long briar.' 
 
 Harrt. Put your foot on it dear. These lawyers are 
 the plague of this county. 
 
 Carol. Lawyers? 
 
 Harrt. I forget, you don't know our country terms ; 
 we call these long briars lawyers ; because when once 
 they got hold of you — 
 
 Carol. I understand — all to be avoided by a little 
 bloomer. 
 
 Harrt. Now Caroline don't. I wish the woman 
 had never been born. Let us go into the shade. 
 
 An observer of the sex might have noticed the same 
 languor, and the same restlessness in both these ladies, 
 though one was Yankee and one English. 
 
 At last they fell into silence. It was Caroline who 
 broke the silence. ' Nobody comes to welcome me oi' 
 even sends. How hospitable these British are ! If I 
 had quarrelled with any one in their own coinitry, and 
 then they came to mine, I should be generous, I
 
 KEVER DID KUN SMOOTH. 53 
 
 sliould make that an excuse for holding: out the hand, 
 and being friends any way if I could be nothing more. 
 But the people here are not of my mind. All the 
 worse for them. Much I care. I shall go and see where 
 they have buried my father, I don't believe he would 
 have died if he had not come here, and then I shall go 
 hack home across the water, to my country, where men 
 know how to quarrel ay and fight too, and then drop it 
 when it is done with.' Thus spake the Yankee girl. 
 The English girl colored up, but she did not answer 
 back — except by turning brimming eyes and a look of 
 gentle reproach on her. 
 
 On this, partly because she was unhappy, partly 
 because this mild look pricked her great though way- 
 ward heart, the Yankee girl began to cry bitterly. 
 
 On this the English girl flung her arms round the 
 Yankee girl's neck, and cried with her. 
 
 ' Dearest, he loves you still.' 
 
 'Still! he never loved me Harriet. Oh no — he 
 never loved me — oh, oh !' 
 
 ' You forget ; I have been home. I have seen him. 
 He is pale — he is sad.' 
 
 'That is a c — c — comfort. I wish he was at 
 d — d — death's door.' 
 
 ' He is far more unhappy than you are.' 
 
 ' I am so glad — I don't believe it.' 
 
 * You may believe it — I have seen it.' 
 
 At this moment a servant was seen approaching ; he 
 came up, touched his hat to Caroline with a world of
 
 54:' THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 obsequiousness and informed her, the parson had 
 called to see her and was in the drawing-room. 
 
 * The Parson T 
 
 * The Reverend Mr. Tremalne, Miss.' 
 
 ' A great friend of our family,' explained Harriet. 
 
 * Ah, tell me all about him as we go along.' 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 Mr. Tremaine. AVill she receive me in a Bloomer? 
 
 Harriet. I don't know — I hope not. She was 
 decent a minute ago. 
 
 Tremaine. Perhaps she lias gone to put one on. 
 
 Harriet gave a start, and had a misgiving, Caroline 
 being a devil, ' Heaven forbid !' she cried. ' I will go 
 and see.' 
 
 The next minute a young lady of singular beauty 
 and grace glided into the room. She was dressed 
 richly but very plainly. Mr. Tremaine looked at her 
 with surprise. ' Are you Miss Courtenay ?' She smiled 
 sweetly and told him she was Miss Com-tenay. She 
 added that Mr. Tremaine was no stranger to her ; she 
 had often heard of him and his virtues in happier days. 
 After that she thanked him for being the first to 
 welcome her home. 
 
 ' We shall all feel flattered at your calling it home 
 Miss Courtenay ; we must try and keep you here after 
 that.'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 55 
 
 In about ten minutes the intelligent young beauty 
 had not only dissolved Mr. Tremaine's prejudices 
 against her, but had substituted a strong prejudice 
 in her favor. 
 
 'This quiet ladylike, dignified, gentle, amiable, 
 beautiful, young woman, a tom-boy ?' said he to him- 
 self. ' I don't believe it — it surpasses belief- — it is 
 false !' 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 ' Miss Courtenay,' began the old gentleman,' your late 
 father, during the short time he was among us, gained 
 the respect of the whole county. I cannot help thinking 
 you will be his successor in our esteem as well as in 
 Courtenay Court.' 
 
 Miss Courtenay bowed with quiet dignity. 
 
 ' The worst of it is we are an old fashioned people 
 here in Devonshire. We are strait laced — ahem — in 
 short — shall I be presuming too far on our short ac- 
 quaintance if (pray give me credit for friendly motives). 
 I ask permission to put you a question. But no, when 
 I look at you — it is impossible.' 
 
 ' What is impossible, sir ?' 
 
 ' That you can ever have,' and the old gentleman 
 flushed a bit ; ' by-the-by they say you can swim Miss 
 Courtenay.' 
 
 ' A little, not worth boasting of,' replied Caroline, 
 modestly. ' I think I could make shift to swim across 
 this room ; if the sea was in it.' 
 
 'Oh no farther than that? well there is not much
 
 ,56 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOV]': 
 
 harm in that. But they do say, you have done us the 
 honor, ahem — to wear male habiliments — is that true ?' 
 
 ' Indeed Mr. Tremaine I have, let — me —see, I 
 think it was at a fancy ball, — in my own house — at 
 New York.' The words were said with assumed 
 carelessness and candor. 
 
 ' What, on no other occasion ?' 
 
 ' On no other public occasion — why ?' enquired 
 Caroline so innocently. 
 
 ' Then really I think too much has been made of it. 
 But you are said to advocate the Bloomer costume.' 
 
 ' I have often advocated it, in words sir ; but wearing 
 it is a different matter you know.' 
 
 ' Very different, very different indeed,' said Tremaine, 
 hastily. 
 
 ' I could not help advocating it : its adversaries 
 argued so weakly against it. Shall I repeat their 
 arguments, and my own ?' 
 
 ' If you please.' 
 
 Caroline, with the calm indifference of a judge, stated 
 the usual arguments pro and con, and did not fail to 
 dwell upon the trousers of Eastern women. Mr. 
 Tremaine took her up. 
 
 ' There is a flaw in your reasoning I think,' said he ; 
 ' those Eastern women distinguish themselves from men 
 by a thick veil — they all wear a thick veil. It appears 
 to me that the true argument against Bloomer has 
 never been laid before you. It is this : in every 
 civilized nation, the entire sexes are distinguished by
 
 NEVER DID KUX SMOOTH. 57 
 
 some marked costume. But Bloomer proposes that one 
 third of the women should be at variance with the 
 other two thirds.' 
 
 ' Oh no sir, she is for dressing them all in Bloomers.' 
 
 ' No, excuse me, how would old women, and fat 
 women look in a Bloomer ? How would young matrons 
 look, at that period, when a woman is most a woman ? 
 No, the dress for women must clearly be some dress 
 that becomes all women, at all times and occasions of 
 life. There are plenty of boys of sixteen or seventeen, 
 who could be dressed as women, and eclipse all the 
 women in a ball room ; but it would be indelicate and 
 unmanly. You, with your youthful symmetrical figure, 
 could eclipse most young men in their own habiliments : 
 but it would be indelicate and luiwomanly. Forgive 
 nie, I distress you.' 
 
 ' No sir ! but you convince mo ; and that is new to 
 me. I admit this argument at once ; and so I would 
 have done six months a^o : but no one had the in- 
 telligence to put the matter to me so,' said the sly 
 thing. 
 
 ' You seem to be a very reasonable young lady.' 
 
 ' It is the only merit I have,' 
 
 'Permit me to contradict you again. Well then 
 since the Bloomer difficulty is despatched, let me have 
 the honor and the happiness of reconciling an honorable 
 young man with the most charming young lady I 
 have met with this many a day.' 
 
 The charming young lady froze directly.
 
 58 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' I will not affect to misunderstand you sir ; but the 
 difference between Mr, Seymour and myself lies deeper 
 than this paltry dress : lies too deep for you to cure ; 
 the Bloomer was a mere pretext. Mr. Seymour did 
 not love me.' 
 
 ' Excuse me ; I know better.' 
 
 ' When we love people we forgive their faults : we 
 forgive their virtues even.' 
 
 Mr. Tremaine looked at her with some surprise. 
 The Devonshire ladies had not tongues so pointed as 
 the fair Yankee's. 
 
 ' He did love you — he does love you.' 
 
 • No Mr, Tremaine — no. Was that a fault for any 
 one who really loved me, to quarrel out and out with a 
 spoiled child for?' Here two tears, one real, the 
 other crocodile, ran down her lovely cheeks and did 
 the poor old gentleman's business entirely. ' He deserves 
 to be hanged,' cried he, jumping up, in great haste, 
 ' young fool. But he does love you tenderly, sincerely. 
 He has never been happy since. He never will be 
 happy till you are reconciled to him. He is waiting 
 in great anxiety for my return, I shall tell him to 
 ride over here and just — go — down — on — his — knees to 
 you, and ask your forgiveness. Then will you forgive 
 him?' 
 
 ' I will try sir,' said Caroline, doubtfully ; ' but he 
 owes much to his advocate, and so you may tell him.' 
 
 ' I shall be vain enough to tell him so you may 
 depend ;' and away went Mr. Tremaine, Caroline's
 
 KEVER DID EUX SMOOTH. 59 
 
 devoted champion through thick and thin from this 
 hour. As he rode away, zeal and benevolence shining- 
 through him, Caroline said drily to herself ' I am your 
 friend for life old hoy.' 
 
 Harriet came in and heard the news — she was 
 delighted. 
 
 ' Reginald will be here as fast as his horse's feet can 
 carry him. Mr. Tremaine is all powerful in our house.' 
 
 ' So I concluded from what you told me,' said 
 Caroline demurely ; ' and I — hem — will you excuse 
 me for half-an-hour ?' 
 
 ' Yes, dear ; you will find me on the lawn.' 
 
 Full three-quarters of an hour had elapsed and 
 Harriet was beginning to wonder what had become of 
 her friend when a musical laugh rang behind her — she 
 turned I'ound and beheld a sight that made her scream 
 with terror and dismay — there stood Caroline in 
 PROPRIA QU.E MARiBUS as bold as brass. 
 
 CHAPTER VHI. 
 
 The face of uneasy defiance Caroline got up when 
 
 Harriet faced her was truly delicious. 
 
 ' It is all over,' gasped Harriet, ' you are incurable.' 
 ' He loves me,' explained Caroline ; ' when I felt 
 
 like giving in I didn't think he loved me.' 
 
 Harriet made no reply ; she marched off stiffly. 
 
 The Bloomer followed and tried to appease her by 
 
 reminding: her how hard it was to ffive in as long as a
 
 00 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 chance of victory remained — ' hard — it is impossible — it 
 hurts ! ! !' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' It was all that dear old man's fault for letting- out 
 that he loves me still, and he is unhappy ; so then he is 
 in my power, and I can't give in now — and I won't. 
 No, Let us see whether it is me or my clothes he 
 loves — ah, ah ! Oh, my dear girl, here he comes ; let 
 me get behind you — oh dear I wish I hadn't.' 
 
 Sure enough Reginald was coming dov/n to the 
 other side of the stream. • 
 
 (.^aroline got half behind Harriet. 
 
 Reginald came along the bridge to join them. 
 
 ' I wish it would break down,' whined Caroline, 
 ' then I'd run home, and I know what I would do.' 
 
 The words were out of her mouth and no more, 
 when some portion of the rotten wood gave way and 
 splash goes Reginald into the water. 
 
 Harriet s'creamed. Caroline laughed. 
 
 Her laughter was soon turned to dismay. Reginald 
 sank ; he came up and struggled towards the wood 
 work, but in vain : the current had carried him a yard 
 or two from it, and even that small space he could not 
 recover. He was too proud to cry for help, but he was 
 drowning. 
 
 ' He can't swim,' cried Caroline, and she darted into 
 the stream like a water spaniel. In two strokes she 
 was beside him and seized him by the hair. One 
 stroke took her to the remnant of the bridge, ' lay hold
 
 XEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. Gl 
 
 of that Reginald,' she cried. He obeyed, and, while 
 she swam ashore, he worked along the wooden bridge 
 to the bank. 
 
 The moment she saw him safe, she began to laugh 
 again ; and then what does my lady do but set off 
 running home full pelt before he could say a word to 
 her. He followed her crying ' Caroline — Caroline I' 
 It w^as no use — she was in her Bloomer and had the 
 start, and ran like a doe. 
 
 ' Oh Reginald, go home and change your clothes,' 
 cried the tender Harriet. 
 
 ' What, go home before I have thanked my guardian 
 angel, my beloved ?' 
 
 ' Your guardian angel must change her clothes, and 
 you must change yours — you will catch your death.' 
 
 ' At least tell her she shall wear what she pleases, 
 tell her — 
 
 ' I will tell her nothing, come and tell it her yourself, 
 frightening me so. Her Bloomer is spoilt for ever 
 now, that is one comfort.' 
 
 Reginald ran to the stables, got his horse, gal lopped 
 home, dressed himself, and gallopped back, and came 
 into Caroline's drawing-room open mouthed. ' Wear 
 what you like dear Caroline ; why you are in a gown ! 
 no matter — forgive me — oh forgive me — I have been 
 ungrateful once — I never will again. My beloved, 
 what did I not owe you enough before that you nni>t 
 save my life ? Oh Caroline, one word ; can the devo- 
 tion of a life restore me the treasure I once had, av.d
 
 Q2 TIIE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 trifled with — for what ?' then he fell to kissing her 
 hands and her gown. Then she, seeing him quite over- 
 come, was all woman. 
 
 ' Reginald,' she murmured, and sank upon his neck, 
 all her strength of mind dissolving in tears and love. 
 
 * What did you say about Bloomer, Eeginald dear ?' 
 
 * I said you should wear what you liked, sweet one.' 
 
 ' Ah then we are never to agree ; for I mean to 
 wear whatever you like.' 
 
 This was ' the way to take her,' one of that sort ; 
 they are to be miade slaves of just as easily as the hen 
 hearted ones. But ye mustn't show 'em the chain ! ! ! 
 
 Afternoon came Fitz. 
 
 Caroline. Mr. Fitzpatrick, will you come here ? 
 
 Fitz. " I will." An Irishman always consents, but 
 never says "yes." 
 
 Carol. (With a twinkle in her eye) Will you do me 
 a favor ? 
 
 Fitz. 1 will. 
 
 Card. Do you see that lady sitting there ? (Harriet). 
 
 Fitz. (coloring) I do. 
 
 Carol. Go and marry her. 
 
 And she gave him a push that seemed less than a 
 feather, but somehow it propelled Fitz. all across the 
 room, and sent him down on his knees before Harriet. 
 N.B. There were only these three in the room. 
 
 Mr. Trcmaine married two couples in one day, 
 Eeginald and Caroline ; Fitzpatrick and Harriet. I
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH, G3 
 
 ought to explain to those who have not seen it, that 
 during the voyage Fitz, had discovered it was Harriet 
 he loved a soupyon the best of the two. 
 
 At the wedding breakfast, arrayed in white, and 
 adorned with wreaths, both the Yankee and the English 
 beauty were intolerably lovely. 
 
 No one seemed more conscious of this double fiict 
 than Fitz, Caroline observed his looks and took occa- 
 sion to say to him confidentially, " wouldn't you like to 
 have married both ladies, now — come — tell the truth ! I !" 
 
 ' Indeed and I would,' replied the candid Celt, 
 unconscious of any satire in the question. 
 
 America takes two hundred thousand English every 
 year. We have got this one Yankee in return, and we 
 mean to keep her. 
 
 A year after they had been married, she wanted to 
 give her Bloomer to one of the stable-boys. ' What, 
 the dress you saved my life in ?' cried Reginald, ' I 
 would not part with it to a prince, for the price of a 
 king's ransom.' 
 
 Lads and lasses, this trifle is what I have called it 
 *a jeu d'esprit,' written for your amusement, and not 
 intended to improve you, instruct you, or elevate your 
 morals. 
 
 A thing not to be approved in general, but excused 
 once in a way methinks. 
 
 • neque semper arcum 
 
 Tendit Apollo. 
 
 FINIS.
 
 64 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ART: 
 
 A DKAMATIC TALE. 
 
 Early' in the last century two young women were 
 talking together in a large apartment, richly furnished. 
 One of these was Susan, cousin and dependent of Mrs. 
 Anne Oldfield ; the other was a flower girl, whom that 
 lady had fascinated by her scenic talent. The poor 
 girl was but one of many persons over whom Mrs. 
 Oldfield had cast a spell ; and yet this actress had not 
 reached the zenith of her reputation. 
 
 The town, which does not always know its own 
 mind about actors, applauded one or two of her rivals 
 more than her, and fancied it admired them more. 
 
 Oldfield was the woman (there is always one) who 
 used the tones of nature upon the stage in that day ; 
 she ranted at times like her neighbours, but she never 
 ranted out of tune like them ; her declamation was 
 nature, alias art, thundering ; theirs was artifice 
 raving : her treatment of words was as follows ; — she 
 mastered them in the tone of household speech ; she 
 then gradually built up these simple tones into a gor- 
 geous edifice of music and meaning ; but though 
 dilated, heightened, and embellished, they never lost 
 their orifrinal truth. Her rivals started from a lie,
 
 KEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 05 
 
 SO the higher they soared, the further they left truth 
 behind them ; — they do the same thing now pretty 
 universally. 
 
 The public is a very good judge ; and no judge at 
 all of such matters : I will explain. 
 
 Let the stage voice and the dramatic voice, — the 
 artificial and the artistic, — the bastard and the legiti- 
 mate, — the false and the true, be kept apart upon 
 separate stages, and there is no secm-ity that the public 
 will not, as far as hands go, applaud the monotone or 
 lie, more than the melodious truth. But set the lie 
 and the truth side by side upon fair terms, and the 
 public becomes what the critics of this particular art 
 have never been — a critic ; and stage bubbles, that have 
 hubbled for years, are liable to burst in a single night. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield was wise enough, even in her genera- 
 tion, to know that the public's powers of comparison 
 require that the things to be compared shall be placed 
 cheek by jowl before it ; and this is why she had for 
 some time manceuvered to phiy, foot to foot, against 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, the champion of the stage. 
 
 Bracegirdle, strong in position, tradition, face, 
 figure, and many qualities of an actor, was by no 
 means sorry of an opportunity to quench a rising 
 rival; and thus the two ladies were to act together 
 in the 'Rival Queens,' within a few days of our story. 
 Roxana .... Mrs. Bracegirdle. 
 Statira .... Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 The town, whose heart at that epoch was in the 
 
 F
 
 QQ THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 theatre, awaited this singular struggle in a state of 
 burning excitement we can no longer realise. 
 
 Susan Oldfield, first cousin of the tragedian, was a dra- 
 matic aspirant. Anne's success having travelled into the 
 provinces, her aunt, Susan's mother, said to Susan, who 
 was making a cream cheese, ' You go an' act too, lass !' 
 
 'I will,' said Susan, a-making of cream cheese. 
 
 Anne's mother remonstrated, ' She can't do it.' 
 
 * Why not, sister ?' said Susan's mother, sharply. 
 Then ensued some reasoning. 
 
 'Anne,' said the tragedian's mother, ' was born 
 clever, I can't account for it. She was always mimick- 
 ing. She took off the exciseman, and the farmers, and 
 her grandmother, and the very parson — how she used 
 to make us laugh ! Mimicking ! why it was like a 
 looking-glass, and the folk standing in front of it, and 
 speaking behind it, all at one time ; once I made her 
 take me off; she was very loth, poor lass. I think she 
 knew she could not do it so well as the rest; it wasn't 
 like, though it made them all laugh more than the 
 others; but the others were as like faggot to faggot. 
 Now, Susan, she can't take off anything without 'tis the 
 scald cream from the milk, and I've seen me beat her 
 at that ; I'm not bragging.' 
 
 To this piece of ratiocination, Susan's mother 
 opposed the following — 
 
 * Talent is in the blood,' said she (this implies that 
 great are all the the first cousins of the great). 
 
 Anne's mother might have weakened this by examples
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH, 67 
 
 at her own door, to wit, the exciseman, who was a 
 clever fellow, and his son an ass. But she preferred 
 keeping within her own line of argument, and as the 
 ladies floated, by a law of their nature, away from that 
 to which lawyers tend, an issue, they drifted divaguely 
 over the great pacific ocean of feminine logic. At last 
 a light shot into Susan's mamma : she found terra fn-ma, 
 i.e., an argument too strong for refutation. 
 
 ' Besides, Jane,' said she, ' I want your Susan to 
 churn ! So there's an end !' 
 
 Alas! she had underrated the rival disputant. 
 Susan's mother took refuge in an argument equally 
 irrefragable : she packed up the girl's things that night, 
 and sent her off by coach to Anne next morning. 
 
 Susan ari'ived, told her story and lier hopes on 
 xlnne's neck. Anne laughed, and made room for her 
 on the third floor. The cousins went to the theatre 
 that evening, the aspirant in front. 
 
 Susan passed through various emotions, and when 
 Belvidera, ' gazed, turned giddy, raved and died,' she 
 ran to the stage door, with some misgivings, whether 
 she might not be wanted to lay her cousin out. In 
 Anne's dressing room she found a laughing dame, who, 
 whilst wiping off her rouge, told her she was a fool, 
 and asked her rather sharply, ' how it went ?' 
 
 ' The people clapped their hands I I could have 
 kissed them,' said Susan. 
 \ 'As if I could not hear that, child,' said Anne. ' I 
 want to know how many cried where you were.' 
 
 y 2
 
 68 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Now, how can I tell you, cousin, when I could not 
 see for crying myself?' 
 
 ' You cried, did you ? I am very glad of that !' 
 
 * La, cousin !' 
 
 ' It does not prove much, but it proves more than 
 their clapping of hands. You shall be my barber's 
 block — you don't understand me — all the better — come 
 home to supper.' 
 
 At supper, the tragedian made the dairy-maid tell 
 her every little village event ; and, in her turn, recalled 
 all the rural personages ; and, reviving the trick of her 
 early youth, imitated their looks, manners, and senti- 
 ments, to the life. 
 
 She began with the exciseman, and ended with the 
 curate — a white-headed old gentleman, all learning, 
 piety, and simplicity. He had seen in this beautiful 
 and gifted woman only a lamb that he was to lead 
 up to heaven — please God. 
 
 The nauofhtiest things we do are sure to be the 
 -cleverest, and this imitation made Susan laugh more 
 "than the others. 
 
 But in the midst of it, the mimic suddenly paused, 
 •find her eye seemed to turn inwards ; she was quite 
 silent for a moment. 
 
 Ah ! Oldficld, in that one moment, I am sure your heart 
 has drunk many a past year. It is away to the banks 
 of Trent, to grass and flowers, and days of inno- 
 cence, to church-bells and a cottage porch, and your 
 mother's bosom, my ])Oor woman — princess of the stage.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 69 
 
 She faltered out, ' But he was a g:oocl man. Oh ! 
 yes ! yes ! yes ! he was a good man ; he admired me 
 more than he would now ! None like him shine on 
 my path now.' And she burst into a fit of ci'}'ing, 
 
 Susan cried with her, without in the least knowing- 
 what was the matter. And these most dissimilar beinirs 
 soon learned to love one another. Tlie next day Anne 
 took the gauge of Susan's entire intellects ; and, by 
 way of comment on the text of Susan, connected her 
 with dramatic poetry as Mrs. Oldfield's dresser. 
 
 Susan then had been installed about three months, 
 when she was holding that conversation with the flower 
 girl, which I have too long interrupted. 
 
 ' It is an odd thing to say, but I think you are in 
 love with ray cousin Anne.' 
 
 'I dont know,' was the answer. 'I am drawn to her 
 by something I cannot resist: I followed her home 
 for three months before I spoke to you. Will she not 
 be angry at my presumption ?' 
 
 * La ! Of course not ; it is not as if you were one 
 of those impudent men that follow her about, and slip 
 notes into every mortal thing — her carriage, her prayer- 
 book.' 
 
 Now Susan happened to be laying out the new dress 
 for Statira, which had just come in ; and, in a manner 
 singularly apropos, no less than two nice little notes 
 fell out of it as she spoke. 
 
 The girls looked at them, as they lay on the floor, 
 like deer looking ascaunt at a lap-dog.
 
 70 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Oh !' said tho votary of Flora ; ' they ought to be 
 ashamed.' 
 
 ' So they ought,' cried Susan. ' I'd say nothing,' 
 added she, ' if some of them were for me. But I shall 
 have them when I am an actress.' 
 
 ' Are you to be that ? Ah ! you will never be like 
 her /' 
 
 'Why not? She is only my mother's sister's 
 daughter, bless you. Anne was only a country lass 
 like me at first starting, and that is why my mother 
 sent me here, because when talent is in a family, don't 
 let one churn all the butter, says she.' 
 
 ' But can you act ?' interposed the other. 
 
 ' Can't I,' was the answer. 
 
 ' " His fame survives the -world in deathless story, 
 
 Nor heaven and earth combined can match his glory." ' 
 
 These lines, which in our day, would be thought a 
 leetle hyperbolical, Susan recited with gestures equally 
 supernatural. 
 
 ' Bless you,' added she, complacently ; ' I could act 
 fast enough, if I could but get the words off. Can you 
 read ?' 
 
 ' Yes !' 
 
 ' Handwriting ? Tell the truth now !' 
 
 * Yes ! I can indeed.' 
 
 ' Handwriting is hard, is it not ?' said Susan ; ' but 
 a part beats all : did you ever see a part ?' 
 
 'No!'
 
 NEVER DID FwUN SMOOTH. 71 
 
 * Well, I'll tell ye, girl ! there oomcs a great scratch, 
 and then some words : but don't you go for to say those 
 words, because they belong to another gentleman, and 
 he mightn't like it. Then you come in, and then 
 another scratch. And I declare it would puzzle Old 
 Scratch to clear the curds from the whey — ' 
 
 Susan suddenly interrupted herself, for she had caught 
 sight, of a lady slowly approaching from an adjoining 
 room, the door of which Avas open. * Hush !' cried 
 Susan ; ' here she is ! alack she is not well ! Oh, dear ! 
 she is far from well !' And, in point of fact, the lady 
 slowly entered the apartment, labouring visibly under 
 a weight of disease. The poor flower-girl, naturally 
 thinking this no time for her introduction, dropped a 
 bouquet on the table, and retreated precipitately from 
 the den of the sick lioness. 
 
 Then the lady opened her lips, and faltered forth the 
 following sentence : — 
 
 ' I go no further, let me rest here, ffinone !' 
 
 * Do, cousin !' said Susan, consolingly. 
 
 ' I droop, I sink, my strength abandons me !' said 
 the poor invalid, 
 
 ' Here's a chair for y' x\nnc,' cried Susan. ' What 
 is the matter?' 
 
 On this, the other fixing her filmy eyes upon her, 
 explained slowly and faintly, that, ' Her eyes were 
 dazzled with returning day ; her trembling limbs re- 
 fused their wonted stay.' 
 
 ' Ah !' sierhed she, and tottered towards the chair.
 
 72 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' She's going to faint — she's going to faint !' cried 
 poor Susan. ' Oh, dear ! Here, quick ! smell to this,. 
 Anne.' 
 
 ' That will do, then,' said the other, in a hard, 
 unfeeling tone. ' I am fortunate to have satisfied your 
 judgment, madam,' added she. 
 
 Susan stood petrified, in the act of lunging with the 
 smelling-bottle. 
 
 ' That is the way I come on in that scene,' explained 
 Mrs. Oldfield, yawning in Susan's sympathetic face. 
 
 * Acting, by jingo !' screamed Susan. ' You ought 
 to be ashamed, I thought you were a dead woman. I 
 wish you wouldn't,' cried she, flying at her like a hen ; 
 ' tormenting us at home, when there's nobody to see.' 
 
 ' It is my system — I aim at truth. You are unso- 
 phisticated, and I experiment on you,' was the cool 
 excuse. 
 
 ' Cousin, when am / to be an actress ?' inquired 
 Susan. 
 
 ' After fifteen years' labour, perhaps,' was the encou- 
 raging response. 
 
 ' Labour ! I thought it was all in — spi — ration !' 
 
 ' Many think so, and find their error. Labour and 
 Art are the foundation — Inspiration is the result.' 
 
 ' O Anne,' cried Susan, ' now do tell me your feelings 
 in the theatre.' 
 
 * Well, Susan, first, I cast my eyes around, and try 
 to count the house.' 
 
 ' No, no, Anne, I don't mean that.'
 
 XEVEE DID nUN SMOOTH. 73 
 
 'Well, then, child, at tunes upon the scene — 
 mind, I say at times — the present does fade from my 
 soul, and the great past lives and burns again ; the 
 boards seem buoyant air beneath me, child ; that sea 
 of English heads floats like a dream before me, and I 
 breathe old Greece and Rome, I ride on the whirl- 
 Avind of the poet's words, and waive my sceptre like a 
 queen — ay, and a queen I am ! — for kings govern, 
 millions of bodies, but I sway a thousand hearts ! But,, 
 to tell the truth, Susan, when all is over, I sink back to. 
 woman — and often my mind goes home, dear, to our 
 native town, where Trent glides so calmly through the 
 meadows. I pine to be by his side, far from the dust 
 of the scene, and the din of life — to take the riches of 
 my heart from flatterers, strangers, and the world, and 
 give them all, all, to one faithful heart, large, full, and 
 loving as my own ! Where's ray dress for Statira, 
 hussy ?' She snapped this last with a marvellous quick 
 change of key, and a sudden sharpness of tone peculiar 
 to actresses when stage dresses are in question. 
 
 ' Here it is. Oh ! isn't it superb ?' 
 
 ' Yes, it is superb,' said Oldfield drily, ' velvet, satin, 
 and ostrich-feathers, for an Eastern queen. The same 
 costume for Belvidera, Statira, Qytemnestra, and Mrs, 
 Dobbs. O prejudice ! prejudice ! The stage ha?- 
 always been fortified against common sense ! Velvet 
 Greeks, periwigged Romans — the audience mingling 
 with the scene — past and present blundered together L 
 English fops in the Roman forum, taking snuff under a
 
 74 THE COURSE OF TKUE LOVE 
 
 Roman matron's nose (that's mc), and cackling out 
 that she docs it nothing like (no more she does) — 
 nothing like Peggy Porteous — whose merit was, that 
 she died thirty years ago, whose merit would have been 
 greater had she died fifty years ago, and much greater 
 still had she never lived at all.' 
 
 Here Susan oiFered her half-a-dozen letters, includ- 
 ing the smuggled notes ; but the sweet-tempered soul 
 (being for the moment in her tantrums) would not look 
 at them. ' I know what they are,' said she, ' Vanity, 
 in marvellous thin disguises ; my flatterers are so 
 eloquent, that they will persuade me into marrying 
 poor old Mannering — every morning he writes me four 
 pages, and, tells me my duty ; every evening he 
 neglects his own and goes to the theatre, which is un- 
 becoming his age, I think.' 
 
 ' He looks a very wise gentleman,' observed Susan. 
 
 ' He does,' was the rejoinder, ' but his folly recon- 
 ciles me in some degree to his wisdom ; so, mark my 
 words, I shall marry my silly sage. There, burn all 
 the rest but his — no ! don't burn the letter in verse.' 
 
 * In verse ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! I won't have him burnt either — for he loves 
 me, poor boy — find it, Susan ; he never misses a day. 
 I think I should like to know that one.' 
 
 ' I think this is it,' said Susan. 
 
 ' Then read it out expressively, whilst I mend this 
 collar. So then I shall estimate your progress to the 
 temple of Fame, ma'am.'
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH. 75 
 
 It Is not easy to do justice on paper to Susan's re- 
 citative ; but, in fact, she read it much as school-boys 
 scan, and what she read to her cousin for a poet's love, 
 hopped thus : — • 
 
 '/' Excuse — me deiir — est friend— Tf I — should appear 
 Tu5 press — Tng l^ut — iit my — yefirs one — -has not 
 Much time — to lose — and your — good sense — I feel — " ' 
 
 'My good sense!' cried Mrs. Oldficld, 'how can 
 that be poetry ?' 
 
 ' It is poetry, I know,' remonstrated Susan. ' See, 
 cousin, It's all of a length.' 
 
 ' All of a length with your wit — that is the Manner- 
 ing prose.' 
 
 ' Drat them, if they write in lines, how is one to 
 know their prose from their verse ?' said Susan spitefully. 
 
 ' I'll tell you, Susan,' said the other soothingly, ' their 
 
 prose is something as like Mannering as can be, their 
 
 verse is something in this style : 
 
 ' " You were not made to live from age to age ; 
 The dairy yawns for you — and not the stage!" 
 
 'He! he!' 
 
 She found what she souji^ht, and readlnjj out herself 
 the unknown writer's verses, she said, with some femi- 
 nine complacency, ' Yes this is a heart I have really 
 penetrated.' 
 
 ' I've penetrated one too,' said Susan. 
 
 ' Indeed !' was the reply ; ' how did you contrive 
 that — not with the spit, I hope ?' 
 
 Thus encouraged, Susan delivered herself most 
 volubly of a secret that had long burned in her. Slie
 
 76 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 proceeded to relate how she observed a young gentle- 
 man always standhig by the stage-door as they got 
 into their chariot, and when they reached home, some- 
 how he was always standing there too. ' It was not for 
 you, this one,' said Susan, hastily, ' because you are so 
 wrapped up, he could not see you.' Then she told 
 her cousin how, once when they were w^alking sepa- 
 rately, this same young gentleman had said to her 
 most tenderly, ' Madam, you are in the service of Mrs. 
 Oldfield ?' and, on another occasion, he had got as far 
 as 'Madam,' when, unfortunately, her cousin looked 
 round, and he vanished. Susan, then throwing off the. 
 remains of her reserve, and clasping her hands together, 
 confessed she admired him as much as he did her. 
 Susan gave this reason for her affection, ' He is, for all 
 the world, like one of the young tragedy princes, and 
 you know what ducks they are.' 
 
 ' I do, to my cost,' was the caustic reply. ' I wish^ 
 instead of talking about this silly lover of yours, who 
 must be a fool, or he would have made a fool of you 
 long ago, you would find out who is the brave young 
 gentleman w'ho risked liis life for me last month. NoW' 
 I think of it, I am quite interested in him.' 
 
 ' Risked his life ! — and you never told me, Anne !' 
 
 ' Robert told you, of course.' 
 
 *No, indeed' 
 
 ' Did he not ? — then I will tell you the whole story .- 
 You have heard me speak of the Duchess of Tadcaster ?' 
 
 ' No, cousin, never.'
 
 NEVER DID IlUN SMOOTH. 77 
 
 *I wonder at that! Well, she and Lady Betty 
 Bertie and I used to stroll in Richmond Park with our 
 arms round one another's waists, like the Graces, more 
 or less, and kiss one another, ugh ! and swear a death- 
 less friendship, like liars and fools as we are. But her 
 Grace of Tadcaster had never anything to do, and I 
 had my business : so I could not always be plagued 
 with her ; so for this, the little idiot now aspires to my 
 enmity, and knowing none but the most vulgar ways of 
 showing a sentiment, she bids her coachman drive her 
 empty carriage against mine, containing me. Child, I 
 thought the world was at an end : the glasses were 
 broken, the wheels locked, and all my little sins began 
 to appear such big ones to me ; and the brute kept 
 whipping the horses, and they plunged so horribly, 
 when a brave young gentleman sprang to their heads, 
 tore them away, and -gave her nasty coachman such a 
 caning.' Here, Oldfield clenched a charming white 
 fist ; then lifting up her eyes, she said tenderly, 
 ' Heaven grant no harm befell him afterwards, for I 
 drove off, and left him to his fate !' 
 
 Charming sensibility ! an actress's ! 
 
 In return for this anecdote, Susan was about to com- 
 municate some further particulars on the subject which 
 occupied all her secret thoughts, when she was inter- 
 rupted by a noise and scuffle in the ante-room, high 
 above which were heard the loud, harsh tones of a 
 stranger's voice, exclaiming, ' but I tell ye I \\ ill see 
 her, ye saucy Jack.'
 
 78 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Before this personage bursts upon Mrs. Oldfield, and 
 the rest of us, I must go back and take up the other 
 end of my knot in the ancient town of Coventry. 
 
 Nathan Oldworthy dwelt there ; a flourishing attor- 
 ney ; he had been a clerk ; he came to be the master 
 of clerks ; his own ambition was satisfied. ; but his son 
 Alexander, a youth of parts, became the centre of a 
 second ambition. Alexander was to embrace the 
 higher branch of the legal profession ; was to be first, 
 pleader, then barrister, then King's counsel — lastly, a 
 judge ; and cdntemporaneously with this final distinc- 
 tion, the old attorney was to sing ' Nunc Dimittis,' and 
 ' Capias ' no more. 
 
 Bystanders are obliging enough to laugh at such 
 schemes ; but why ? The heart is given to them, and 
 they are no laughing matter to those who form them : 
 such schemes destroyed, the flavour is taken out of 
 human lives. 
 
 When Nathan sent his son to London, it was a 
 proud, though a sad day for him ; hitherto he had 
 looked upon their parting merely as the first step of a 
 glorious ladder, but when the coach took young Alex- 
 ander out of sight, the fethcr found how much he loved 
 him, and paced very, very slowly home, while Alex- 
 ander glided contentedly on towards London. 
 
 Now, ' London ' means a different thing to every one 
 of us: to one, it is the Temple of Commerce; to 
 another, of Themis ; to a third, of Thespis ; and to a 
 fourth, of the Paphian Venus, and so on, because we
 
 NEVER DID KUX SMOOTH. 79 
 
 are all much narrower than men ouofht to be. To 
 Nathan Oldworthy it was the sacred spot where grin 
 the courts of law. To x^lexander it was the sacred 
 spot where (being from the country) he thought to find 
 the nine Muses in bodily presence — his favourite Mel- 
 pomene at their head. Nathan knew next to nothing 
 about his own son, a not uncommon arrangement. 
 Alexander, upon the whole, rather loathed law, and 
 adored poetry. In those days youth had not learned 
 to ' frown in a glass, and write odes to despair,' and be 
 dubbed a duck by tender beauty confounding sulks 
 with sorrow. Alexander had to woo the Muse clan- 
 destinely, and so wooed her sincerely. Pie went with a 
 manuscript tragedy in his pocket, called ' Berenice,' 
 which he had re-written and re-shaped three several 
 times ; with a head full of ideas, and a heart tuned to 
 truth, beauty, and goodness. Arrived there, he was 
 installed in the neighbourhood, and under the secret 
 surveillance of his father's friend, Timothy Bateman, 
 Solicitor, of Gray's Inn. 
 
 If you had asked Alexander Oldworthy, upon the 
 coach, who is the greatest of mankind, his answer 
 would have been instantaneous ; ' a true poet !' But the 
 first evening he spent in London raised a doubt of this 
 in his mind, for he discovered a being brighter, nobler, 
 truer, greater than even a poet. 
 
 At four Alexander reached London. At five he 
 was in his first theatre. 
 
 That sense of the beautiful, which belongs to genius
 
 80 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 made him see beauty in the semi-circular sweep of the 
 glowing boxes ; in gilt ornaments glorious with light, 
 -and, above all, in human beings gaily dressed, and 
 radiant with expectation. And all these things are 
 beautiful ; only gross, rustic senses cannot see it, and 
 blunted town senses can see it no longer. 
 
 Before the play began, music attacked him on 
 another side ; and all combined with youth and novelty 
 to raise him to a high key of intellectual enjoyment ; 
 tind when the ample curtain rose slowly and majesti- 
 "cally upon Mr. Otway's tragedy of ' Venice Preserved,' 
 it was an era in this young life. 
 
 Poetry rose from the dead before his eyes this night. 
 She lay no longer entombed in print. She floated 
 •around the scene, ethereal, but palpable. She breathed 
 and burned in heroic shapes, and godlike tones, and 
 looks of fire. 
 
 Presently, there glided among the other figures one 
 that by enchantment seized the poet's eye, and made 
 all that his predecessors had ever writ in praise of 
 grace and beauty seem tame by comparison. 
 
 She spoke, and his frame vibrated to this voice. 
 All his senses drank in her great perfections, and he 
 thrilled with wonder and enthusiastic joy that this our 
 •eai'th contained such a being. He seemed to see the 
 Eve of Milton with Madonna's glory crowning her 
 head, and immortal music gushing from her lips. 
 
 The lady was Mrs. Oldfield — the Belvidera of the 
 play.
 
 XEVER DID RUN SMOOTH, 81 
 
 Alexander thought he knew 'Venice Preserved' 
 before this; but he found, as the greatest wits must 
 submit to discover, that in the closet a good play is but 
 the corpse of a play ; the stage gives it nib. (The 
 printed words of a play are about one-third of a play ; 
 the tones and varying melodies of beautiful and artful 
 speech are another third ; and the business, gesture, 
 and that great visible story, the expression of the 
 speaking, and the dumb play of the silent, actors, is 
 another third.) 
 
 Belvidera's voice, full, sweet, rich, piercing, and 
 melodious, and still in its vast compass true to the 
 varying sentiment of all she uttered, seemed to impreg- 
 nate every line with double meaning, and treble beauty. 
 Her author dilated into giant size and godlike beauty 
 at the touch of that voice. And when she was silent 
 she still spoke to Alexander's eye, for her face was 
 more eloquent than vulgar tongues are. Her dumb- 
 play from the first to the last moment of the scene wjis 
 in as high a key as her elocution. Had she not spoken 
 one single word still she woidd have written in the air 
 by the side of Otway's syllables a great pictorial narra- 
 tive, that filled all the chinks of his sketch with most 
 rare and excellent colours of true flesh tint, and made 
 that sketch a picture. 
 
 ^ Here was a new art for our poet ; and, as by that 
 just arrangement which pervades the universe, ' acting ' 
 is the most triumphant of all the arts to compensate 
 it for being the most evanescent, what wonder that 
 
 G 
 
 Jkt
 
 82 THE COUPvSE OF Ti;UE LOVE 
 
 he thrilled beneath its magic, and worshipped its 
 priestess. 
 
 He went home filled with a new sense of being — all 
 seemed cold, dark, and tame, until he could return and 
 see this poetess-orator-witch and her enchantments once 
 more. 
 
 In those days they varied the entertainments in 
 London almost as they do in the provinces now ; and 
 Alexander, who went to the theatre six nights a W'cek, 
 saw Mrs. Oldfield's beauty and talent in many shapes. 
 Her power of distinct personation was very great. Her 
 Andromache, her Ismena, and Belvidera were all dif- 
 ferent beings. Also each of her tragic personations 
 left upon the mind a type. One night young Old- 
 worthy saw majesty, another tenderness, another fiery 
 passion, personified and embodied in a poetic creation. 
 
 But a fresh surprise was in store for him : the next 
 week comedy happened to be in the ascendant ; and 
 Mrs. Oldfield, whose entree in character was always the 
 key-note of her personation, sprang upon the stage as 
 Lady Townley, and in a moment the air seemed to fill 
 with singing birds that chirped the pleasures of youth, 
 beauty, and fashion in notes that sparkled like 
 diamonds, stars, and prisms. Her genuine gushing 
 gaiety warmed the coldest and cheered the forlornest 
 heart. Nor was she less charming in the last act, 
 where Lady Townley's good sense . being at last 
 alai-med, and her good heart touched, she bowed her 
 saucy head, and begged her lord's pardon, with tender
 
 NEVER DID IlUX SMOOTH. 83 
 
 unaffected penitence. The tears stood thick in Alex- 
 ander's eyes during that charming scone, where in a 
 prose comedy the author has had the courage and the 
 beauty to spread his wings and rise in a moment into 
 verse with the rising sentiment. 
 
 To this succeeded ' Maria ' in ' the Nonjuror ' and 
 ' Indiana,' in what the good souls of that day were 
 pleased to call the comedy of ' the Conscious Lovers,' 
 in the course of which comedy Indiana made Alex- 
 ander weep more constantly, continuously, and co- 
 piously than in all the tragedies of the epoch he had 
 as yet witnessed. 
 
 So now Alexander Oldworthy lived for the stage ; 
 and, as the pearl is a disease of the oyster, so this syren 
 became Alexander's disease. The enthusiast lost his 
 hold of real life. Real life became to him an interlude^ 
 and soon that followed which was to be expected, the 
 poor novice who had begun by adoring the artist, 
 ended by loving the woman, and he loved her like a 
 novice and a poet; he looked into his own heart, con- 
 founded it with hers, and clothed her with ever}^ heroic 
 quality. He believed her as great in mind, and as 
 good in heart, as she was lovely in person, and he 
 w^ould have given poems to be permitted to kiss her 
 dress, or to lay his neck for a moment under her foot. 
 Burning to attract her attention, yet too humble and 
 timid to make an open attempt, he had at last recourse 
 to his own art. Every day he wrote verses upon her, 
 and sent them to her house. Every night after the 
 
 ^ G 2
 
 84 THE COUESE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 play he watched at the stage door for a glimpse of her 
 as she came out of the theatre to her carriarrc, and beinff 
 lighter of foot than the carriage horses of his century, he 
 generally managed to catch another glimpse of her as 
 she stepped from her carriage into her own house. 
 
 But all this led to no results, and Alexander's heart 
 was often very cold and sick. Whilst he sat at the 
 play he was in Elysium ; but when after seeing his 
 divinity vanish he returned to his lodgings and looked 
 at his attachment by the light of one candle, despond- 
 ency fell like a weight of ice upon him, and he was 
 miserable till he had written her some verses. The 
 verses writ, he was miserable till play-time. 
 
 One night he stood as usual at the stage door after 
 the performance watching for Mrs. Oldfield, who, in a 
 general way, was accompanied by her cousin Susan, 
 This night, however, she was alone ; and, having seen 
 her enter her chariot, Alexander was about to start for 
 her house to see her get down from it, when suddenly 
 another carriage came into contact with Mrs. Oldfield's. 
 The collision was violent, and Mrs. Oldfield screamed 
 with unaffected terror, at which scream Alexander 
 sprang to the horses of the other carriage, and, seizing 
 one of them just above the curb, drew him violently 
 back. To his surprise, instead of co-operating with 
 him, the adverse coachman whipped both his horses, 
 and, whether by accident or design, the lash fell twice 
 on Alexander. Jehu never made a worse investment 
 of whipcord. The young man drew himself back upon
 
 NEVER DID EUN SMOOTH. 85 
 
 the pavement, and sprang with a single bound upon the 
 near horse's quarters; from thence to the coach-box. 
 Contemporaneously with his arrival there he knocked 
 the coachman out of his seat on to the roof of his 
 carriage, and then seized his whip, broke it in one 
 moment into a stick, and belaboured the prostrate 
 charioteer till the blood poured from him in torrents. 
 Then springing to the ground with one bound he 
 turned the horses' heads, threshed them with the 
 mutilated whip, and off they trotted gently home. 
 
 Alexander ran to Mrs, Oldfield's carriage-window, 
 his cheeks burning, his eyes blazing. ' They are gone, 
 madam,' said he, with rough timidity. The actress 
 looked at him, and smiled on him, and said, ' So I see, 
 sir, and I am much obleeged to you.' She was then 
 about to draw back to her corner, but suddenly she 
 reflected, and half beckoning Alexander, who had 
 drawn back, she said, ' My dear, learn for me whose 
 carriage that was.' Alexander turned to gain the 
 information, but it was volunteered by one of the 
 bystanders. 
 
 ' It is the Duchess of Tadcaster's, Mrs. Oldfield.' 
 
 * Ah !' cried Mrs. Oldfield, ' the little wretch !' (this 
 polite phrase she uttered with a most majestic force of 
 sovereign contempt) ; ' thank you, sir ; bid Kobcrt 
 drive me home, my child,' (this to Alexander), on 
 which a bystander sang out, — ' You are to drive home, 
 Robert, — Buckingham Gate, the corner house.' 
 
 At this sally Mrs. Oldfield smiled with jierfect com-
 
 86 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 posure, but did not look at the speaker. As the 
 carriage moved she leaned gently forward, and kissed 
 her hand like a queen to Alexander, then nestled into 
 her corner and went to sleep. 
 
 Alexander did nothing of the sort that night. He 
 went home on wings. He could not go in. He 
 walked up and down before his door three hours, 
 before he could go to so vulgar a thing as bed. As 
 a lover will read over fifty times six lines of love from 
 the beloved hand, so Alexander acted over and over 
 the little scene of this night, and dwelt on every tone, 
 word, look, and gesture of the great creature who had 
 at last spoken to him, smiled on him, thanked him. 
 Oh ! how happy he was, he could hardly realize his- 
 bliss. ' My dear ;' but had not his ears deceived him — 
 had she really called him ' my dear,' and what was he 
 to understand by so unexpected an address ; was it on 
 account of the service he had just done her, or might 
 he venture to hope she had noticed his face in the 
 theatre, sitting, as he always did, in one place, at the 
 side of the second row of the pit? but no ! he rejected 
 that as impossible. \^liatever she meant by it, his 
 blood was at her service as well as his heart. He 
 blessed her with tears in his eyes for using such 
 heavenly words to him in any sense — ' my dear,' and 
 ' my child.' He framed these words in his heart. 
 
 Alas! he little thought that 'my dear' meant 
 literally nothing — he was not aware that calling- 
 every living creature ' my dear ' is one of the nasty
 
 XEVER DID RUX SMOOTH. 87 
 
 little tricks of the stage — like tlieir swearing- without 
 anger, and their shovelling snuff into their nose with- 
 out intermission, in the innocent hope of making every 
 sentence intellectual, by a dirty thing done mechani- 
 cally, and not intellectually. As for 'my child,' that 
 was better — that was, at least, a trick of the lady's 
 own, partly caught from her French acquaintances. 
 
 For some days Alexander was in heaven. He fell 
 upon his tragedy, he altered it by the light the stage 
 had given him ; above all, he heightened and improved 
 the heroine, he touched her, and retouched her with 
 the colours of Oldfield — and this done, with trembling 
 hands, he^Tapped it in brown paper, addressed it, and 
 left it at her own house, and no sooner had Susan's 
 hand touched it, than he fled like a guilty thing. 
 
 You see it was his first love — and she he loved 
 seemed more than mortal to him. 
 
 And now came a reaction. Days and days rolled 
 by, and no more adventures came, no means of making 
 acquaintance with one so high above his reach. 
 
 He was still at the stage door, but she did not seem 
 to recognise him, and he dared not recall himself to 
 her recollection. His organisation was delicate — he 
 began to fret and lose his sleep,' and at last his pallor 
 and listlessness attracted the not very keen eye of 
 Timothy Bateman. Mr. Batcman asked him twenty 
 times if anything was the matter — twenty times he 
 answered, 'No!' At last, good, worthy, common- 
 place Bateman, after dinner and deep thought, said
 
 88 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 one day, ' Alexander, I've found out what it is.' Alex- 
 ander started. 
 
 ' Money melts in London : yours is gone quicker 
 than you thought it would ; — my poor lad, don't you 
 fret. I've got twenty pounds to spare, here 'tis. Your 
 father will never know. I've been young as well as 
 you.' Alexander grasped the good old fellow's hand 
 and pressed it to his heart. He never looked at the 
 note, but he looked, half tenderly, half wildly, into the 
 old man's eyes. 
 
 Bateman read this look aright — ' Ay, out with it, 
 young man,' he cried, ' never keep a grief locked up in 
 your heart, whilst you have a friend that will listen to 
 it, that is an old man's advice.' 
 
 On this poor Alexander's story gushed forth. He 
 told Bateman the facts I have told you, only his soul, 
 and all the feelings he had gone through gushed from 
 his heart of hearts. They sat till one in the morning, 
 and often as the young heart laid bare its enthusiasm, 
 its youth, its anguish, the dry old lawyer found out 
 there was a soft bit left in his own, that sent the woman 
 to the door of his eyes, for Alexander told his story 
 differently, and I think on the whole better, than I do. 
 I will just indicate one difference between us two as 
 narrators — he told it like blood and fire, I tell it like 
 criticism and ice, and be hanged to me. 
 
 Perhaps, had Alexander told the tale as I do, Bate- 
 man, man of the world, would have sneered at him, or 
 sternly advised him to quit this folly and whim ; but as
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 89 
 
 it was, Bateman was touched, and mingled pity with 
 good, gentle, but firm advice, and poor Alexander was 
 grateful. The poet revered the common-place good 
 man, as a poet ought, and humbly prayed him to save 
 him by his wisdom. He owned that he was mad, — that 
 he was indulging a hopeless passion, that he knew the 
 great tragedian, coilrted by the noble and rich of the 
 land, would never condescend, even to an acquaintance 
 with him. And, bursting into a passion of tears, ' Oh ! 
 good Mr. Bateman,' cried he, ' the most unfortunate 
 hour of my life was that in which I first saw her, for she 
 will be my death, for she will never permit me to live 
 for her, and without her life is intolerable to me.' 
 
 This last feature decided Timothy Bateman ; the 
 next morning he wrote to Nathan Oldworthy a full 
 account of all. ' Come up, and take him home again, 
 for heaven's sake.' 
 
 It fell like a thunderbolt on the poor father, but he 
 moved promptly : in two hours he was on the road to 
 London. 
 
 Arrived there, he straight invaded Alexander. The 
 poet, luckily for himself, was not at home. He then 
 went to Bateman, he was in a towering passion. 
 
 The old puritanical leaven was scotched, but not 
 killed, in Coventry. 
 
 In a general way, Nathan looked on love as no 
 worse than one of the Evil One's many snares, to divert 
 youth from law — but, love of an actress ! If you had 
 asked Coventry whether the Play House or the Public
 
 90 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 House ruins the manners, morality, and intellect of 
 England, Coventry was capable of answering — ' The 
 Play House.' He raged against the fool and the jade, 
 as he succinctly, and not inaptly, described a dramatic 
 poet and an actress. 
 
 His friend endeavoured to stop the current of his 
 wrath, in vain ; the attempt only diverted its larger 
 current from Alexander to the Syren who had fascinated 
 him — in vain Bateman assured him that affairs had 
 proceeded to no length between the parties : the other 
 snubbed him, called him a fool, that knew nothing of 
 the- world, and assured him that if anything came of it, 
 she should have nothing from the Oldworthys, but 
 thirty pence per week, the parish allowance (Nathan's 
 ideas of love were as primitive as Alexander's ,were 
 poetic), and lastly, bouncing up, he announced that he 
 was going to see the hussy, and force her to give up her 
 Delilah designs. 
 
 At this, poor Bateman was in dismay ; he represented 
 to this mad bull, that Mrs. Oldfield was ' on the windy 
 side of the law,' that there were no proofs she had done 
 anything more than every woman would do, if she was 
 clever enough, viz. turn every man's head ; he next 
 reminded him of her importance, and implored him at 
 least to be prudent. ' My dear friend,' said he, ' there 
 are at least a score of gentlemen in this town, who 
 would pass their swords through an old attorney, as 
 they would through a mad dog, only to have a smile or 
 a compliment from this lady.'
 
 NEVER DID KUX SMOOTH. 91 
 
 This last argument was ill chosen. The old Puritan 
 was game to the back -bone ; he flung Mrs. Oldfield's 
 champions a grim grin of defiance, and marched out to 
 invade that lady, and save his offspring. 
 
 Now, the said Mrs. Oldfield, wishing to be very- 
 quiet, because she was preparing to play for the 
 championship of the stage, and was studying Statira, 
 had given her footman orders to admit no living soul, 
 upon any pretence. 
 
 Oldworthy, who had heard in Coventry that people 
 in London are always at home if their servants say they 
 are out, pushed past the man ; the man folloV)^ed him 
 remonstrating. When they reached the ante-chamber, 
 he thought it was time to do more, so he laid his hand 
 on the intruder's collar — then ensued a short but very 
 brisk scuffle ; the ladies heard, to their dismay, a sound 
 as of a footman falling from the top to the bottom of a 
 staircase ; and the next moment, in Jack boots, splashed 
 with travel, an immense hat of a fashion long gone by, 
 his dark cheek flushed with anger, and his eyes shoot- 
 ing sombre lightning from under their thick brows, 
 Nathan Oldworthy strode like wild-iire into the room. 
 
 Susan screamed, and Anne turned pale, but, 
 recovering herself, she said, with a wonderful show of 
 spirit, ' How dare you intrude on me ? — Keep close to 
 me, stupid !' was her trembling aside to Susan. 
 
 ' I'm used to enter people's houses, whether they will 
 or not,' was the gruff reply.
 
 92 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 'Your business, sir?' said Mrs. Oldfield, with 
 affected calmness. 
 
 ' It is not fit for that child to hear,' was the answer. 
 
 Anne Oldfield was wonderfully intelligent, and even 
 in this remark, she saw the man, if a barbarian, was 
 not a ruffian. She looked towards Susan. 
 
 Susan interpreting her look, declined to leave her 
 alone ' With, with — ' 
 
 ' A brute, I suppose,' said Nathan coarsely. 
 
 The artist measured the man with her eye. 
 
 ' He who feels himself a brute is on the way to be a 
 man,' said she, with genuine dignity ; so saying, she 
 dismissed Susan with a gesture. 
 
 'You are the play-acting woman, aren't you?' 
 said he. 
 
 ' I am the tragedian, sir,' replied she, ' whose time 
 is precious.' 
 
 'I'll lose no time — I'm an attorney, — the first in 
 Coventry. I'm Nathan Oldworthy — My son's educa- 
 tion has been given him under my own eye — I taught 
 him the customs of the country, and the civil law — He 
 is to be a serjeant-at-law, and a serjeant-at-law he shall 
 be.' 
 
 * I consent for one,' said Oldfield, demurely. 
 
 ' And then we can play into one another's hands, as 
 should be.' 
 
 'I have no opposition to offer to this pretty little 
 scheme of the Old Somethings — father and son.' 
 
 ' Oldworthys ! no opposition ! when he hasn't been
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 93 
 
 once to Westminster, and every night to the play- 
 house.' 
 
 * Oh !' said the lady, ' I see ! the old story.' 
 
 ' The very day the poor boy came here,' resumed 
 Nathan, ' there was a tragedy play ; so, because a 
 woman sighed and burned for sport, the fool goes home 
 and sighs and burns in earnest, can't eat his victuals, 
 flings ^away his prospects, and thinks of nothing but 
 this Nance Oldfield.' 
 
 He uttered this appellation with rough contempt ; 
 and had the actress been a little one, this descent to 
 Nance Oldfield would have mortified or enraged her. 
 But its effect on the great Oldfield was different, and 
 somewhat singular ; she opened her lovely eyes on him. 
 
 ' Nance Oldfield,' cried she, ' Oh ! sir, nobody has 
 called me that name, since I left my little native 
 town.' 
 
 * Haven't they, though ?' said the rough customer 
 more gently, responding to her heavenly tones, rather 
 than to the sentiment which he in no degree compre- 
 hended. 
 
 ' No !' said Oldfield, with an ill-used iEolian-harp 
 tone. 
 
 Here, the attorney began to suspect she was diverting 
 him from the point, and with a curl of the lip, and a 
 fine masculine contempt for all subterfuges — not on 
 sheepskin, — ' You had better say you do not know all 
 this,' cried he. 
 
 ' Not I,' was the reply. ' 3Iy good sir, your son
 
 94 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 has left you to confide to me the secret of his attach- 
 ment: you have discharged the commission, Sir Pan- 
 darus of Troy,' added she, with a world of malicious 
 fun in her jewel-like eye. 
 
 * Nathan Old worthy of Coventry, I tell ye !' put in 
 the ano^rv sire. 
 
 ' And it is now my duty to put some questions to 
 you,' resumed the actress. ' Is your son handsome ?' 
 said she, in a sly half whisper. 
 
 ' Is not he ?' answered gaunt simplicity, ' and well 
 built too — he is like me they say.' 
 
 ' There is a point on which I am very particular — 
 Has he nice teeth ? — upon your honour, now.' 
 
 ' White as milk, ma'am ; and a smile that warms 
 your heart up ; fresh colour ; — there's not such a lad in 
 Coventry.' Here the old boy caught sight of a certain 
 poetical epistle which, if you remember, was in Mrs. 
 Oldfield's hands. 
 
 * And pray, madam,' said he, with smooth craft, 
 * does Alexander Oldworthy never write to you ?' 
 
 ' Never,' was her answer. 
 
 ' She says never !' thundered Nathan, ' and there is 
 his letter in her very hand, — a superb handwriting ; 
 what a waste of talent to write to you with it, instead 
 of engrossing ; what does the fool say ?' and he 
 snatched the letter rudely from her, and read out poor 
 Alexander, with the lungs of a Stentor. 
 
 Gracious me ; if I was puzzled to show the reader 
 how Susan read the Mannering prose, how on earth
 
 KEVER DID EUN SMOOTH. 05 
 
 shall I make liim hear and see Oldworthy Pere read 
 Oklwortby Fils his rhymes ; but I will attempt a 
 faint adumbration, wherein Glorious Apollo ! from on 
 high befriend us ! 
 
 'My soul hangs trembling,' — (full stop.) 'On that 
 magic voice, grieves with your woe,' — (full stop.) 
 * Exults when you rejoice. A golden chain.' — (Here 
 he cast a look of perplexity.) ' I feel but cannot see,' — 
 (here he began to suspect Alexander of insanity.) 
 ' Binds earth to heaven,' — (of impiety, ditto.) ' It 
 ties my heart to thee like a sunflower.' And now the 
 reader wore the ill-used look of one who had been 
 betrayed into a labyrinth of unmeaning syllables ; but 
 at this juncture, thanks to his sire, Alexander Oldworthy 
 beiran to excite Mrs. Oldfield's interest. 
 
 ' And that poetry is his !' said the actress. 
 
 ' Poetry ? no ! How could my son write poetry ? 
 I'll be hanged if 'tisn't though, for all the lines begin 
 with a capital letter.' 
 
 Oldfield took the paper from him. ' Listen,' said 
 she, and with a heavenly cadence and expression, she 
 spoke the lines thus : — 
 
 " ' My soul hangs trembling on that magic voice, 
 Grieves with your woe, exults when you rejoice ; 
 A golden chain I feel, but cannot sec. 
 Binds earth to heaven — it ties my heart to thee, 
 Like a sunflower," &c. kc. — 
 
 ' What do you call that, eh ?' 
 
 ' Why, honey dropping from the comb,' said the 
 astounded lawyer, to whom the art of specc'.i was
 
 9o THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 entirely unknown, until that moment, as it is to 
 millions of the human race. 
 
 'It is honey dropping from the comb,' repeated 
 Nathan. 'I see, he has been and bought it ready- 
 made, and it has cost him a pretty penny, no doubt. 
 So, now his money's going to the dogs, too.' 
 
 ' And these sentiments, these accents of poetry and 
 truth, that have reached my heart, this daily homage, 
 that would flatter a queen, do I owe it to your son ? 
 Oh! sir.' 
 
 'Good gracious Heavens!' roared the terrified 
 father ; ' don't you go and fall in love with lum ; and, 
 now I think on't, that is what I have been working for 
 ever since I came here. Cut it short. I came for my 
 son and I will have him back, if you please. Where 
 is he?' 
 
 ' How can I know ?' said the lady, pettishly. 
 
 ' Why, he follows you everywhere.' 
 
 ' Except here, where he never will follow me, unless 
 his father teaches him housebreaking under the head of 
 civil law.' 
 
 At this sudden thrust, Oldworthy blushed. ' Well, 
 ma'am!' stammered he, 'I was a little precipitate; 
 but, my good lady, pray tell me, when did you last see 
 him?' 
 
 ' I never saw him at all, which I regret,' added she, 
 satirically ; ' because you say he resembles his father.' 
 Nathan was a particular ugly dog. 
 
 ' She is very polite,' thought Nathan. ' But,'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 97 
 
 objected he, 'you must have learned from his 
 letters — ' 
 
 * That they are not signed !' said she, handing the 
 poetical epistle to him, with great significance. 
 
 Mr. Nathan Oldworthy began now to doubt whether 
 he was sur le hon terrain in his present proceedings ; 
 and the error in which he had detected himself made 
 him suddenly suspect his judgment and general report 
 on another head. ' What an extraordinary thing !' 
 said he, bluntly. ' Perhaps you are an honest woman 
 after all, ma'am !' 
 
 ' Sir !' said Oldfield, with a most tragic air. 
 
 ' I ask your pardon, ma'am ! I ask your pardon !' 
 cried the other, terrified by the royal pronunciation of 
 this monosyllable. ' Country manners, ma'am ! that 
 is all ! We do speak so straightforward down in 
 Coventry.' 
 
 ' Yes ! but if you speak so straightforward here, you 
 will be sent to Coventry.' 
 
 ' I'll take care not, madam ! I'll take great care 
 not !' said the other, hastily. Then he paused — a 
 light rose gradually to his eye. ' Sent to Coventry ! 
 ha ! haw ! ho ! But, madam, this love will be his ruin : 
 it will rob him of his profession which he detests, and of 
 a rich heiress whom he can't abide ! Since I came here 
 I think better of play-actors ; but, consider, madam, 
 we don't like our blood to come down in the world !' 
 
 ' It would be cruel to lower an attorney,' replied the 
 play-actress, looking him demurely in the face. 
 
 H
 
 98 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' You are considerate, madam !' replied he gratefully. 
 He added with manly compunction, ' more so I fear 
 than I have deserved.' 
 
 ' Mais ! il me desarme, cet homme !' cried the 
 sprightly Oldfield, ready to scream with laughter. 
 
 ' Are you speaking to me, ma'am ?' said Nathan 
 severely. 
 
 ' No, that was an " aside." Go on, my good soul !' 
 
 ' Then forgive the trouble, the agitation, of a father : 
 his career, his happiness, is in danger.' 
 
 ' Now, why did you not begin with that ; it would 
 have saved your time and mine. Favour me with your 
 attention, sir, for a moment,' said the fine lady with 
 grave courtesy. 
 
 'I will, madam,' said the other, respectfully. 
 
 ' Mr. Oldworthy, first you are to observe, that I 
 have by the constitution of these realms as much right 
 to fall in love with your son, or even with yourself, as 
 he or you have to do with me.' 
 
 ' So you have : I never thought of that ; but don't ye 
 do it for Heaven's sake, if 'tisn't done already.' 
 
 ' But I should have been inclined, even before your 
 arrival, to waive that right out of regard for my own 
 interest and reputation, especially the former : and now 
 you have won my heart, and I enter into your feelings, 
 and place myself at your service.' 
 
 * You are very good, madam ! Now why do they go 
 and run play-actors down so ?' 
 
 ' You are aware, sir, that we play-actors have not an
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 99 
 
 idea of our own in our sculls : our art is to execute 
 beautifully the ideas of those who think : now, you are 
 a man of business ; you will therefore be pleased to 
 give me your instructions, and you shall see those 
 instructions executed better than they are down in 
 Coventry. You want me to prevent your son from 
 loving me. I consent. Tell me how to do it' 
 
 ' Madam !' said Nathan ; ' you have put your finger 
 on the very point. What a lawyer you would have 
 made ! Madam, I thank you ! Very well, then you 
 must — but, no, that will make him worse perhaps. 
 And again, you can't leave off playing, can you? 
 because that is your business you know — dear me. 
 Ah ! I'll tell you how to bring it about. Let me see 
 — no ! — yes ! — no ! drat it !' 
 
 'Your instructions are not sufficiently clear, sir!' 
 suggested Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 ' \\ ell madam ! it is not so easy as I thought, and I 
 don't see what instructions I am to give you, until — 
 until — ' 
 
 ' Until I tell you what to tell me. That's fair. Well, 
 give me a day to think. I am so busy now. I must 
 play my best to-night !' 
 
 ' But he'll be there,' said Nathan, in dismay : 
 ' you'll play your best : you'll burn him to a cinder : 
 I'll go to him. He ran to the window, informing his 
 companion that, for the first time in his life, he was 
 going to take a coach. But he had no sooner arrived 
 at the window, than he made a sudden point, and 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE COUKSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 beckoned the lady to him, ■without removing his eyes 
 from some object on which he glared down with a 
 most singular expression of countenance. She came 
 to his side. He directed her eyes to the object. 
 ' Look there, ma'am I look there 1' She peeped, and 
 standing by a hosier's shop, at the comer of the street, 
 she descried a young man engaged as follows : — ^His 
 hat was in his hand, and on the hat was a little piece 
 of paper. He was alternately writing on this, and 
 looking upward for inspiration. 
 
 ' Is that he ?' whispered Mrs. Oldfield. 
 ' Yes ! that's your man — bare-headed, looking up 
 into the sky, and doesn't see how it rains.' 
 
 ' But he is very handsome, Mr. Oldworthy, and you 
 said he was like — hem ! yes, he is very handsome.' 
 ' Isn't he, madam ?' 
 
 He was handsome — his rich chestnut curls flowed 
 down his neck in masses ; his face was oval ; his eyes 
 full of colour and sentiment — and in him the purple 
 light of youth was brightened by the electric light of 
 expression and charming sensibility. 
 
 The strangely assorted pair in our scene held on by 
 
 one another the better to inspect the young poet, who 
 
 little thought what a pair of critics were in store for him. 
 
 "' What a bright intelligent look the silly goose has !' 
 
 said the actress. 
 
 ' Hasn't he ? the dear — idiot !' said the parent. 
 ' Is he waiting for you, sir ?' said she, with aflfected 
 simplicity.
 
 • ' NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 101 
 
 ' No,' replied he with real, ' it's you he is waiting 
 for.' 
 
 Alexander began to walk slowly past the house, 
 looking up to heaven every now and then for inspira- 
 tion, and then looking down and scribbling a bit, like 
 a hen drinking, you know — and thus occupied, he 
 stalked to and fro, passing and repassing beneath the 
 criticising eyes — at sight of which pageant a father's 
 fingers began to work, and, ' Madam,' said he, with a 
 calmness too marked to be gennine, ' do let me fling 
 one little — chair at his silly head.' 
 
 ' No, indeed.' 
 
 ' A pillow, then ?' 
 
 ' O Lud, no I — -you don't know these boys, sir ! he 
 would take that as an overture of affection from the 
 house. Stay, will you obey me, or will you not?' 
 
 * Of course I will ! — how can I help ?' and he 
 grinned with horrible amiability. 
 
 ' Then I will cure your son.' 
 
 ' You will, you promise me ?' 
 
 ' On the honour of a play-actor! and she 
 
 offered him, with a world of grace, the loveliest hand 
 going at that era. 
 
 ' Of an angel, I think,* said the subjugated bar- 
 barian. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield then gave him a short sketch of the 
 idea that had c^curred to her. ' Your son, sir,' said 
 she, ' is in love by the road of imagination and taste — 
 he has seen upon the stage a being more like a poet's
 
 102 THE COUKSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 dream than any young woman down in Coventry — and 
 he over-rates her ; I will contrive that in ten minutes 
 he shall under-rate her. I will also find means to 
 wound his vanity, which is inordinate in all his sex, 
 and gigantic in the versifying part of it — and then, 
 sir, I promise that your son's love, so fresh, so fiery, so 
 lofty, so humble, will either turn to hatred or contempt, 
 or else quietly evaporate like a mist, and vanish like a 
 morning dream. Ah !' — (and she could not help 
 sighing a little.) 
 
 Susan was then called, and directed to show Mr. 
 Nathin Oldworthy out the back way, that he might 
 avoid the encounter of his son. The said Nathan, 
 accordingly marched slap away in four great strides ; 
 but the next moment the door burst open, and he 
 returned in four more — he took up a position opposite 
 his fair entertainer, and, with much gravity, executed 
 a solemn, but marvellously grotesque bow, intended to 
 express gratitude and civility ; this done, he recovered 
 body, and strode away again slap dash. 
 
 Spirits like Alexander's are greatly depressed and 
 greatly elevated without proportionate change in the 
 extenial causes of joy and grief. It is theirs to 
 view the same set of facts rose-colour one day, lurid 
 another. Two days ago Alexander had been in de- 
 spondence, to-day hope was in the ascfcidant, and his 
 destiny appeared to him all bathed in sunshine. He 
 was rich in indistinct but gay hopes ; these hopes
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 103 
 
 had whispered to him, that, after all, an alliance 
 between a dramatic poet and a tragedian was a 
 natural one — that, perhaps, on reflection, she he loved 
 might not think it so very imprudent. He felt con- 
 vinced she had read ' Berenice ' — she would see the 
 alterations in the heroine's part, and that love had 
 dictated them. She would find there was one bein<j 
 that comprehended her. That, and his verses, would 
 surely plead his cause. Then he loved her so — who 
 could love her as he did ? Some day she would feel 
 that no heart could love her so — and then he would 
 say to her ' I am truth and nature ; you are beauty 
 and music — united, we should conquer the world, and 
 be the world to one another !' Poor boy ! 
 
 He was walking and dreaming thus beneath her 
 window, when his ear caught the sound of that window 
 opening ; he instantly cowered against the wall, hoping 
 this happy day to see the form he loved, himself unseen, 
 when, to his immeasurable sui-prise, a beautiful girl 
 put her head out of the window, and called softly to 
 him. He took no notice, because it was inaudible. 
 She had to repeat the call before he could realise his 
 good fortune ; the signal, however, was unmistakeablc, 
 and soon after the door opened, and there was pretty 
 Susan blushing. Alexander ran to her; she opened 
 the door wider, he entered, believing in magic for the 
 first time. Susan took him up stairs — he said nothing 
 — he could not — she did not speak, because she 
 thought he ought to. At last they reached a richly-
 
 104 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 furnished room, where Statira's dress lay upon a chair, 
 and a theatrical diadem upon a table. Alexander's 
 heart leaped at sight of these ; he knew then where he 
 was ; he turned hot and cold, and trembled violently. 
 The first word Susan said did not calm his agitation. 
 ' There is a lady here,' said she, ' who has something 
 to say to you.' 
 
 Now, it must be remembered, that Susan considered 
 Alexander her undoubted property, and when she was 
 told to introduce him she could not help thinking how 
 kind jt was of her cousin to take her part, and bring to 
 the point a young gentleman, who, charming in other 
 respects, was sadly deficient in audacity. ' Sit down,' 
 said Susan, smiling. 
 
 Oh ! no ! he could not sit down here ! Susan pitied 
 his timidity and his discomposure, and to put both him 
 and herself out of pain the sooner, she left him and 
 went to announce his presence to her cousin and 
 guardian as she now considered her. 
 
 Alexander was left alone to all appearance ; in 
 reality he was in a crowd — a crowd of ' thick-coming 
 fancies.' He was to breathe the same air as her, to be 
 by her side, whom the world adored at a distance ; he 
 was to see her burst on him like the sun, and to feel 
 more strongly than ever how far his verse fell short of 
 the goddess who inspired it ; he half wished to retreat 
 from his too great happiness. Suddenly a rustle in the 
 apartment awakened him from his rich reverie ; he looked 
 up, and there was a lady with her eyes fixed on him.
 
 NEVER DID KUX SMOOTH. 105 
 
 The lady had on what might, without politeness, but 
 with truth, be called a dressing gown ; it was ostenta- 
 tiously large everywhere, especially at the waist. The 
 lady's hair, or what seemed her hair, was rough, and ill 
 done up, and a great cap of flaunty design surmounted 
 her head. On her feet were old slippers. 
 
 'Good day, sir I' said she, drily. 
 
 Alexander bowed, ' Madam ! I await Mrs. Old- 
 field.' 
 
 ' Tete-h-tete with you muse.' Alexander's poetical 
 works were in her hand. 
 
 ' She is my muse, madam !' replied he ; ' she alone. 
 Are you not proud of her, madam ? for I see by your 
 likeness that you are some relation.' 
 
 The lady burst out laughing : ' That's a compliment 
 to my theatrical talent ; I am the party.' 
 
 ' You Mrs. Oldfield ! the great Mrs. Oldfield I' 
 
 ' Why not ? What, you come from the country, I 
 suppose, and think we are to be always on stilts, when 
 we are not paid for it. You look as if you were afraid 
 of me.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! madam ; and, as you say, it shows how 
 great your talent is.' 
 
 ' You want to speak to me, my lad.' 
 
 Alexander blushed to the temples. * Yes, madam !' 
 faltered he, 'you have divined my ambition. I have 
 been presumptuous— but I saw you on the tragic scene 
 — the admiration you inspired — I fear I have impor- 
 tuned you — but my hope, my irresistible desire .'
 
 106 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 'There, I know what you mean,' said she with an 
 affectation of vulgar good nature, ' you want an order 
 for the pit?' 
 
 ' I want an order for the pit ?' gasped Alexander, 
 faintly. 
 
 ' Well, ain't I going to give you one,' answered she, 
 as sharp as a needle ; 'but mind, you must — ' here she 
 imitated vehement applause. 
 
 ' Oh ! madam ! I need no such injunction,' cried 
 Alexander, 'each of your achievements on the stage 
 seems to me greater than the last' Then, trembling, 
 blushing, and eloquent as fire, he poured out his admi- 
 ration of her, and her great art : ' The others are all 
 puppets, played by rule around you the queen of 
 speech and poetry ; your pathos is so true, your sensi- 
 bility so profound ; yours are real tears ; you lead our 
 sorrow in person ; you fuse your soul into those great 
 characters, and art becomes nature : you are the thing 
 you seem, and it is plain each lofty emotion passes 
 through that princely heart on its way to those golden 
 lips.' 
 
 Oldfield, with all her self-command, could not quite 
 resist the eloquence of the heart and brain. She, too, 
 now blushed a little, and her lovely bosom heaved 
 slowly, but high, as the poet poured the music of his 
 praise into her ears : then she stole a look at him, from 
 under her long lashes, and sipped his beauty and his 
 freshness. She could not help looking at this forbidden 
 fruit. As she looked, she did feel how hard, how
 
 ne\t:r did run smooth. 107 
 
 cruel it was, that she was not to be allowed to play 
 with this young, fresh heart; to see it throb with 
 hopes and fears, and love, jealousy, anguish, joy, and 
 finally to break it, and fling the pieces to the devil ; 
 but she was a singular character — she was the concen- 
 trated essence of female in all points, except one : she 
 was a woman of her word, or, as some brutes would 
 say, no woman at all in matters of good faith. She 
 stood pledged to the attorney, and therefore, recovering 
 herself, she took up Alexander thus : — 
 
 ' No, thank you : emotions pass through my, what's 
 the name — well, you are green — you don't come from 
 the country — you are from Wales. I must enlighten 
 you ; sit down : sit down, I tell you. The tears, my 
 boy, are as real as the rest — as the sky, and that's 
 pasteboard — as the sun, and he is three candless rairk- 
 ing upon all nature, which is canvas — they are as real 
 as ourselves, the tragedy queens, with our cries, our 
 sighs, and our sobs, all measured out to us by the five- 
 foot rule. Reality, young gentleman, that begins when 
 the curtain falls, and we wipe off our profound sensi- 
 bility along with our rouge, our whiting, and our 
 beauty spots.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' cried the poet, ' those tears, those 
 dew-drops on the tree of poetry !' 
 
 He was requested not to make her ' die of laughing ' 
 with his tears ; his common sense was appealed to. 
 ' Now, my good soul, if 1 was to vex myself night after 
 night for Clytemnestra and Co., don't you see that I
 
 108 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 should not hold together long ? No thank you ! I've 
 got "Nance Oldfield" to take care of, and what's 
 Hecuba to her? For my part,' contmued this frank 
 lady, ' I don't understand half the authors give us to 
 say.' 
 
 * Oh, yes, you do ! you write upon our eyes and ears 
 more than half of all the author gains credit for — the 
 noblest sentiments gain more from your tongue than 
 the pen, great as it is, could ever fling upon paper — I 
 am unworthy to be your companion ! ' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! do you really think I am like those 
 black parrots of tragedy ? — fine company I should be ! 
 — he, he ! — No ! we are like other women, you can 
 court us without getting a dagger stuck into you.' 
 She then informed him that the representatives of 
 Desdemona, Belvidera, Cordelia, and Virgin Purity in 
 general, had all as many beans as they could lay their 
 hands on — that she had twenty at the present moment ; 
 that he could join that small, but select band, if he 
 chose, secure of this, that whether a fortunate or un- 
 fortunate lover, there would be companions of his fate 
 — then suddenly interrupting her disclosures, she 
 offered him a snuff-box, and said, drily, ' D'ye snuff ?' 
 
 Alexander's eye dilated with horror. She observed 
 him, and explained, 'There's no doing without it, in 
 our business : we get so tired ! ' here she yawned as only 
 actresses yawn, — like one going out of the world in 
 four pieces : ' We get so tired of the whole concern. 
 This is the real source of our inspiration,' said she,
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 109 
 
 taking a pinch, ' or how should we ever rise to the 
 Poet's level, and launch all those awful execrations they 
 love so ? as, for instance — Ackishoo I — God bless you !' 
 
 Alexander groaned aloud. 
 
 ' Poor boy !' thought his tormentor, ' how he takes 
 it to heart.' 
 
 * Why, ma'am, a fall from heaven to earth is a con- 
 siderable descent' 
 
 *You look pale, my child,' resumed the tormentor. 
 'No breakfast, perhaps. Pd offer you some in a 
 minute, but the fact is I look to every penny ; 
 when the rainy day comes I shall be ready,' and 
 she brought both hands down upon her knees, in a 
 way the imitated vulgarity of which would have 
 ma^ any one scream with laughter that had seen 
 her game ; but it was all genuine to our poor poet, and 
 crushed him. 
 
 Having opened this vain of self-depreciation, she 
 proceeded to work it. She poked him with one finger, 
 and looking slily with half-shut eye at him, she 
 announced herself the authoress of some very curious 
 calculations, the object of which was to discover by 
 comparing the week's salary with the lines in the night's 
 performance the exact value of poetical passages 
 generally supposed to be invaluable. ' Listen,' said 
 
 she, — 
 
 ' " Come ! como, yon spirits 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, uusex me here I ' 
 
 They are worth just tenpence ?
 
 11.0 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Alexander, who had been raised by the poetry, was 
 depressed by its arithmetic. 
 She recommenced — 
 
 ' " That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 To cry hold ! hold ! — Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor !" ' 
 
 Making the point on ' Great Glamis,' at Macbeth's 
 entrance, not on ' hold,' which is done now-a-days, 
 and is too cruel silly. 
 
 ' Ah ! you are yourself again,' cried the poet. 
 
 ' Yes ; I am myself again !' was the dry answer ; 
 ' those bring me in 2s. Sd. every time.' 
 
 And this was the being he had adored ! He had 
 invested this creature with his own prismatic hues, and 
 taken her for a rainbow. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield told afterwards that she felt herself 
 cutting his heart away from her at every sentence. 
 ' But it was to be done. She continued ' So now you 
 know my trade, tell me, what is yours ?' 
 
 ' One I used to despise — an advocate.' 
 
 ' Ah ! a little long robe ; they are actors too, only 
 bad ones ; but tell me,' said she, with a silly coquettish 
 manner, borrowed from the comedy of the day, ' what 
 do you want of me ? You have not followed me so 
 perseveringly for notliing ! Speak, what have you to 
 tell me ?' 
 
 Alexander blushed : he had no longer the stimulus 
 to tell her all he had felt and hoped ; he hesitated and
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. Ill 
 
 stammered : at last he bethought him of his tragedy ; 
 so he said, ' I sent you a tragedy, madam !' 
 
 * What ! do they do that in Warwickshire T 
 
 ' Yes, madam ! I composed it by stealth in my 
 father's office.' 
 
 Oldfield smiled. 
 
 Alexander continued, — ' It is called, from the heroine 
 of the play, Berenice !' 
 
 ' Berenice !' cried the actress, with a start. 
 
 Now this tragedy had pleased Mrs. Oldfield more 
 than any manuscript she had seen these three years ; 
 but, above all, the part of ' Berenice ' had charmed her : 
 it fitted her like a glove, as she poetically expressed 
 herself; it was written in Alexander's copper-plate 
 hand, so she had not identified it with the author of her 
 diurnal verses. 
 
 ' Berenice ! is it possible ?' 
 
 ' A queen, madam, who, captured by the Romans — .' 
 
 ' What, sir ! you the author of that work ?' said she 
 with sudden respect. 
 
 ' Favour me with your opinion,' said the sanguine 
 poet. 
 
 Tremble, Nathan ! You had only her womanly weak- 
 ness to dread hitherto ; but now the jade's interest is 
 against you. Strange to say, her promise carried the 
 day : she was true as steel to Nathan, and remorseless 
 as steel to Alexander. She saw at once that no middle 
 course was now tenable ; so she turned on the poor 
 poet, not without secret regret, and with a voice of ice
 
 112 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 she said, ' The town is tired of Romans, my good sir : 
 you had better go into Tartary. Besides,' added she, 
 jumping at the common-places of dramatic censure, 
 ' your fable does not march, your language wants fire : 
 let me give you a word of advice, or rather a line of 
 advice, " Plead, Alexander, plead, and rhyme no 
 more !" She then added hastily, in a very different 
 tone and manner, ' Forgive me, my poor child ; you will 
 make more money, and be more respected.' 
 
 The reason of this rapid change of manner was this 
 — when we have given dreadful pain, more pain than 
 we calculated on, and see it, we are apt to try and 
 qualify it with a little weak empty good-nature. Now 
 at her verdict and her witty line, Alexander had 
 turned literally as pale as ashes ! The drop of oil she 
 poured on the deadly M'ounds she had given was no 
 comfort to him ; he rose, he tried to speak to her, but 
 his lip trembled so violently, he could not articulate ; 
 at last he gasped out, ' Thank you for undeceiving me 
 — you have taught me your own v — value ; and 
 m — mine. Forgive me the time I have made you waste, 
 upon a d — dunce.' And then, in spite of all he could 
 do, the tears forced themselves through the poor boy's 
 eyes ; and casting one look of shame and half reproach 
 upon her, he put his hand to his brow, and went dis- 
 consolately from the room and out of the house. 
 
 Poor fellow ! she had made him ten years older, 
 than when ten minutes before he entered that room, all 
 faith, and poetry, and love.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 113 
 
 Slowly and disconsolately he dragged his heavy steps 
 and heavy heart home. His father followed and 
 entered his small apartment without ceremony. Nathan 
 found his son sitting with his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 In a few abrupt words he told him he knew all about 
 his amorous folly, and had come up to cure it. 
 
 'It is cured,' said Alexander; 'she has cured me 
 herself.' 
 
 ' Then she is an honest woman,' cried Nathan. ' So 
 now, since that nonsense is over, take my arm and we 
 will (TO down to Westminster.' 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 They went to "Westminster ; they entered a court ol 
 law, and were so fortunate as to hear an interesting 
 trial. ^Counsel for the plaintiff was just opening a crim. 
 con. case. 
 
 The advocate dwelt upon the sacred feelings outraged 
 by the seducer, on the irremediable gap that had been 
 made in a house, and in a human heart ; the pitiable 
 doubt that had been cast over those sacred parental 
 affections which were all that now remained to the 
 bereaved husband. He painted the empty chamber, 
 the vacant place by the hearth, and the father dagger- 
 struck by little voices lisping, ' Papa, where is mama 
 gone ?' and all that sort of thing. His speech was rich 
 in topic and point, and as for emphasis, it was all 
 emphasis. He concluded in this wise, ' Such injuries 
 as these can never be compensated by money ; it is 
 ridiculous to talk of money where a man has been laid 
 
 I
 
 114 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 desolate, and, therefore I hope, gentlemen of the jury, 
 you will give my unfortunate client three thousand 
 pounds damages at the very least !' 
 
 At each point the orator made, Nathan nudged 
 Alexander, as if to say, ' That is how you must do it 
 some day.' 
 
 As they returned homewards Attorney asked Poet 
 how he had been charmed by Mr. Eitherside's 
 eloquence. 
 
 ' Eloquence,' said Alexander, waking from his reverie. 
 ' I heard no eloquence.' 
 
 ' No eloquence ! why he worked the defendant like a 
 man beating a carpet.' 
 
 Nathan recapitulated Mr. Eitherside's points. 
 
 ' Well, father,' was the languid reply, ' this shows 
 me that people who would speak about the heart, should 
 speak from the heart. I heard something like a terrier 
 dog barking, that is all I remember.' 
 
 ' A terrier dog ! one of the first counsel in the land ; 
 but there, you come to your dinner. I won't be in a 
 passion with you, if I can help, because — you'll be 
 better after dinner.' 
 
 Nathan's satisfaction at his son's sudden cure Mas 
 soon damped. Alexander was not better after dinner ; 
 to be sure this might have been owing to his having 
 eaten none ; he could not eat, and never volunteered a 
 word ; only when spoken to three times, he shook himself 
 and answered with a visible effort, and then nestled 
 into silence again. The next and following days
 
 XEVER DID RUN S]\IOOTH. 115 
 
 matters were worse. Spite of all Nathan could do to 
 move him, he sank into a cold listless melancholy. 
 About five o'clock (play-time) he used to be very rest- 
 less and nervous for a little while, and then relapse 
 into stone. And now Nathan began to ask himself 
 what the actress had done to his son during that short 
 interview between them. He began greatly to doubt 
 the wonderful cure, or rather to fear that the first 
 poison had been attacked by a stronger iti the way of 
 antidote, which had left his son in worse case than 
 before. 
 
 Hitherto he had thought it wisest to avoid the 
 subject, and silently expel the boy's folly by taking 
 him and shaking him, and keeping him from thinking 
 of it. But now one evening as he looked at Alexander's 
 pallid, listless countenance, this anxiety got the better 
 of his plan, and he could not help facing the obnoxious 
 topic. 
 
 After a vain attempt or two to interest the poet 
 in other matters, he suddenly burst out, 'What is 
 the matter, Alexander? AMiat has she done to 
 you now ?' 
 
 Alexander winced. 
 
 'Tell me, my boy,' said Nathan, more gently. 
 
 Alexander eclata. 
 
 ' She has deceived me. She has robbed my heart 
 of all its wealth. Oh ! I would rather have gone on 
 believing her all that is great and good, though inac- 
 cessible to me. But to find my divinity a mean heart- 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 less slattern. To have poured all my treasures away 
 for ever upon an unworthy object. Oh, father, I 
 do not grieve so much that she is worthless, but that 
 I thought her worthy. To me she was the jewel 
 of the earth. — I know her now for a vile counter- 
 feit, and I have wasted my affections on this creature, 
 and now I have none left for any worthy object; 
 scarcely for my father. See my conduct to you all 
 this week. Heaven forgive me — and you forgive me 
 sir. I feel I am no son to you. I am lost ! I am 
 lost!' 
 
 'Alexander, don't be a fool,* roared Nathan, 'get 
 up off your knees, or I'll kee— kee — kick you into the 
 fi — fire !' gulped he ; ' that is right — that's a dear 
 boy : now tell me what has the poor lady done ? I 
 can't think she is such a very bad one.' 
 
 ' She has robbed herself and me of the tints with 
 which 1 had invested her, and shown herself to me in 
 her true colours.' 
 
 ' Why you mustn't tell me she paints her face, with- 
 out 'tis with cold water.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! not that, but off the stage she is a mean, 
 vulgar, bad woman.' 
 
 ' I can't think that of her, Alexander.' 
 
 ' Father, I have no words to tell you her vulgarity, 
 
 her avarice, her stupidity — as for her beauty, it is all 
 
 paint and artifice : father, I saw her this day se'nnight 
 
 in her own house ; she is vulgar, and dirty, and almost 
 
 ugly.'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 117 
 
 * Oh, you deceitful young rascal, you know she is 
 beautiful as an annuel !' 
 
 ' Isn't she, sir ! — ah ! you have only seen her on the 
 stage.' 
 
 ' I see her on the stage ! What, do you tell me I 
 go to the play-house ! I never was in a play-house in 
 my life.' 
 
 ' Then how do you know she is beautiful ? Where 
 have you seen her, if not on the stage ?' 
 
 Mr. Oldworthy senior hesitated. He did not choose 
 his son to know he had visited the play-actress, and 
 enlisted her in his cause. 
 
 Alexander saw his hesitation, and misinterpreted it 
 ludicroifsly. 
 
 ' Ah, father/ cried he, ' do not be ashamed of it/ 
 
 * I am not — ashamed of what ?' 
 
 ' Would 1 were worthy of all this affection T 
 
 * What affection ?' 
 
 ' That you have for the unfortunate.' 
 
 ' I have no affection for the unfortunate, it's always 
 their own fault.' 
 
 ' If you know how I honour you for this you would 
 not deny or be ashamed of it.' 
 
 ' Of what ? Are we talking riddles ?' 
 
 * Do not attempt to disguise what gives you a fresh 
 title to my gratitude — it was curiosity to see my 
 destroyer drew you thither. Ah, it must have been the 
 day before yesterday. I remember you disappeared 
 after dinner. Well, father,' continued Alexander, with
 
 118 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 a sad sweet melancholy accent, ' you saw her play 
 " Monimia " that night, and having seen her, you can 
 forgive my infatuation.' 
 
 ' No ! I can't forgive your infatuation, obstinate 
 toad ! that will tell me I have been to the play-house — 
 to the devil's own shop parlour that is.' 
 
 ' You have seen her — you call her beautiful : there- 
 fore it is clear you have seen her at the theatre, for at 
 home she is anything but beautiful, or an angel.' 
 
 ' Alexander, you will put me in a passion ; but I 
 won't be put in a passion.' So saying, the old gentle- 
 man, who was in a passion, marched slap out of the 
 house into the moonlight and cooled himself therein. 
 
 On his return he foimd his son sitting in a sort of 
 collapse by the fire, and all his endeavours to draw him 
 from brooding over his own misery proved unavailing. 
 The next day he was worse, if possible ; and when 
 play-time had come and gone, and Nathan was in the 
 middle of a long law-case that he was relating for his 
 son's amusement, Alexander, who had not spoken for 
 hours, quietly asked Nathan what he thought about 
 suicide, and whether it was injudicious to die when 
 hope was dead and life withered for ever. Nathan 
 gave a short severe answer to this query; but it 
 troubled him. 
 
 He besan to be frightened : he consulted Bateman. 
 Bateman was equally puzzled ; but at last the latter hit 
 upon an idea. ' Go to the actress again,' said he ; 'it 
 seems she can do arvthinof with him. She made him
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 119 
 
 love her — she made him hate her ; ask her to make him 
 to do something between the two.' 
 
 ' Why, you old fool 1' was the civil retort, ' you 
 are as mad as he is. No ! she almost bewitched me, 
 for as old as I am ; and I won't go near her again.' 
 
 But Alexander got worse and worse. He drooped 
 like a tender flower. He had lost appetite and sleep ; 
 and without them the body soon gives way. 
 
 His grief was of the imagination. But the distinc- 
 tion muddle-heads draw between real and imaginary 
 griefs is imaginary. Whatever robs a human unit of 
 rest, nourishment, and hfe, is as real to him as anything 
 but eternity is real. 
 
 The^ld men saw a subtle disorder creeping over the 
 young man. It was incomprehensible to them ; and 
 after ridiculing it awhile, they began to be more 
 frightened at it than if they had comprehended it. 
 
 At last, one morning, a new phase presented itself. 
 A great desire for solitude consumed our poor poet. 
 All human beings were distasteful to him, and, his mind 
 being in a diseased state, Nathan and Timothy bored 
 him like red-hot gimlets — the truth must be told. 
 Well, this particular morning they would not let him 
 alone — and he so wanted just to be left in peace — and 
 partly from nervousness, partly from irritation, partly 
 from misery, the poet lost all self-command, and, I am 
 sorry to say, cursed and swore and vowed he would 
 kill himself; and called his friends his tormentors, and 
 wept and raved and cursed the hour he was born.
 
 120 TIIE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 And at the end of this most unbecoming tirade he was 
 for dashing out of the house, but his father caught him 
 by the collar and whirled him back into his room, and 
 locked him into it. Alexander fell into a chair and 
 l)uried his face in his hands : presently he heard some- 
 thing that made him feel how selfish his grief had been. 
 He heard a deep sigh just outside the door, and then a 
 heavy step went down the stair. 
 
 ' Father !' cried he, ' forgive me I Oh, forgive me !' 
 
 It was too late. All who give a parent pain repent ; 
 but how often it is too late. 
 
 The poor old man was gone, as unhappy as his son, 
 and with more solid reason. He went into the street 
 without knowing what he should do or where he 
 should go. 
 
 It happened at this moment that Bateman's advice 
 came into his head. He was less disposed to scout it 
 now. 
 
 ' It can do no harm,' thought he, ' and I am quite at 
 a loss. She has a good heart, I think, and at all events 
 she seems to know how to work on him, and I don't. 
 I'll risk it.' 
 
 So, hanging his head, and with no very good will, he 
 slowly wended his way towards Mrs. Oldfield's house. 
 
 When Alexander left Mrs. Oldfield, that lady took 
 off her vulgar cap and the old wig with which she had 
 disguised her lovely head, and, throwing herself into a
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 121 
 
 chair, laughed at the piece of comedy she had played 
 off on our poor poet. 
 
 Her laugh, however, was not sincere ; it soon died 
 away into something more like a sigh. 
 
 The next morning there was no letter in verse, and 
 she missed it. She had become used to them, and was 
 vexed to think she had put an end to them. On re- 
 turning from the theatre she looked from her carriage 
 to see if he was standing as usual by the stage-door. 
 No, he was not there ; no more letters — no more 
 Alexander. She felt sorry she had lost so genuine an 
 admirer ; and the moment the sense of his loss touched 
 herself she began to pity him, and think what a shame 
 it was to deceive him so. 
 
 'I could have liked him better than all the rest/ 
 said she. 
 
 But this lady's profession is one unfavourable to the 
 growth of regrets, or of affection for any object not in. 
 sight. She had to rehearse from ten till one, then to 
 come home, then to lay out her clothes for the theatre, 
 then to dine, then to study, then to go to the theatre, 
 then to dress, then to act with all the intoxications of 
 genius, light, multitude, and applause ; then to undress, 
 sup, &c., and all this time she was constantly flattered 
 and courted by dozens of beaus and wits. Had she 
 been capable of a deep attachment, it could not have 
 monopolised her as Alexander's did his. However she 
 did thus much for our poor poet ; when she found she 
 had succeeded in banishinir him she went into her tan-
 
 122 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 trums, and snapped at and scratched everybody else 
 that was kind to her. She also often invited Susan to 
 speak of him, and after awhile snubbed her and forbade 
 the topic. 
 
 To-day, then, as Mrs. Oldfield sat studying 'The 
 Rival Queens,' suddenly she heard a sob, and there 
 was Susan, with the tears quietly and without effort 
 streaming from her eyes, like the water running through 
 a lock gate. Susan had just returned from a walk. 
 
 ' What have you done ?' whined Susan. ' I have 
 just met him, and he said to me, " Ah, madam !" he 
 always calls me madam, and he has lost his beautiful 
 colour — he is miserable — and I am miserable.' 
 
 ' Well !' snapped Anne, ' and am I not miserable 
 too ! why, Susan,' cried she, for a glimmering of light 
 burst on her, ' surely you are not such a goose as to 
 fancy yourself in love with my Alexander.' 
 
 My Alexander — good ! She has declined him for 
 herself, but she will not let you have him any the more 
 for that — other women ! 
 
 ' Your Alexander ! No ! I am too fond of my own ! 
 here's your one's book,' and Susan thrust a duodecimo 
 towards her cousin. 
 
 ' My one's book,' said Mrs. Oldfield, with a mysti- 
 fied air. 
 
 ' Yes ! Robert says it belongs to the young gentle- 
 man who saved you from the Duchess's carriage ; he 
 picked it up after the battle.' 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield opened the book with interest ; judge
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 123 
 
 her surprise when the first page discovered verses in 
 Alexander's well-known hand : in the next page was a 
 spirited drawing of Mrs. Oldfield as ' Sophonisba ;' 
 under it was written, in gold letters, ' Not one base 
 word of Carthage on thy soul,' a line the actress used 
 to speak with such majesty and fire that the audience 
 always burst into a round of applause. And so on, 
 upon every page poetry or picture. The verses were 
 more tender than those he had sent her by letter. 
 The book was his secret heart ! 
 
 It was Alexander, then, who had saved her — his love 
 surrounded her. And how had all his devotion been 
 repaid ? She became restless — bit her lips ; the book 
 she held became a book in a mist, and she said to 
 Susan, in bitter accents, ' They had better not let the 
 poor boy come near me again, or they will find I am a 
 woman, in spite of my nasty blank verse and bombast 
 Oh ! oh ! oh I' and the tragedian whimpered a little, 
 much as a housemaid whimpers ; it was not at all like 
 the ' real tears ' that had so affected Alexander. 
 
 On the fly-leaf of this little book was written : — 
 ' Alexander Oldworthy ! Should I die — and I think 1 
 shall not live, for my love consumes me — I pray some 
 good Christian to take this book to the great Mrs. 
 Oldfield ; it will tell her what I shall never dare to tell 
 her: and if departed spirits are permitted to watch 
 those they have loved, it is for her sake I shall revisit 
 this earth, which, but for her, I should leave without 
 resrret.'
 
 124 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' I am a miserable woman !' cried the dealer in ficti- 
 tious grief. ' This is love I I never was loved before, 
 and mine must be the hand to stab him ; they make 
 me turn his goddess to a slut — his love to contempt ; 
 and I do it, mad woman that I am ! for what ? to rub 
 myself of the solace Heaven had sent to my vacant 
 heart — of the only real treasure the earth contains ;' 
 and she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 At this, Susan's dried themselves ; the grief of the 
 greater mind swallowed up her puny sorrow, as the 
 river absorbs the brook that joins it. Anne frightened 
 her, and at last she stole from the room in dismay. 
 Her absence, however, was short ; she returned in 
 about ten minutes, and announced a visitor. 
 
 ' I will not see him !' said Mrs. Oldfield, almost 
 fiercely, looking off the part she had begun to study. 
 
 ' It is the rough gentleman !' said Susan. 
 
 'What! Alexander's father? Admit him. He is 
 come to thank me ; and well he may. Cruel wretches 
 that we both are.' 
 
 Nathan entered, but with a face so rueful, that Mrs. 
 Oldfield saw at once gratitude had not brought him 
 there. 
 
 *\Vhat have you done, madam?' was his first 
 word. 
 
 ' Kept my word to you like a fool,' was the answer ; 
 ' I hope you are come to reproach me — it would not be 
 complete without that !' 
 
 Nathan had come with that intention, but he was
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 125 
 
 now terror-struck, and afraid to do anything of the 
 kind. He proceeded however in mournful tones to 
 tell her that Alexander had fallen into a state of de- 
 spondency and desperation, which had made him — the 
 father — regret that more innocent madness he had 
 hitherto been so anxious to cure. 
 
 ' He says he will kill himself,' said Nathan. ' And 
 if he does, he will kill me : poor boy ! all his illusions 
 are kicked head over heels ; so he says, however.' 
 
 ' A good job, too !' said Mrs. Oldfield. 
 
 ' How can you say a good job, when it will be a job 
 for Bedlam.' 
 
 ' Bedlam !' 
 
 'Yes ; he is mad !' 
 
 ' What makes you think he is mad ?' 
 
 ' He says you are not beautii^l ! " She has neither 
 heart, grace, nor wit," says he : in a word, he is insane. 
 i reasoned calmly with him,' continued the afflicted 
 father, ' I told him he was an idiot. But I am sorry to 
 say, he answered my affectionate remonstrance with 
 nonsense and curses, and a lot of words without head 
 or tail to them : he is mad !' 
 
 'You cruel old man!' cried Mrs. Oldfield: 'have 
 you done nothing to soothe the poor child ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes !' said the cruel old man, resenting the 
 doubt cast upon his tenderness ; ' I shoved him into 
 a room, and double-locked him in ; and came straight 
 to you for advice about him, you are so clever.' 
 
 'So it seems!' said she; 'I have made everybody
 
 126 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 uiihaj)py — you, Alexander, and, most of all, myself.' 
 And tears began to well out of her lovely eyes. 
 
 'Oh, dear! — oh, dear! — oh, dear! — don't you vex 
 yourself so, my lamb.' 
 
 But the lamb, alias crocodile, insisted upon putting 
 her head gracefully upon Nathan's shoulder, and crying 
 meekly awhile. On this (a man's heart being merely 
 a lump of sugar that melts when w^oman's eye lets fall 
 a drop of warm water upon it) Nathan loved her : it 
 was intended he should. 
 
 ' I would give my right arm, if you would make him 
 love you again ; at all events a little — a very little 
 indeed. Poor Alexander, he is a fool, a scatter-brain ; 
 and, for aught I know, a versifier, but he is my son. 
 I have but him. If he goes mad or dies, his father 
 will lie down and die too.' 
 
 ' Sir !' said the actress, with sudden cheerfulness, and 
 drying her tears w ith suspicious rapidity : ' bring him 
 to me ; and,' (patting him slily on the arm,) 'you shall 
 see me make him love me more than ever — ten times 
 more, if you approve, dear sir !' 
 
 ' Here ! he won't come : he rails at you, you are his 
 aversion. Oh, he is mad ! my son is deprived of 
 reason : this comes of those cursed rhymes.' 
 
 A pause ensued: Oldfield broke it. 'I have it!' 
 cried she ; ' he is an author : they are all alike !' 
 (What did she mean by that?) 'Speak to him of 
 " Berenice." ' 
 
 ' Whom am I to talk to him about ?'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 127 
 
 ' Berenice !' 
 
 ' What, is he after another woman now ?' 
 
 ' No — his tragedy !' 
 
 ' His tragedy !' 
 
 ' Ah ! I forgot,' said she coolly : ' you are not in the 
 secret ; he composed it by stealth in your office.' She 
 then seated herself at a side-table, and wrote a note 
 with theatrical rapidity. 
 
 ' Give him this,' said she. Receiving no answer, 
 she looked up a little surprised, and there was Nathan 
 apoplectic with indignation ; his two cheeks, red as 
 beetroot, were puffed out ; paternal tenderness was in 
 abeyance ; finally he exploded in, ' So, this was how 
 my brief-paper went ;' and marched off impetuously, 
 throwing down a chair. 
 
 ' Where are you going?' remonstrated his companion. 
 
 ' He is an author,' was the reply ; ' he is no son of 
 mine. I'll unlock him and kick him into the wide 
 world.' 
 
 ' What, for consecrating your brief-paper to the 
 Muse ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; did you ever know a decent, respectable 
 character write poetry ?' 
 
 'Yes!' 
 
 ' No ; that you never did ! Who. now ?' 
 
 ' David ! he wrote Hebrew poetry — the " Psalms ;" 
 and very beautiful poetry too.' 
 
 Poor Nathan ! he was like a bull, which in the 
 middle of a gallant charge, receives a bullet in a vital
 
 128 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 part, and so pulls up, and looks mighty stupid for a 
 moment ere he falls. 
 
 But Nathan did not fall ; he glared reproach on 
 Mrs. Oldfield for having said a thing, which, though it 
 did not exactly admit of immediate confutation, was 
 absurd as well as profane thought he, and resolved to 
 serve Alexander out for it : he told her as much. So, 
 .then ensued a little piece of private theatricals. Mrs. 
 Oldfield, clasping her hands together, began to go 
 gracefully down on her knees an inch at a time 
 (nothing but great practice enabled her to do it), and 
 remind Nathan that he was a father — that his son's 
 life was more precious than anything — that to be 
 angry with the unhappy was cruel, — ' Save him ! save 
 him !' 
 
 Poor Nathan took all this stage business for an 
 unpremeditated effusion of the heart, and with a tear 
 in his eye, raised the queen of crocodiles, and with a 
 hideously amiable grin, ' I'll forgive him !' said he ; 
 ' to please you I'd forgive Old Nick.' 
 
 AVith this virtuous resolve, and equivocal compli- 
 ment, he vanished from the presence chamber, and 
 hurried towards Alexander's retreat. 
 
 Oldfield retired hastily to her bedroom, and having 
 found ' Berenice,' ran hastily through it once more, 
 and began to study a certain scene which she thought 
 could be turned to her purpose. Having what is called 
 a very quick study, she was soon mistress of the twenty 
 or thirty lines. She then put on a splendid dress,
 
 NEVER DID EUX SMOOTH. 129 
 
 appropriate (according to the ideas of the day) to an 
 Eastern queen. That done, she gave herself to Statira, 
 the part she was to play upon this important evening ; 
 but Susan observed a strange restlessness and emotion 
 in her cousin. 
 
 'What is the matter, Anne ?' said she, 
 
 ' It is too bad of these men,' was the answer. ' I 
 ought to be all Statira to-day, and, instead of a 
 tragedy-queen they make me feel — like a human 
 being ! This will not do ; I cannot have my fictitious 
 feelings, in which thousands are interested, endangered 
 for such a trifle as my real ones ;' and, by a stern 
 effort, she glued her eyes to her part, and was 
 Statira 
 
 Meantime Nathan had returned to Alexander, and 
 giving him Mrs. Oldfield's note, bade him instantly 
 accompany him to her house. 
 
 Alexander had no sooner read the note, than the 
 colour rushed into his pale face, and his eye brightened ; 
 but, on reflection, he beg'O'ed to be excused from g^oino; 
 there. But his father, who had observed the above 
 symptoms, which proved to him the power of this bene- 
 volent enchantress, would take no denial ; so they 
 returned together to her house. It was all very well 
 the first part of the road, but, at sight of the house, 
 poor Alexander was seized with a combination of 
 feelings, that made it impossible for him to proceed, 
 
 ' I feel faint, father.' 
 
 ' Lean on me.' 
 
 K
 
 130 THE COUIISE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 * Pray excuse me — I will g-o back to Coventry with 
 you — to the world's end — but don't take me to that 
 house.' 
 
 ' Come along, ye soft-hearted milk-sop.' 
 
 * Well, then, you must assist me, for my limbs fail 
 me at the idea.' 
 
 ' Mine shall help you,' — and he put an arm under 
 his son's shoulder, and hoisted him along in an undeni- 
 able manner — and so, in a few minutes more the 
 attorney was to be seen half drawing, half dragging 
 the poet into the abode of the Syren, which he had 
 first entered breathing fire and fury against play- 
 actors to drag his son out of. It was, indeed, a curious 
 reversal of sentiments in a brace of bosoms. 
 
 ' No, father ! no !' — sighed Alexander, as his father 
 pulled him into her salon. 
 
 ' But I tell you it is for your tragedy,' remonstrated 
 the parchment to the paper hero. 'It's business,' said 
 he reproachfully, 'Now 'tis writ, let us sell it — to 
 greater fools than ourselves, — if we can find them.' 
 The tone in which he uttered the last sentence con- 
 veyed no very sanguine hope on his part of a pur- 
 chaser. 
 
 * Why did you bring me here, dear father ?' sighed 
 the desiUusione. ' It was here my idol descended from 
 her pedestal. Oh, reality ! you are not worth the pain 
 of living — the toil of breathing.' 
 
 ' Poor boy !' thought Nathan — ' he is in a bad way 
 — the toil of breathing — well, I never !— your tragedy,
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 131 
 
 lad — your tragedy,' insinuated be, biting his lips not to 
 Lc in a rage. 
 
 ' Ah !' said Alexander, perking up, ' it is the last tie 
 that holds me to life — she says in this note that she 
 took it for another, and that mine has merit.' 
 
 ' No doubt ! no doubt !' said the other, humouring 
 the absurdity — ''how came the Muse (that is the wench's 
 name, I believe) into my office ?' 
 
 ' She used ever to come in,' began he in rapt tones, 
 ' when you went out,' he added, mighty drily. 
 
 Alexander's next casual observation was to this effect 
 — that once he had a soul, but that now his lyre was 
 broken. 
 
 ' That's soon mended,' said his rough comforter ; 
 ' well, since your liar is cracked ' 
 
 ' I said broken, father — it is broken, and for me the 
 business of life is ended.' 
 
 ' Well,' said the parent, whose good-humour at this 
 crisis appears to have been inexhaustible, ' since your 
 liar is broken — smashed, I hope — and your business 
 done, or near it, turn to amusement a bit my poor 
 lad.' 
 
 Alexander looked at him, surveyed him from top to 
 toe. 
 
 ' Amusement !' winnied the inconsolable one, with a 
 ghastly chuckle — ' amusement. Where can broken 
 hearts find amusement ?' 
 
 ' In the Law !' roared Nathan, with cheerful, 
 hopeful, healthy tone and look. 'I do,' said he; 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 then, seeing bitter incredulii;y on the poet, he explained, 
 80tto voce, ' 'tisn't as if we were clients, ye fool.' 
 
 'Never,' shrieked Alexander. 
 
 Poor Nathan had commanded his wrath till now, 
 but this energetic ' Never,' set him in a blaze. 
 
 ' Never, you young scamp,' shouted he, ' but — but — 
 don't put me in a passion — when I tell ye the excise- 
 man's daughter won't have you on any other terms.' 
 
 ' And I won't have her, on any terms — she is a 
 w^oman,' 
 
 ' Well, she is on the road to it — she is a girl, and a 
 very fine one, and you are to make her a woman — and 
 she will make a man of you, I hope.' 
 
 ' No more women for me,' objected the poet. He 
 then confided to an impatient parent his future plan of 
 existence — it was simple, very simple ; he purposed to 
 live in a garret in London, hating and hated ; so this 
 brought matters to a head. 
 
 'I have been too good to you ! you are mad ! and, 
 by virtue of parental authority I seize your body, 
 young man.' 
 
 But the body had legs, and, for once, an attorney 
 failed to effect a seizure. 
 
 He slipped under his father's arm, and getting a 
 table between them, gave vent to his despair. 
 
 'Since you are without pity,' cried he, ' I am lost — 
 farewell for ever !' and he rushed to the door which 
 opened at that instant. 
 
 The father uttered a deprecatory cry, which died off
 
 '<? 
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH. 133 
 
 into a semi-quaver of admiration — for, at this moment, 
 a lady of dazzling beauty, arrayed in a glorious robe 
 that swept the ground, crossed the poet's path, before 
 he could reach the door, and, with a calm, but queen- 
 like gesture, rooted him to the spot. 
 
 She uttered but one word, but that word, as she 
 spoke it, seemed capable of stilling the waves of the sea. 
 
 ' Hold !' 
 
 No louder than you and I speak, reader, but irre- 
 sistibly. Such majesty and composure came from her, 
 upon them, with this simple monosyllable. They stood 
 spell-bound. Alexander thought no more of flight ; 
 nor Nathan of pursuit. 
 
 At last, by one of those inspirations, that convey 
 truth more surely than human calculation is apt to, the 
 poet cried out, ' This is herself, the other was a 
 personation !' 
 
 ' Berenice ' took no notice of this exclamation. She 
 continued, with calm majesty, — 
 
 ' " listen to a queen, whose steadfast will 
 In chains is royal, iu Kome uuconciuer'd still ; 
 O'er my bowed head though waves of sorrow roll, 
 I still retain the empire of my soul." ' 
 
 Her two hearers stood spell-bound. And then did 
 Alexander taste the greatest pleasure earth affords — to 
 be a poet, and to love a great actress, and to hear the 
 magic lips he loved speak his own verse. Love, taste, 
 and vanity were all gratified at once. With what rich 
 flesh and blood she clothed his shadowy creation ; the
 
 134 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 darling of his brain was little more than a skeleton ; 
 it was reserved for the darling of his heart to complete 
 the creation. And then his words, oh ! what a majesty 
 and glory they took from her heavenly tongue. They 
 were words no more — they were thnnderbolts of speech, 
 and sparks of audible soul. He wondered at himself 
 and them. 
 
 Oldfield spoke his line, 
 
 ' O'er my bowed head thougli waves of sorrow roll,' 
 
 with a grand, though plaintive swell, like the sea itself 
 — it was really wonderful. 
 
 Alexander had no conception he or any man had 
 ever written so grand a line as ' O'er my bowed head 
 thousrh waves of sorrow roll.' He was in heaven. A 
 moment like this is beyond the lot of earth, and com- 
 pensates the smart that is apt to be in store, all in good 
 time, for the poet that loves a great actress, that is to 
 say, a creature with the tongue of an angel, the princi- 
 ples of a weasel, and the passions of a fish ! 
 
 ' And have those lips graced words of mine ?' gasped 
 Alexander. ' My verses, father !' 
 
 ' His verses ! no !' said Nathan, addressing the 
 actress ; ' can he write like the sound of a trumpet ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! Alexander, I like your play, particularly a 
 scene, where this poor queen sacrifices her love to the 
 barbarous prejudices of her captors.' 
 
 ' My favourite scene ! my favourite scene ! Father, 
 she likes my favourite scene !'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 135 
 
 ' Gentlemen, be so good as to lend yourselves to the 
 situation a moment — here, Susan !' In came Susan, 
 her eyes very red ; she had been employed realizing 
 that Alexander was not to be hers. 
 
 'You, sir!' continued Mrs. Oldfield, addressing 
 Nathan, ' are the Consul — the inexorable Father.' 
 
 'Oh! ami?' 
 
 ' Yes ! you must stand there — on that flower — like a 
 marble pillar — deaf to all my entreaties. You are 
 about to curse your son.' 
 
 ' I curse my boy ? Never !' 
 
 ' Father, for Heaven's sake, do what she bids you.' 
 
 ' Dress the scene,' continued she — ' farther off, Susan 
 — this is tragedy, don't huddle together as they do in 
 farce.' 
 
 ' But I am in such trouble, Anne.' 
 
 ' Of course you are — you are Tibulla — you are 
 jealous. You spy all our looks, catch all our words. 
 Now, mind your bushiess. The stage is mine. I 
 speak to my Tiberias.' She kicked her train adroitly 
 out of the way, and flowed like a wave on a calm day 
 towards Tiberias, who stood entranced, almost stagger- 
 ing under the weight of his own words, as they rolled 
 over him : — 
 
 ' " Obey the mandate of unfeeling Rome ; 
 
 Make camps your hearth, the battlefield your home ; 
 Fly vaiu delights, fight for a glorious name, 
 Forget that o'er we met, and live for Fame." 
 
 (In this last line she began to falter a little.)
 
 136 THE COURSE OF TKUE LOVE 
 
 ' "Alas ! I whom lost kingdoms could not move, 
 Am mistress of myself no more. I love ! 
 I love you, yet we part ; — my race proscribe, 
 My royal hand disdain this barbarous tribe. 
 This diadem, that all the nations prize, 
 Is an unholy thing in Roman eyes." ' 
 
 She did not merely speak, she acted these lines. 
 With what a world of dignity and pathos she said 
 'my royal hand disdain,' and in speaking of the 
 ' Diadem,' she slowly raised both hands, one somewhat 
 higher than the other, and pointed to her coronet, for 
 one instant. The pose would have been invaluable to 
 Sculptor or Painter. 
 
 'We are in the wrong,' began Nathan soothingly, 
 for the Queen had slightly indicated him as one of ' the 
 barbarous tribe.' — ' A lady like you ! — The Romans are 
 fools-asses-dolts-and-beasts,' cried Nathan, running the 
 four substantives into one. 
 
 ' Hush ! father !' cried the author reproachfully. 
 
 ' " And you, young maid, kill not my wounded heart ; 
 Ah ! bid me not from my Tiberias part." ' 
 
 (Tears seemed to choke her utterance.) 
 
 ' Oh no ! cousin,' drawled out Susan, ' sooner than 
 
 you should die of grief — it is a blow, but I give him 
 
 up—' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, Susan, you put me out.' 
 
 ' Now it is too melting,' whined Nathan, ' leave off 
 
 — there, do ye leave oft", — it is too melting.' 
 
 ' Isn't it ?' said Alexander, radiant. 'Go on ! go.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 137 
 
 on ! You whose dry eye — you whose dry eye, Mrs. 
 Oldfield.' 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield turned full on Nathan, and sinking 
 her voice into a deeper key, she drove the following 
 lines, slowly and surely through and through his poor, 
 unresisting, buttery heart : — 
 
 ' " You whose dry eye looks down on all our tears, 
 Pity yourself, — ah ! for yourself have fears. 
 Alone upon the earth some bitter daj', 
 You'll call your son your trembling steps to stay. 
 Old man ! regret, remorse, will come too late ; 
 In vain you'll pity then our sad, sad fate." 
 
 ' But, my good sir, you don't bear me out by your 
 dumb play, — you are to be the unrelenting sire.' 
 
 'Now, how ca-ca-ca-can I, when you make me 
 blubber ?' gulped out he ' whose dry eye,' Sic. 
 
 ' And me !' whined Susan. 
 
 ' Aha !' cried Alexander, with a hilarious shout, 
 ' I've made them cry with my verses !' 
 
 A smile, an arched smile wreathed the Tragic 
 Queen's countenance. 
 
 Alexander caught it, and not being yet come to his 
 full conceit, pulled himself up short : ' No,' cried he, 
 ' no ! it was you who conquered them with my weak 
 weapon ; you, whose face is spirit, and whose voice is 
 music. Enchantress/- 
 
 Here, Alexander, who was gracefully inclining 
 towards the charmer, received a sudden ])ush from the 
 excited Nathan, and fell plump on his knees as intended.
 
 138 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Speak again,' cried he, ' for you are my queen. I 
 love you. What is to be my fate ?' 
 
 'Alexander,' said Anne, fluttering as she had never 
 fluttered before : ' you have so many titles to my 
 esteem. Oh ! no, that won't do. See, sir, he does it 
 almost as well as I do. 
 
 ' " Live, for I love you ; 
 My life is his who saved that life from harm ; 
 This pledge attests the valour of your arm. Here, look!" ' 
 
 And she returned him his pocket-book. 
 
 ' His pocket-book !' said Nathan, his eyes glazed 
 with wonder. ' Why, how did his tragedy come in 
 his pocket-book ; I mean, his pocket-book in his 
 tragedy ; which is the true part, and which is the lie ? 
 Oh ! dear, the dog has made his father cry, and now I 
 have begun, I don't like to leave off somehow.' Then, 
 before his several queries could be answered, he con- 
 tinued, 'So, this is Play Acting, and it's a sin ! Well 
 then — I like it.' And he dried his eyes, and cast a look 
 of brilliant satisfaction on ail the company. 
 
 He was then silent, but Alexander saw him the next 
 minute making signals to him to put more fire and 
 determination into his amorous proposals. 
 
 Before he could execute these instructions, a clock 
 on the chimneypiece struck three. 
 
 The actress started, and literally bundled father and 
 son out of the house, for in those days plays begun at 
 five o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Oldfield, however, invited them to sup with
 
 NEVER DID RUN SJIOOTir. 139 
 
 her, conditionally ; if she was not defeated in ' The 
 Rival Queens.' ' If I am,' said she, ' it will be your 
 interest to keep out of ray way ; for, of course, I shall 
 attribute it to the interruptions and distractions of this 
 morning.' 
 
 She said this with an arch, and, at the same time, 
 rather wicked look, and Alexander's face burned in a 
 moment. 
 
 'Oh,' cried he, 'I should be miserable for life.' 
 
 ' Should you ?' said Anne. 
 
 ' You know I must.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' (and a single gleam of lightning shot 
 from her eyes) ' I must not be defeated.' 
 
 At five o'clock, the theatre was packed to the ceil- 
 ing, and the curtain rose upon ' The Rival Queens,' 
 about which play much nonsense has been talked. It 
 is true, there is bombast in it, and one or two speeches 
 that smack of Bedlam ; but there is not more bombast 
 than in other plays of the epoch, and there is ten times 
 as much fire. The play has also some excellent turns 
 of language and some great strokes of nature, in par- 
 ticular the representation of two different natures agi- 
 tated to the utmost by the same passion, jealousy, is 
 full of genius. 
 
 ' The Rival Queens ' is a play for the stage, not the 
 closet. Its author was a great reader, and the actors 
 who had the benefit of his reading charmed the ])ublic 
 in all the parts, but in process of time actors arose who
 
 140 THE C0URS1-: OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 had not that advantage, and ' Alexander the Great ' 
 became too much for them. They could not carry off' 
 his smoke, or burn with his fire. The female charac- 
 ters, however, retained their popularity for many years 
 after the death of the author, and of Betterton, the 
 first 'Alexander,' They are the two most equal 
 female characters that exist in one tragedy. Slight pre- 
 ference is commonly given by actors to the part of 
 ' Roxana,' but when Mrs. Bracegirdle selected that 
 part, Mrs. Oldfield took ' Statira ' with perfect com- 
 placency. 
 
 The theatre was full — the audience in an unusual 
 state of excitement. 
 
 The early part of the first act received but little 
 
 attention. At length Statira glided on the scene. 
 
 She was greeted with considerable applause ; in answer 
 
 to which she did not duck and grin, according to rule, 
 
 but sweeping a rapid, yet dignified curtsey, she barely 
 
 indicated her acknowledgments, remaining Statira. 
 
 ' " Give me a knife, a draught of poison, flames ! 
 
 Swell, heart! break, break, thou stubborn thing!" ' 
 
 Her predecessors had always been violent in this 
 scene. Mrs. Oldfield made distress its prominent sen- 
 timent. The critics thought her too quiet, but she 
 stole upon the hearts of the audience, and enlisted 
 their sympathy on her side before the close of the act. 
 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle, M'ho stood at the wing during the 
 scene, turned round to her toady, and said, shrugging 
 her shoulders, ' Oh, if that is all the lady can do !'
 
 NE VEIi DID RUN SMOOTH. 141 
 
 In the third act Mrs. Bracegirdlc made her entrk- 
 with great spirit, speaking, as she came on, the line — 
 ' 0, you have ruined me I I shall be mad!' 
 
 She was received with great appLiuse, on which she 
 jnstantly dropped Roxana, and became Mrs. B., all 
 wreathed in smiles ; the applause being ended, she 
 returned to Roxana as quickly as it is possible to do 
 after such a deviation. She played the scene with im- 
 mense spirit and fire, and the applause was much 
 greater than Statira had obtained in the first act. 
 
 Applause is the actor's test of success. 
 
 The two queens now came into collision, and their 
 dialogue is so dramatic that I hope I may be excused 
 for quoting it, with all its faults. 
 
 Roxana. Madam, I hope you will a queen forgive : 
 Eoxana weeps to see Statira grieve; 
 How noble is the brave resolve you make. 
 To quit the world for Alexander's sake ! 
 Vast is your mind, you dare thus greatly die, 
 And yield the king to one so mean as I ; 
 Tis a revenge will make the victor smart, 
 And much I fear your death will break his heart. 
 
 Statira. You counterfeit, I fear, and know too well 
 How much your eyes all beauties else excel; 
 lloxana, who though not a princess born, 
 In chains could make the mighty victor mourn. 
 Forgetting power when wine had made him warm, 
 And senseless, yet even then you knew to charm : 
 Preserve him by those arts that cannot fail. 
 While I the loss of what I love bewail. 
 
 Roxana. I hope your majesty will give me leave 
 To wait you to the grove, where you would grieve ; 
 Where, like the turtle, you the loss will moan 
 Of that dear mate, and murmur all alone. 
 
 Statira. No, proud triumpher o'er my falling state. 
 Thou shalt not stay to fill me with my fate ;
 
 142 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Go to the conquest which your wiles may boast, 
 And tell the world you left Statira lost. 
 Go seize my faithless Alexander's hand, 
 Both hand and heart were once at my command ; 
 Grasp his lov'd neck, die on his fragrant breast, 
 Love him like me whose love can't be express'd. 
 He must be happy, and you more than blest ; 
 While I in darkness hide me from the day, 
 That with my mind I may his form sui-vey. 
 And think so long, till I think life aw^ay. 
 
 Eoxiina. No, sickly virtue, no. 
 Thou shalt not think, nor thy love's loss bemoan. 
 Nor shall past pleasures througli thy fancy run ; 
 That were to make thee blest as I can be ; 
 But thy no-thought I must, I will decree : 
 As thus, I'll torture thee till thou art mad. 
 And then no thought to purpose can be had. 
 
 Statira. How frail, how cowardly is woman's mind ! 
 We shriek at thunder, dread the rustling wind. 
 And glitt'ring swords the brightest eyes -will blind ; 
 Yet when strong jealousy iutiames the soul. 
 The weak -will roar, and calms to tempests roll. 
 Rival, take heed, and tempt me not too far; 
 My blood may boil, and blushes show a war. 
 
 Boxana. When you retire to your romantic cell, 
 I'll make thy solitary mansion hell ! 
 Thou shalt not rest by day, nor sleep by night, 
 But Still, Eoxana shall thy spirit fright ; 
 Wanton in dreams if thou dar'st dream of bliss. 
 Thy roving ghost may think to steal a kiss ; 
 But when to his sought bed thy wand ring air 
 Shall for the happiness it wished repair, 
 How will it groan to fmd thy rival there ? 
 How ghastly wilt thou look when thou shalt see, 
 Through the drawn curtains tliat great man and me, 
 Wearied with laughing joys that shot to the soul. 
 While thou shalt grinning stand, and gnash thy teeth, and Lowl ! 
 
 Statira. barb"rous rage ! my tears I cannot keep. 
 But my full eyes in spite of me will weep. 
 
 Boxana. The king and I in various pictures drawn. 
 Clasping each other, shaded o'er with lawn,
 
 XEVER DID RUN S3I00TII. 143 
 
 Shall be the'daily presents I will send, 
 
 To help thy sorrow to her journey's end; 
 
 And when we hear at last thy hour draws nigh, 
 
 •My Alexander, my dear love, and I, 
 
 Will come and hasten on thy lingering fates, 
 
 And smile at-.d kiss thy soul out through the grates.' 
 
 Statira. 'Tis well, I thank thee ; thou hast waked a rage, 
 Whose boiling now no temper can assuage ; 
 I meet thy tides of jealousy with more. 
 Dare thee to duel, and dash thee o'er and o'er. 
 
 Moxana. What would you dare? 
 
 Statira. Whatever you dure do, 
 My warring thoughts the bloodiest tracks pursue ; 
 I am by love a fury made, like you; 
 Kill or be killed, thus acted by despair. 
 
 lioxana. Sure the disdain'd Statira does not dare ? 
 
 Statira. Yes, tow'ring proud Koxana, but I dare. 
 
 Moxana. I tow'r indeed o'er thee ; 
 Like a fair wood, the shade of kings I stand, 
 W^hile thou, sick weed, dost but infest the land. 
 
 Statira. No, like an ivy I will curl thee round. 
 Thy sapless trunk of all its pride confound. 
 Then dry and wither'd, bend thee to the ground. 
 What Sysigambis' threats, objected fears, 
 My sister's sighs, and Alexander's tears, 
 Could not effect, thy rival rage has done ; 
 [ My soul, whose start at breach of oaths begun. 
 Shall to thy ruin violated run. 
 I'll see the king in spite of all I swore. 
 The' curs'd, that tliou may'st never see him more. 
 
 In this female duel Statira appeared to great advan- 
 tage. She exhibited the more feminine character of 
 the two. The marked variety of sentiment she threw 
 into each speech, contrasted favourably with the other's 
 somewhat vixenish monotony ; and every now and then 
 she gave out volcanic flashes of great power, all the 
 more effective for the artful reserve she had hitherto 
 made of her phj'sical resources. The effect was dec-
 
 144 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 trical when she, the tender woman, suddenly wheeled 
 upon her opponent with the words ' Rival, take heed,' 
 etc. And now came the climax ; now it was that Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle paid for her temporary success. She had 
 gone to the end of her tether long ago, but her antago- 
 nist had been working on the great principle of Art — 
 Climax. She now put forth the strength she had 
 economised ; at each speech she rose and swelled 
 higher, and higher, and higher. Her frame dilated, 
 her voice thundered, her eyes lightened, and she swept 
 the audience with her in the hurricane of her passion. 
 There was a moment's dead silence, and then the whole 
 theatre burst into acclamations, which were renesved 
 again and again ere the play was suffered to proceed. 
 At the close of th» scene Statira had overwhelmed 
 Roxana ; and, as here she had electrified the audience, 
 so in the concluding passage of the play she melted 
 them to tears — the piteous anguish of her regret at 
 being separated by death from her lover. 
 
 ' What, must I lose my life, my lord, for ever ?' 
 
 And then her pitying tenderness for his sorrow ; and 
 then her prayer to him to live ; and, last, that exquisite 
 touch of woman's love, more angelic than man's — 
 
 ' Spare Boxana's lite ; 
 
 'Twas love of you that caused her give nie death ;' 
 
 and her death with no thought but love, love, love upon 
 her lips ; all this was rendered so tenderly and so 
 divinely, that no heart was untouched, and few eyes
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 145 
 
 wer(! dry now in the crowded theatre. Statira died ; 
 the other figures remained upon the stage, but to the 
 spectators the play was over ; and when the curtain fell 
 there was but one cry, ' Oldfield !' ' Oldfield !' 
 
 In those days people conceived opinions of their own 
 in matters dramatic, and expressed them then and 
 there. Roma locuta est, and Nance Oldfield walked 
 into her dressing-room the queen of the English stage. 
 
 Two figures in the pit had watched this singular 
 battle with thrilling interest. Alexander sympathised 
 alternately with the actress and the queen. Nathan, 
 after hanging his head most sheepishly for the first 
 five minutes, yielded wholly to the illusion of the 
 stage, and was 'transported out of this ignorant 
 present ' altogether ; to him Roxana and Statira were 
 bond fide queens, women, and rivals. The Oldworthys 
 were seated in Critic's Row : and after a while 
 Nathan's enthusiasm and excitement disturbed old gen- 
 tlemen who came to judge two actresses, not to drink 
 poetry all alive O. 
 
 His neighbours proposed to eject Nathan ; the said 
 Nathan on this gave them a catalogue of actions, any- 
 one of which, he said, would re-establish his constitu- 
 tional rights and give him his remedy in the shape of 
 damages : he wound up with letting them know he was 
 an attorney-at-law. On this they abandoned the 
 idea of meddling with him as hastily as boys drop the 
 baked half-pence in a scramble provided by their 
 
 L
 
 146 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 philantliropical seniors. So now Mrs. Oldfield was 
 queen of the stage, and Alexander had access to her 
 as her admh-er, and Nathan had a long private talk 
 with her, and then with some misgivings went down to 
 Coventry. 
 
 A story ousfht to end with a marriaofe : oufrht it not ? 
 Well, this one does not, because there are reasons that 
 compel the author to tell the truth. The poet did not 
 marry the actress and beget tragedies and comedies. 
 Love does not always end in marriage, even behind the 
 scenes of a theatre. But it led to a result, the value of 
 which my old readers know, and my young ones will 
 learn — it led to a very tender and life-long friendship. 
 And, oh ! how few out of the great aggregate of love 
 affairs lead to so high, or so good, or so affectionate a 
 permanency as is a tender friendship. 
 
 One afternoon INIrs. Oldfield wrote rather a long 
 letter thus addressed in the fashion of the day — 
 
 To Mr. Nathan Oldworthy, 
 
 A ttor ney-at-Law, 
 
 In the Town of Coventry, 
 At his house there in the ^Market street. 
 
 This, with all despatch. 
 
 Nathan read it, and said, ' God forgive m.e for tliink- 
 ing ill of any people because of their business,' and his 
 eves filled.
 
 NEVER DID llUX SMOOTH. 147 
 
 The letter described to Nathan an interview the 
 actress had with Alexander. That interview (several 
 months after our tale) v,'as a long, and at some mo- 
 ments, a distressing one, especially to poor Alexander : 
 hut it had been long meditated, and was firmly carried 
 out ; in tliat interview this generous woman conferred 
 one of the greatest benefactions on Alexander one 
 human being can hope to confer on another. She 
 persuaded a Dramatic Author to turn Attorney. He 
 was very reluctant then ; and very grateful afterwards. 
 These two were never to one another as though all had 
 never been. They were friends as long as they were 
 on earth together. This was not so very long. Alex- 
 ander lived to eighty-six ; but the great Oldfield died 
 at forty-seven. Whilst she lived, she always consulted 
 her Alexander in all difficulties. One day she sent for 
 him : and he came sadly to her bed-side ; it was to 
 make her will. He was sadder than she was. She 
 died. She lay in state, like a Royal Queen; and 
 noblemen and gentlemen vied to hold her pall as they 
 took her to the home she had earned in Westminster 
 Abbey. Alexander, faithful to the last, carried out all 
 her last requests : and he tried, poor soul, to rescue her 
 Fame from the cruel ftite that awaits the great artists 
 of the scene, — oblivion. He wrote her Epitaph. It is 
 first-rate of its kind ; and prime Latin for once in a 
 way :— 
 
 L ^
 
 148 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Hie juxta rcquiescit 
 
 Tot inter Poetarum laudata noniina 
 
 ANNA OLDFIELD. 
 
 Nee ipsa minore laude digria. 
 
 Nunquam ingenium idem ad pai'tes 
 
 diversissiraas nobilius fuit: 
 
 Ita tamen ut ad singulas 
 
 non faeta sed nata esse videretur. 
 
 In Tragoediis 
 
 Formse splendor, oris dignitas, incessus majestas, 
 
 Tanta voeis suavitate temperabantur 
 
 Ut nemo esset tam agrestis tarn durus spectator 
 
 Quin in admirationem totus reperetur. 
 
 In Comcedia autem . 
 
 Tanta vis, tam venusta hilaritas, 
 
 Tam euriosa felicitas, 
 
 Ut neque sufficerent spectando ociili, 
 
 Neque plaudendo manus. 
 
 There, brother, I have done what I can for your 
 sweetheart, and I have reprinted your Epitaph after 
 one hundred years. 
 
 But neither you nor I, nor all our pens, can fight 
 against the laws that rule the Arts. Each of the great 
 Arts fails in some thing, is unapproachably great in 
 others. The great Artists of the Scene are paid in 
 cash ; they cannot draw bills at fifty years' date. 
 
 They are meteors that blaze in the world's eye — and 
 vanish. 
 
 We are farthincj candles that cast a ffleam all around 
 four yards square for hours and hours. 
 
 Alexander lived a life of business honest, honor- 
 able, and graceful, too ; for the true poetic feeling is 
 ineradicable it colors a man's life — is not colored
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 149 
 
 by it. AncLwhen he had reached a great old age, it 
 befell that Alexander's sight grew dim, and his spirit 
 was weary of the great city, and his memory grew 
 weak, and lie forgot parchments, and dates, and 
 reports, and he began to remember as though it was 
 yesterday the pleasant fields, where he had played 
 among the lambs and the butter-cups in the morning 
 of his days. And the old man said calmly, ' Vixi ! 
 Therefore now I will go down, and see once more those 
 pleasant fields ; and I will sit in the sun a little while ; 
 and then I will lie beside my father in the old church- 
 yard.' And he did so. It is near a hundred years ago 
 now. 
 
 So Anne Oldfield sleeps in Westminster Abbey, near 
 the poets whose thoughts took treble glory from her 
 while she adorned the world : and Alexander Old- 
 worthy lies humbly beneath the shadow of the great old 
 lofty spire in the town of Coventry. 
 
 Requiescat in pace ! 
 
 ' And all Christian souls, I pray Heaven.'
 
 150 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 It is the London Season : come into the country I 
 It is hot, and dusty, and muddy here ; and this open- 
 ing of all the drains, which is to bridle all the disorders 
 by and by, poisons us dead meanwhile, O Board of 
 Health ! Come into the country ! 
 
 In Oxfordshire, about two miles from the Thames, 
 and on the skirts of the beech forest that lies between 
 Wallingford and Henley, stands an irregular farm- 
 house ; it looks like two houses forced to pass for one ; 
 for one part of it is all gables, and tile, and chimney 
 corners, and antiquity ; the other is square, slated, and 
 of the newest cut outside and in. The whole occupie& 
 one entire side of its own farm-yard, being separated 
 from the straw only by a small rubicon of gravel and a 
 green railing ; though at its back, out of the general 
 view, is a pretty garden. 
 
 In this farm-house and its neighbourhood the events 
 of my humble story passed a very few years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield, proprietor of the farm, had built the 
 new part of the house for herself, though she did little 
 more than sleep in it. In the antique part lived her-
 
 NEVER DID nUX SMOOTH. 151 
 
 cousin, old farmer Hathorn, with his wife and his son 
 Robert. Hathorn was himself proprietor of a little 
 land two miles oft', but farmed Mrs. Mayfield's acres 
 upon some friendly agreement, which they contrived to 
 understand, but few else could, least of all a shrewd 
 lawyer. 
 
 The truth is, the inmates, like the house, were a 
 little behind their age : they had no relations that were 
 not contained within these four walls, and the feeling 
 and tie of blood was very strong between them all. 
 
 The Hathorns had one son, Robert, a character ; ho 
 was silent, and passed with some for sulky ; but he was 
 not sulky, only reserved and thoughtful; he was, 
 perhaps, a little more devoid of all levity than becomes 
 a young man. He had great force and weight of cha- 
 racter ; you might see that in his brow and his steady 
 manner free from flourishes. A\ itli the Hathorns lived 
 Mr. Casenower, a retired London tradesman. This 
 gentleman had been bought out of a London firm for 
 his scientific way of viewing things : they had lost such 
 lots of money by it. 
 
 Lie had come to the Hathorns for a month, and had 
 now been with them a year, with no intention on 
 either side of parting yet awhile. This good accord 
 did not prevent a perpetual strife of opinions between 
 Casenower and old Hathorn. Casenower, the science- 
 bitten, had read all the books chemists wrote on agri- 
 culture, and permitted himself to believe every word- 
 Hathorn read nothing on agriculture but the sheep.
 
 152 THK COUESE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 the soil, the markets, and the clouds, Sec, and some- 
 times read them wrong, but not so very often. 
 
 Rose Mayfield was a young widow, fresh, free, high 
 spirited, and jovial ; she was fond of company, and its 
 life and soul wherever she was. She loved flirtation, and 
 she loved work ; and when she could not combine them 
 she would take them by turns ; she would leave the 
 farm every now and then, go to a friend at Oxford, 
 Reading, or Abingdon, and flirt like wild-fire for a 
 fortnight ; then she would return to the farm, and men 
 boys horses and work would seem to go more lively 
 before she had been back an hour. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield was a grazier. Though she aban- 
 doned her arable land to her cousin's care, she divided 
 with him her grass acres, and bred cattle, and churned 
 butter, and made cheeses, and showed a working arm 
 bare till dinner-time (one o'clock) six days in the 
 week. 
 
 This little farm-house then held a healthy, happy- 
 party; but one was not quite content. Parents are 
 matrimonial schemers ; they cannot help it ; it's no use 
 talking. Old Hathorn wanted Rose Mayfield to marry 
 his son Robert, and so make all sure. The farmer was 
 too wise to be always tormenting the pair to come 
 together, but he secretly worked towards that end 
 without being seen through by them. 
 
 Their ages were much the same ; and finer speci- 
 mens of rustic stature and beauty in either sex were not 
 to be seen for miles. But their dispositions were so
 
 NEVER DID EUX SMOOTH. 153 
 
 different that when, upon a kind word or a civihty 
 passing between them, old liathorn used to look at 
 Mrs. Hathorn, Mrs. Hathorn used to shake her head, 
 ss much as to say, ' May be, but I doubt it." 
 
 One thing the farmer built on was this ; that though 
 Mrs. May field was a coquette, none of her bcaus 
 followed her to the farm. ' She won't have them here,' 
 argued Hathorn, ' and that shows she has a respect for 
 Robert at bottom.' 
 
 The good farmer's security was shaken by a little 
 circumstance. Bix form, that lay but a mile from our 
 ground, was to let, and, in course of time, was taken 
 by a stranger from Berkshire. Coming into a farm is 
 s, business of several months ; but the new tenant, a 
 gay, dashing young fellow, came one day to look over 
 his new farm ; and, to Hathorn's surprise, called on 
 him, and enquired for Mrs. Mayfield. At sight of the 
 new-comer, that lady coloured up to the eyes, and 
 introduced him to her cousin as Mr. Hickman. The 
 name, coupled with her manner, struck Hathorn, but 
 he said nothing to Rose. He asked his wife who this 
 Hickman was. ' He is a stranger to me,' was the 
 reply, ' ask Rose ; I hear he was her beau out Abingdon 
 way.' 
 
 Here was a new feature. The good farmer became 
 very uneasy ; but country-folks have plenty of tact. 
 He said little — he only warned Robert, who did not 
 seem dismayed by the intelligence, and held himself 
 on his <ruard.
 
 154 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 That same evening the whole family party were 
 seated together towards sundown, in Ilathorn's 
 dining-room — the farmer smoking a clay pipe, Mrs. 
 Hathorn sewing, Mrs, Mayfield going in and out 
 making business ; but Robert was painfully reading 
 some old deeds he had got from Mrs. IMayfield the 
 week before. This had been the young man's occupa- 
 tion for several evenings, and Mrs. Mayfield had 
 shrugged her shoulders at him and his deeds mxore 
 than once. 
 
 On the present occasion, finding the room silent and 
 reposeful, a state of things she abhorred, she said to 
 Mrs. Hathorn, in a confidential whisper, so bell-like, 
 that they all heard it, as she meant them, ' Has your 
 Robert any thoughts of turning lawyer at present ?' 
 
 The question was put so demurely that the old 
 people smiled and did not answer, but looked towards 
 Robert to answer. The said Robert smiled, and went 
 on studying the parchment. 
 
 ' He doesn't make us much the wiser, though ; does 
 he ?' continued Mrs. Mayfield. ' Silence !' cried the 
 tormentor, the next moment, ' he is going to say some- 
 thing. He is only waiting till the sun goes down.' 
 
 'He is only waiting till he has got something to 
 say,' replied Robert, in his quiet way. 
 
 ' Ah!' was the reply ; ' that is a trick you have got. 
 I say, Jane, if I was to wait for that, what would 
 become of the house ?' 
 
 ' It would not be so gay as it is, I dare say, Rose.'
 
 NEVER DID EUN SMOOTH. 155 
 
 * And that would be a pity, you know. Well, Bob, 
 when do you look to have something to say ? to-morrow 
 night — if the weather holds ?' 
 
 ' I think I shall have something to say as soon as I 
 have read this through.' He examined the last leaf — 
 then laid it down. ' I have soraethino- to sav.' 
 
 Mrs. Hathom laid down her work. 
 
 * Cousin May field,' said Robert, ' what do you think 
 of Drayton Farm ?' 
 
 Cousin Mayfield, who had been all expectation, 
 burst into a fit of laughter that rano- throuo-h the room 
 like a little peal of bells. Mrs. Hathom looked vexed, 
 and Robert coloured for a moment ; but he resumed 
 coolly : ' Why, it is two hundred acres, mostly 
 good soil, and it marches with your up-hill land. 
 Squire Phillips, that has just got it, counts it the cream 
 of his estate.' 
 
 *And what have I to do with Squire Phillips and 
 Drayton,' 
 
 ' Why, this. Rose. I think Drayton belongs to you.' 
 
 ' Nonsense — is the boy mad ? Why, Squire Phillips 
 got it along with Hurley, and Norton, and all the 
 Lydalls' farms. Of course they are all mine by right 
 of blood, if every one had their own ; but they were all 
 willed away from us fifty years ago. \\ ho doesn't 
 know that ? No : Squire Phillips is rooted there too 
 fast for us to take him up.' 
 
 'It does not belong to Squire Phillips,' Mas the cool 
 reply.
 
 15G THE COURSE OF TIIUE LOVE 
 
 ' To whom, then ?' 
 
 'To you, Rose ; or, if not to you, to father yonder 
 — hut, unless I am much mistaken, it belongs to you. 
 I am no great discourser,' continued Robert ; ' so I 
 have written it down to the best of my ability here. I 
 wish you would look at this paper, and you might read 
 it over to father and mother, if you will be so good : I 
 am going my rounds ' — and out strolled Mr. Robert, 
 to see that every cow was foddered, and every pig had 
 his share of the trough. 
 
 Mrs. Maytield took Robert's paper, and read what 
 he had written — some score of little dry sentences, each 
 of them a link in a chain of fact — and this was the 
 general result : — Fifty years ago Mrs. Mayfield's father's 
 father had broken off all connection with his son, and 
 driven him out of his house and disinherited him, and 
 adopted in his stead the father of Squire Phillips. The 
 disinherited, being supplied with money by his mother, 
 had got on in the world, and consoled himself for the 
 loss of his father's farms by buying one or two of his 
 own. He died before his father, and bequeathed all 
 he possessed to his daughter Rose. At last the old 
 fellow died at an immense age, and under his will 
 Squire Phillips took all his little estates : but here came 
 in Robert's discovery. Of those four little estates, one 
 had come into the old fellow's hands from his wife's 
 father, and through his wife, and a strict settlement, 
 drawn so long ago that all except the old fellow who 
 meant to cheat it had forgotten it, secured the
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 157 
 
 Drayton estate, after his parents' death, to Rose May- 
 field's father, who by his will had unconsciously trans- 
 ferred it to Rose. 
 
 This, which looks clear, had been patiently disen- 
 tangled from a mass of idle words by Robert llathorn, 
 and the family began to fall gradually into his opinion. 
 The result was, Mrs. Mayfield went to law with Squire 
 Phillips, and the old farmer's hopes revived ; for he 
 thought, and with reason, that all this must be another 
 link between Robert and Rose — and so the months 
 glided on. The fate of Drayton was soon to be tried 
 at the Assizes. Mr. Hickman came over now and 
 then, preparatory to settling on Bix. Mrs. Mayfield 
 made no secret that she found him 'very good com- 
 pany' — that was her phrase — and he courted her 
 openly. Another month brought the great event of 
 the agricultural year, ' the harvest.' This part of 
 Oxfordshire can seldom get in its harvest without the 
 assistance of some strange hands, and Robert agreed 
 with three Irishmen and two Hampshire lads the after- 
 noon before the wheat harvest. ' With these and our 
 own people we shall do well enough, father,' said he. 
 
 Just before the sun set Mrs. Hathorn was seated 
 outside her own door with her work, when two people 
 came through the farm-yard to speak to her ; a young 
 woman and a very old man. The former stood a little 
 in the rear ; and the old man came up to Mrs. Hathorn, 
 and, taking off his hat, begged for employment in the 
 fields.
 
 158 THE COURSE OF TliUE LOV'E 
 
 ' Our number is made up, old man,' was the answer. 
 
 The old man's head drooped ; but he found courage 
 to say, ' One more or less won't matter much to you, 
 and it is the bread of hfe to us.' 
 
 ' Poor old man,' said Mrs. Hathorn, ' you are too 
 old for harvest work, I doubt.' 
 
 ' No such thing, dame,' said the old man testily. 
 
 ' What is it, mother ?' cried Robert from the barn. 
 
 'An old man and his daughter come for harvest 
 work. They beg hard for it, Robert.' 
 
 ' Give them their supper, mother, and let them go.' 
 
 ' I will, Robert ; no doubt the poor things are hun- 
 gry and weary and all :' and she put down her work to 
 go to the kitchen, but the old man stopped her. 
 
 'We are here for work, not for charity,' said he; 
 * and won't take anything we don't earn.' 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn looked surprised, and a little affi'onted. 
 The girl stepped nearer. 
 
 ' No need to speak so sharp, grandfather,' said she, 
 in a clear, cold, but winning voice ; ' charity is not 
 so common. We thank you, dame. He is an old 
 soldier, and prouder than becomes the like of us. Good 
 even, and good luck to your harvest !' 
 
 They turned to go. 
 
 ' Stop, girl !' said Mrs. Hathorn. ' Robert,' cried 
 she, ' I wish you would come here.' 
 
 Robert put on his coat and came up. 
 
 ' It is an old soldier, Robert ; and they seem decent 
 folk, the pair of them.'
 
 KEVER DID i;UX SMOOTH. 159 
 
 'An old soldier?' said Eobert, looking uitli some 
 interest at the old man, who, though stiff in the joints, 
 was very erect. 
 
 ' Ay ! young man,' said the other boldly, ' v^'hcn I 
 was your age I fought for the land ; and now, you see, 
 I must not work upon it ! ' 
 
 Robert looked at his mother. 
 
 ' Come, Robert,' said she, ' we may all live to be old, 
 if it pleases God.' 
 
 'Well,' said Robert, 'it seems hard to refuse an old 
 soldier ; but he is very old, and the young woman looks 
 delicate ; I am sure I don't know how to bargain with 
 them.' 
 
 ' Count our two sickles as one, sir,' said the girl 
 calmly. 
 
 ' So be it,' said Robert ; ' any way, we will give you 
 a trial:' and he returned to his work. And (.'orporal 
 Patrick, for that was the old soldier's name, no longer 
 refused the homely supper that was offered him, since 
 he could work it out in the morning. 
 
 The next morning at six o'clock the men and women 
 were all in the wheat : Robert Hathorn at the head of 
 them, for Robert was one of the best reapers in the 
 country side. 
 
 Many a sly jest passed at the expense of Patrick and 
 his grand- daughter Rachael. The old man often 
 answered, but Rachael hardly ever. At the close of 
 the day they drew apart from all the rcsi:, and seemed 
 content when they were alone together.
 
 160 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 In the course of a day or two the reapers began to 
 observe that Rachael was very handsome ; and then she 
 became the object of much coarse admiration. Rachael 
 was as little affected by this as by their satire. She 
 evaded it with a cold contempt which left little more to 
 be said : and then her rustic admirers took part with 
 the women against her. 
 
 Rachael was pale ; and perhaps this was one reason 
 why her beauty did not strike the eye all at once ; but 
 when you came to know her face, she was beautiful. 
 Her long eye-lashes were heavenly ; her eye was full 
 of soul ; her features were refined, and her skin was 
 white and transparent, and a slight blush came readily 
 to it, at which moment she was lovely. It must be 
 owned she did not appear to advantage in the field 
 among the reapers; for there she seemed to feel at 
 war ; and her natural dignity degenerated into a cei*- 
 tain doggedness. After a while Mrs. Hathorn took a 
 fancy to her ; and when she was beside this good 
 motherly creature, her asperity seemed to soften down^ 
 and her coldness turned to a not unamiable pcnsive- 
 ness. 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn said one evening to Robert, ' Robert^ 
 look at that girl. Do try and find out what is the 
 matter with her. She is a good girl as ever broke 
 bread ; but she breaks my heart to look at her, she is 
 like a marble statue. It is not natural at her years to 
 be so reserved.' 
 
 * Oh !' answered Robert, ' let her alone, there are
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 161 
 
 talkers enough in the world. She is a modest girl — 
 the only one in the field, I should say, and that is a 
 great ornament to all women, if they would but 
 see it.' 
 
 ' Well, Robert, at all events, have your eye on them ; 
 they arc strangers, and the people about here are 
 vulgar behaved to strangers, you know,' 
 
 ' I'll take care ; and as for Rachael, she knows how 
 to answer the fools — I noticed that the first day.' 
 
 Sunday evening came : the villagers formed in groups 
 about the ale-house, the stocks, and the of er points of 
 resort, and their occasional laughter fell discordantly 
 upon the ear, so holy and tranquil seemed the air and 
 the sky. Robert Hathorn strolled out at the back of 
 the house to drink the Sabbath sunset after a week of 
 toil : at the back of the largest barn was a . hed, and 
 from this shed as he drew near to it there issued 
 sounds that seemed to liim as sweetly in unison with 
 that holy sunset as the villagers' rude mirth was out of 
 tune. He came to the back of the shed, and it was 
 Rachael reading the Bible aloud to her grandfather. 
 The words were "-olden, and fell like dew u, on all the 
 spirits within their reach — upon Robert, who listened 
 to them unseen ; upon Patrick, whose testy natui'e was 
 calmed and soothed, and upon Rachael herself, who 
 seemed at this moment more hopeful, and less deter- 
 mined to shrink within herself. Her voice, always 
 sweet and winning, became richer and mellower as she 
 
 M
 
 162 TUE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 read ; and when she closed tlie book, slie said with a 
 modest fervour one would hardly have suspected her of, 
 * Blessed be God for this book, grandfather ! I do think 
 it is the best thing of all the good things He has given 
 the world, and it is very encouraging to people of low- 
 condition like us.' 
 
 * Ay,' said the old man, ' those were bold words you 
 read just now, " Blessed are the poor." ' 
 
 ' Let us take them to heart old man, since, strange 
 as they sound, they must be true,' 
 
 Corporal Patrick pondered awhile in silence, then 
 said he was weary : ' Let us bless the good people, 
 whose bread we have eaten this while, and I will go to 
 .sleep ; Rachael, my child, if it was not for you, I could 
 wish not to wake again.' 
 
 Poor old man, he was a-weary ; he had seen better 
 days, and fourscore years is a great age, and he had 
 been a soldier, and fought in great battles head erect, 
 ■and now, in his feeble days, it was hard to have to bow 
 the back and bend over the sickle among boys and 
 girls who jeered him, and whose peaceful grandsires he 
 had defended ao:ainst Engfland's enemies. 
 
 Corporal Patrick and his grand-daughter went into 
 the barn to sleep, as heretofore, on the straw, llobert 
 Hathorn paced thoughtfully home, and about half an 
 hour after this a cowboy came into the barn to tell 
 Corporal Patrick there were two truckle beds at his 
 service in a certain loft, which he undertook to show
 
 . NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH, 163 
 
 !iim. So the old soldier and Rachael bivouaclvcd no 
 longer in the barn. 
 
 ' Who sent you ?' said Rachael to the boy. 
 
 'Mistress.' 
 
 After this Robert Hathorn paid considerable atten- 
 tion both to Patrick and Rachael, and she showed by 
 degrees that she was not quite ice to a man that could 
 respect her ; not that her manner was inviting even to 
 him, but at least it was courteous, and once or twice 
 she even smiled oa hira, and a beautiful smile it was 
 when it did come ; and whether fi-om its beauty or its 
 rarity made a great impression on all who saw it. 
 
 It was a fine harvest time qpon the whole, and with 
 5ome interruptions the work went merrily on ; the two 
 strangers, in spite of hard labour, improved in appcar- 
 ^mce. Mrs. Hathorn set this down to the plentiful and 
 nourishing meals which issued twice a-dav from her 
 kitchen, and as they had always been her favourites she 
 drew Robert's attention to the bloom, that began to 
 ipread over Rachael's cheek, and the old soldier's 
 brightening eye, as her work in a great measure. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield was away, and during her absence 
 Hickman had not con.e once to visit his farm or 
 3Iathorn"s. This looked ugly. 
 
 ' ^^ ife,' said the farmer one day, ' what malvcs our 
 Robert so moody of late ?' 
 
 ' Oh, you have not'ced it, have you ? Tiien 1 am 
 right ; the boy has som.ething on his mind.' 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 * That is easy to be seen, and I think I know what it is/ 
 ' Do you, John ; what ?' 
 
 ' W hy, he sees this Hickman is in a fair way to carry 
 off Rose Mayfield.' 
 
 ' It is not that.' 
 
 ' Why, what else can it be ?' 
 
 ' It is a wonder to me,' said Mrs. Hathorn, ' that a 
 man shouldn't know his own son better than you seem 
 to know Robert. They are very good friends ; but 
 what makes you think Robert would marry her ? have 
 you forgotten how strict he is about women ? Why 
 did he part with Lucy Blackwood, the only sweetheart 
 he ever had ?' 
 
 ' Hanged if I remember.' 
 
 * Because she got herself spoken of flirting at Oxford 
 Races once in a way ; and Rose does mostly nothing 
 else. And they do say, that once or twice since her 
 husband died, a hem ! — ' 
 
 ' She has kicked over the traces altogether ? Fiddle- 
 stick r 
 
 ' Fiddlestick be it ! She is a fine, spirity woman, 
 and such are apt to set folk talking more than they 
 can prove. Well, Robert "wouldn't marry a woman 
 that made folk talk about her.' 
 
 ' Oh, he is not such a fool as to fling the farm to a 
 stranger. When does Rose come home ?' 
 
 ' Next week, as soon as the assizes are over, and the 
 Drayton cause settled one way or other.'
 
 NEVER DID IlUN SMOOTH. 165 
 
 ' Well, when she comes back you will see hira clear 
 tip directly, and then I shall know what to do. They 
 must come together, and they shall come together ; and if 
 there is no other way, I know one that will bring them 
 together, and I'll work that way if I'm hanged for it.' 
 
 ' With all my 'heart,' said Mrs. Hathorn, cahnly : 
 ' you can but try.' 
 
 ' I will try all I know.' 
 
 Will it be believed, that while he was in this state of 
 uneasiness about his favourite project, Mr. Casenower 
 came and invited hira to a friendly conference ; an- 
 nounced to him that he admired ]\Irs. Mayfield beyond 
 measure and had some reason to think she was not 
 averse to him, and requested the farmer's co-opera- 
 tion ? 
 
 ' Confound the jade,' thought Hathorn, ' slie has 
 been spreading the net for this one too then : she 
 will break my heart before I have done with her.' 
 
 He answered demurely, ' that he did not understand 
 women ; that his mind was just now in the harvest ; and 
 he hoped Mi*. C, would excuse him, and try his luck 
 himself — along with the rest,' said the old boy rather 
 bitterly. 
 
 The harvest drew towards its close ; the barns began 
 to burst with the golden crops, and one fair rick after 
 another rose behind them like a rear-guard, until one 
 fine burning-hot day in September there remained 
 nothing but a small barley-field to carry.
 
 I GO THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 In the house Mrs. Hathorn and tlie servants were 
 busy preparing the harvest-home dinner; in the farm- 
 yard Casenower and old Hathorn were arguing a 
 point of husbandry ; the warm haze of a Se})teniber 
 day was over the fields ; the little pigs toddled about 
 contentedly in the straw of the farm-yard, rooting here 
 and grunting there ; the pigeons sat upon the barn 
 tiles in flocks, and every now and then one would come 
 shooting down, and settle v.itli flapping wings upon a 
 bit of straw six inches higher than the level ; and 
 ever and anon was heard the thunder of the horses' 
 feet as they came over the oak floor of a barn, draw- 
 ing a loaded waggon into it. 
 
 Suddenly a halloo was heard down the road ; Mr, 
 Casenower and Hathorn looked over the wall, and it 
 was ]\[rs. Mayfield's boy Tom, riding home full pelt 
 and hurrahing as he came alonij. 
 
 'We have won the day, farmer,' shouted he; 'you 
 may dine at Drayton if you wool. La bless you, the 
 judge would'nt hear a word again us. Hurrah ! 
 here comes the mistress ; hurrah !' And sure enough 
 .Mrs.-]\Iayfield was seen in her hat and habit, ridings 
 lier bay mare up at a hand gallop on the grass by the- 
 road side. Up she came ; the two men waved their 
 hats to her, which salute she returned on the spot, in 
 the middle of a great shy which her mare made as a 
 matter of course ; but before they could , speak she 
 stopped their mouths. ' Where is Robert ? not a word
 
 KEVER DID RUN SMOOTH, 167 
 
 till he is by. I have not forgot to whom I owe it.' 
 She sprang from the saddle, and gave a hand to each 
 of the men ; hut before they could welcome her, or 
 congratulate her, she had the word again. ' Why of 
 course you are ; you are going to tell me you have 
 been as dull as ditch-water since I went, as if I did'nt 
 know that ; and as for Drayton, we will all go there 
 together in the afternoon, and I'll kiss your Robert 
 then and there ; and then he will faint away, and we'll 
 come home in the cool of the evening. Is barley cart 
 done yet?' 
 
 ' No, you are just in time ; they are in the last field. 
 
 *Well, I must run in and cuddle Jane, and help 
 them on with dinner a bit.' 
 
 ' Ay, do. Rose ; put a little life into them.' 
 
 In about ten minutes Mrs. IMayfield joined them 
 again ; and old Hathorn, who had spent that period in 
 a brown study, began operations upon her like a cau- 
 tious general as he was. 
 
 His first step might be compared to reconnoitring 
 the ground ; and here, if any reader of mine imagines 
 that country people are simple and devoid of art, for 
 heaven's sake resign that notion, which is entirely 
 founded on pastorals written in metropolitan garrets. 
 
 Country people look simple ; but that is a part of 
 their profound art. They are the square-nosed sliarks 
 of terra firma. Their craft is smooth, plausible, and. 
 unfathomable. You don't believe me, perhaps. Well,
 
 168 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 then, my sharp cockney, go live and do business in 
 the country, and tell me at the year's end whether you 
 have not found humble unknown Practitioners of Hum- 
 bug, Flattery, Over-reaching, and Manoeuvre, to whom 
 Thieves' Inn London might go to school. 
 
 We hear much, from such as write with the butt-end 
 of their grandfather's flageolet, about simple swains 
 and downy meads ; but when you get there the natives 
 are at least as downy as any part of the concern. 
 
 ' I thought you would be home to-day. Rose.' 
 
 ' Did you ? Why ?' 
 
 ' Because Richard Hickman has been here twice this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Richard Hickman ? what was his business here ?' 
 
 ' Well, they do say you and he are to go to church 
 together one of these days — the pair of you.' 
 
 ' Well, if the pair of us go to church there will be a 
 pair of weddings that day.' 
 
 * How smooth a lie do come off a woman's tongue, 
 to be sure !' thought Mr. Hathorn. 
 
 Mr. Casenower put in his word. ' I trust I shall not 
 offend you by my zeal, Madam, but I hope to see you 
 married to a better man than Hickman.' 
 
 * With all ray heart, Mr. Cas— hem ! You find me 
 a better man, and I won't make two bites at him — ha ! 
 ha! ha!' 
 
 ' He bears an indifferent character — ask the farmer 
 here.'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 160 
 
 ' Oh,' said the farmer, with an ostentation of can- 
 dour, ' I don't believe all I hear.' 
 
 ' I don't believe half, nor a quarter,' said Mrs. ]\I. ; 
 ' but, for Heaven's sake, don't fancy I am wrapped up 
 In Richard Hickman, or in any other man : but he is 
 as good company as here and there one, and he has a 
 tidy farm nigh hand, and good land of his own out 
 Newbury way, by all accounts.' 
 
 'Good land,' shouted the farmer: ' did you ever ece it?' 
 
 'Not!.' 
 
 ' Rose,' said Hathorn, solemnly (he had never seen it 
 either), ' it is as poor as death ! covered with those long 
 docks, I hear, and that is a sure sign of land with no heart 
 in it, just as a thistle is a good sign. Do your books tell 
 you that ?' said he, suddenly turning to Casenower. 
 
 'No,' said that gentleman, with incredulous con- 
 tempt. 
 
 ' And it is badly farmed ; no wonder, when the 
 farmer never goes nigh it himself, trusts all to a sort 
 of bailiff. Mind your eye, Rose. "NVhy does he never 
 go there ? tell me that.' 
 
 ' Well, you know, of course he tells me he left it 
 out of regard for me.' 
 
 ' Haw ! haw ! haw ! why he has known you but six 
 months, and he has not lived at home this five years. 
 What do you think of it, J\Ir. (^'asenowcr ? ]Mind your 
 eye. Rose.' 
 
 'I mean to,' said Rose, and if you had seen the
 
 170 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 world of suppressed fun and peeping observation in the 
 said eye, you would have felt how capable it was of 
 minding itself, and of piercing like a gimlet even 
 through a rustic IMachiavel. 
 
 Mr. Casenower whispered to Hathorn, ' Put in a 
 word for me.' He then marched up to Rose, and 
 taking her hand, said with a sepulchral tenderness, 
 at which Hose's eyes literally danced in her head^ 
 ' Know your own value, dear Mrs. Mayfield, and do 
 not throw yourself away on an unworthy object.' He 
 then gave Hathorn a slight wink and disappeared, 
 leaving his cause in that simple rustic's hands. 
 
 ' It is all very fine, but if I am to wait for a man 
 without a fault, I shall die an old — fool.' 
 
 ' That is not to be thought of,' said Hathorn 
 smoothly ; ' but what you want is a fine steady young 
 man — like my Kobert, now.' 
 
 ' So you have told me once or twice of late,' said the 
 lady archly. ' Robert is a good lad, and pleases my 
 eye well enough, for that matter ; but he has a fault 
 that wouldn't suit me, nor any woman I should tiiink, 
 without she was a fool.' 
 
 ' Why, what is wrong about the boy ?' 
 
 'The boy looks sharper after women than women 
 will bear. He reads everything we do with magnifying 
 glasses : and I like fun, always did, and always shall ; 
 and then he would be jealous — and then I should leave 
 him the house to himself, that is all.'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTIF. 171 
 
 ' N(j, no ! you -would break him in to common 
 sense,' 
 
 ' More r.kely he would make a slave of me ; and, if 
 I am to be one, let me gild the chain a bit, as the say- 
 ing is.' 
 
 ' Now, Hose,' said the tactician, ' you know very wel) 
 a woman can turn a man round her linger if he loves 
 her.' 
 
 ' Of course I know that ; but Robert dees not hap- 
 pen to love me.' 
 
 ' Doesn't love you ! Ay, but he does !' 
 
 'What makes you think that?' 
 
 ' Oh, if you are blind I am not. He tries to hide it,. 
 because you are rich, and he is poor and proud.' 
 
 ' Oh, fie ! don't talk nonsense. AVhat signifies who 
 has the money?' 
 
 'The way I first found it out is, when they speak of 
 you marrying that Hickman he trimbles all over like. 
 Here comes his mother ; you ask her,' added the auda- 
 cious schemer. 
 
 ' No, no !' cried INIrs. INIayfield ; ' none of your 
 nonsense before her, if you please ;' and she ran oflT 
 with a heightened colour. 
 
 ' I shall win the day,' cried Hathorn to his wife. ' I 
 have made her believe Robert loves her, and now I'll 
 tell him she dotes on him. Why, what is the matter 
 with you ? You seem put out. \\ hat ails you ?' 
 
 ' I have just seen Robert, and I don't like his looks.
 
 172 THE COURSE OF TKUE LOVE 
 
 He is like a man in a dream tliis morning — worse than 
 ever.' 
 
 ' Why, what can be the matter with him ?' 
 
 ' If I was to tell you my thought it wouldn't please 
 you — and after all, I may' be wrong. Hush ! here he 
 is. Take no notice, for Heaven's sake.' 
 
 At this moment the object of his father's schemes 
 and his mother's anxiety sauntered up to them, with 
 his coat tied round his neck by the arms, and a pitch- 
 fork over his shoulder. ' Father,' said he, ' you may 
 tap the barrel ; the last waggon is coming up the 
 lane.' 
 
 ' Ay,' was the answer ; ' and you go and offer your 
 arm to Rose — she is come home — and ask her to dance 
 with you.^ 
 
 'I am not in the humour to gallivant,' was the 
 languid answer, ' I leave that to you, father.' 
 
 ' To me — at my time of life ! Is that the way to 
 talk at eight-and-twenty ? And Rose IMayfield — the 
 rose-tree in full blossom V 
 
 ' Yes ; but too many have been smelling at the 
 blossom for me ever to plant the tree in my garden.' 
 
 ' What does the boy mean ?' 
 
 ' To save time and words, father ; because you have 
 been at me about her once or twice of late.' 
 
 ' What ! is it because she likes dancing and diversion 
 at odd times? Is that got to be a crime, Parson 
 Bob?'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 173 
 
 ' No ! but I won't have a wife I couldn't trust at 
 those pastimes/ was the resolute answer. 
 
 ' Oh ! if you are one of the jealous-minded ones, 
 don't you marry any one, my poor chap !' 
 
 ' Father, there are the strange reapers to pay. 
 Shall I settle with them for you?' said Robert, 
 quietly. 
 
 ' No ! Let them come here ; I'll pay them,' an- 
 swered Hathorn, senior, rather sullenly. 
 
 If you want to be crossed and thwarted and vexed, 
 set your heart not on a thing you can do yourself, but 
 on something somebody else is to do : if you want to 
 be tormented to death, let the wish of your heart 
 depend upon ttvo people, a man and a woman, neither 
 of them yourself. Now do try this recipe ; you will 
 find it an excellent one. 
 
 Old Hathorn, seated outside his own door, with a 
 table and money bags before him, paid the Irishmen 
 and the Hampshire lads, and invited each man to the 
 harvest-home dinner. He M'as about to rise and put 
 up his money bags, when Mrs. Hathorn cried to him 
 from the house, ' Here are two more that have not been 
 paid ;' and the next minute old Patrick and Rachacl 
 issued from the house, and came in front of the table. 
 Robert, who was going in to dross, turned round and 
 leaned against the corner of the house, with his eyes 
 upon the ground. ' Let me sec,' said Hathorn, ' what 
 are you to have ?'
 
 174 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 * Count yourself,' replied Patrick ; ' you know what 
 you give the others.' 
 
 ' What I give the others ! but you can't have done 
 the work — ' 
 
 ' Not of two ; no, we don't ask the wages of two.' 
 
 * Of course you don't.' 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed Robert's face at this discus- 
 sion, but he remained with his eyes upon the ground. 
 
 ' Where's the dispute,' said the old soldier, angrily ; 
 * here are two that ask the wages of one ; is that haid 
 upon you ?' 
 
 ' There is no dispute, old man,' said Robert steadily. 
 ' Father, twenty-five times five shillings is six pound 
 five ; that is what you owe them.' 
 
 ' Six pound five, for a man of that age ?' 
 
 * And my daughter ; is she to go for nothing ?' 
 
 ' Your daughter, your daughter ; she is not strong 
 enouirh to do much, I'm sure.' 
 
 Rachael colored : her clear convincing voice fell 
 upon the disputants. ' We agreed with Master Robert 
 to keep a ridge between us, and we have done it as 
 well as the best reupcr. Pay us as one good reaper, 
 then.' 
 
 ' That's fair ! that is fjiir ! If you agreed with my 
 son, a bargain is a bargain ; but for all that, one good 
 iirm is better than two weak ones, and — ' 
 
 This tirade received an unexpected interruption. 
 Robert walked up to the table, without lifting his eyes
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 175 
 
 from the ground, and said, ' I ask your pardon, father, 
 your bad leg has kept you at home this harvest ; but 
 I rip't at the head of the band, and I assure you the 
 young woman did a man's share ; and every now and 
 then the old man took her place ; and so resting by 
 turns they kept ahead of the best sickle there. And 
 therefore I say,' continued Robert, raising his eyes 
 timidly, ' on account of their poverty, their weary 
 limbs, and their stout heart for work, you cannot pay 
 them less than one good reaper.' 
 
 'What is it, Robert?* said Mrs. Ilathorn, who had 
 come out to see the meaning of all this. 
 
 ' But if he would be juster still, mother, like hnn 
 that measures his succour to the need, he would pay 
 them as one and a half; I've said it.' 
 
 Ilathorn stared with ludicrous wonder. ' And why 
 not as two ? Are you mad, Robert ? taking their part 
 against me ?' 
 
 ' Enough said,' answered Patrick with spirit. ' Thank 
 you, Master Robert, but that would be an alms, and 
 we take but our due. Pay our two sickles as oi e, and 
 let us go.' 
 
 ' You see father,' cried Robert, ' these are decent 
 people ; and if you had seen liow they wrougl.t, your 
 heart would melt as mine does. O mother ! it makes 
 me ill to think there are poor Christians in tie wcrld 
 so badly oft' they must bow to work beyond their age 
 and strength to bear. Take a thought, f;Uhcr. A
 
 176 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 man that might be your father — a man of four-score 
 years — and a delicate woman — to reap, the hardest of 
 all country work, from dawn till sun-down, under this 
 scorching sun and wind that has dried my throat and 
 burnt my eyes, — let alone theirs. It is hard, father ; 
 and if you have a feeling heart you can't show it better 
 than here.' 
 
 ' There ! there !' cried the farmer, ' say no more ; 
 it is all right (you have made the girl cry, Bob). 
 Robert doesn't often speak, dame, so we are bound to 
 listen when he does. There is the money. I never 
 heard that chap say so many words before.' 
 
 ' We thank you all,' said Patrick ; ' my blessing be on 
 your grain, good folks ; and that won't hurt you from 
 a man of four-score.' 
 
 ' That it will not, Daddy Patrick,' said Mrs. Hathorn. 
 ' \ ou will stay for harvest-home, both of you ? Rachael, 
 if you have a mind to help me, wash some of the 
 dishes.' 
 
 ' Ay !' cried the farm'sr : ' and it is time you were 
 dressed, Bob.' And so the party separated. 
 
 A few minutes later Rachael came to the well, and 
 began to draw a bucket of water. This well worked 
 in the following manner ; A chain and rope were 
 passed over a cylinder, and two buckets were attached 
 to the several ends of the rope, so that the empty 
 bucket descending, helped in some slight degree the 
 full bucket to mount. This cylinder was turned by an
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH. 177 
 
 iron handle. The well was a hundred feet deep. 
 Rachael drew the bucket up easily enough until the 
 last thirty feet ; and then she found it hard work. Slie 
 had both hands on the iron handle, and was panting a 
 little like a tender fawn, when a deep but gentle 
 voice said in her ear, ' Let go, Rachael ;' and the 
 handle was taken out of her hand by Robert Hathorn. 
 • ' Never mind me. Master Robert,' said Rachael, 
 giving way reluctantly. 
 
 ' Always at some hard work or other,' said he ; ' you 
 will ijot be easy till you kill yourself.' And with this 
 he whirled the handle round like lightning with one 
 hand, and the biiiiet came up in a few moments. He 
 then filled a pitcher for her, which she took up, and 
 was about to go into the house with it. 'Stay one 
 minute, Rachael.' 
 
 ' Yes, Master Robert.' 
 
 ' How old are you, Rachael ?' Robert blushed after 
 he had put this question ; but he was obliged to. say 
 something, and he did not well know how to begin. 
 
 ' Twenty-two,' was Rachael's answer. 
 
 * Don't go just yet. Is this your first year's reaping ?' 
 
 * No, the third.' 
 
 ' You must be very poor, I am afraid.' 
 
 * Very poor indeed, Master Robert.' 
 ' Do you live far from liere ?' 
 
 ' Don't you remember 1 told you I came twenty 
 miles from here ?' 
 
 N
 
 178 THE COUESIi: OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Why, Newbury is about that distance.' 
 
 * I think your mother will want me. ' 
 
 ' Well, don't let me keep you against your will.' 
 
 Rachael entered the Hathorn's side. 
 
 Robert's heart sank. She was so gentle, yet so cold 
 and sad. There was no winning her confidence, it 
 appeared. Presently she returned with an empty 
 basket to fetch the linen from Mrs. Mayfield's side. 
 As she passed Robert, who, in despair, had determined 
 not to try any more, but who looked up sorrowfully 
 in her face, she gave him a smile, a very faint one, but 
 still it did express some slight recognition and thanks. 
 His resolve melted at this one little ray of kindly 
 feeling. 
 
 ' Rachael,' said he, ' have you any relations your 
 way?' 
 
 ' Not now !' and Rachael was a beautiful statue 
 again. 
 
 ' But you have neigbours who are good to you ?' 
 
 ' We ask nothing of them.' 
 
 ' Would it not be better if you could both live near us ?' 
 
 ' I think not.' 
 
 * Why ? my mother has a good heart.' 
 ' Indeed she has.' 
 
 ' And Mrs. Mayfield is not a bad one, either.' 
 ' I hear her well spoken of.' 
 
 ' And yet you mean to live on, so far away from all 
 of us?'
 
 KEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 179 
 
 ' Yes ! I must go for the linen,' She waited a 
 moment as it were for permission to leave him, and 
 nothing more being said, she entered IMrs. Mayfield's 
 side. 
 
 Robert leaned his head sorrowfully on the rails and 
 fell into a reverie. 
 
 ' I am nothing to her,' thought he ; ' her heart is far 
 away. How good, and patient, and modest she is, but 
 oh, how cold ! She turns my heart to stone. I am a 
 fool ; she has some one in her own country to whom 
 she is as warm, perhaps, as she is cold to us strangers — 
 is that a fault ? She is too beautiful, and too good, not 
 to be esteemed by others beside me. Ah I her path is 
 one way, mine another — worse luck — would to God 
 she had never come here ! Well, may she be happy ! 
 She can't hinder me from praying she may be happy, 
 happier than she is now. Poor Rachael !' 
 
 A merry but somewhat vulgar voice broke incredibly 
 harsh and loud, as it seemed, upon young Hathurn's 
 reverie. 
 
 ' Good day, Master Robert.' 
 
 Robert looked up, and there stood a young former 
 in shooting jacket and gaiters, with a riding-whip in 
 his hand. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mr. Hickman.' 
 
 ' The Mistress is come home, I hear, and it is your 
 harvest-home to-day, so I'll stop here, for I am tired, 
 and so is my horse for that matter.' ]\rr. Hickman 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 wasted the latter part of this discourse on vacancy, for 
 young Hawthorn went coolly away without taking aiiy 
 further notice of him. 
 
 ' I call that the cold ' shoulder,' thought Hickman : 
 ' but it is no wonder ; that chap wants to marry her 
 himself, of course he does — not if I know it, Bob 
 Hathorn.' 
 
 It was natural that Hickman, whose great object 
 just now was Eose Mayfield, should put this reading on 
 Robert's coldness : but in point of fact, it was not so ; 
 the young man had no feeling towards Hickman but 
 the quiet repugnance of a deep to a shallow soul, 
 of a quiet and thoughtful to a rattling fellow. Only 
 just now gaiety was not in his heart, and as Hickman 
 was generally gay, and always sonorous, he escaped to his 
 own thoughts. Hickman watched his retreat with an 
 eye that said, ' You are my rival, but not one I fear : 
 I can out-wit you.' And it was with a smile of trium- 
 phant conscious superiority that Richard Hickman 
 turned round to go into Mrs. Mayfield's house, and 
 found himself face to face with Rachael, who was just 
 coming out of it with the basket full of linen in her hand. 
 
 Words cannot paint the faces of this woman and this 
 man, when they saw one another. They both started, 
 and were red and white by turns, and their eyes glared 
 upon one another ; yet, though the surprise was equal, 
 the emotion was not quite the same. The woman 
 stood, her bosom heaving slowly and high, her eye
 
 NEVER DID KUN SMOOTH, 181 
 
 dilating, her lips apart, her elastic figure rising higher 
 and higher. She stood there wild as a startled panther, 
 uncertain whether to fight or to fly. The man, after 
 the first start, seemed to cower under her eye, and half 
 a dozen expressions that chased one another across his 
 face left one fixed there — Fear ! abject fear ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 They eyed one another in silence : at last Hickman 
 looked down upon the ground and said, in faltering, 
 ill-assured tones, ' H-how d'ye do, Rachael? I — I 
 didn't expect to see you here.' 
 
 ' Nor I you.' 
 
 ' If you are busy, don't let me stop you, you know,' 
 said Hickman, awkwardly and confused, and, like one 
 with no great resources comi)elled to utter something. 
 
 Then Rachael, white as a sheet, took up her basket 
 again, and moved away in silence ; the young farmer 
 eyed her apprehensively, aud, being clearly under the 
 influence of some misgiving as to her intentions, said. 
 ' If you blow me it will do me harm and you no good, 
 you know, Rachael. Can't we be friends?' 
 
 ' Friends ! — you and I ?' 
 
 ' Don't be in such a hurry— let us talk it over. I 
 am a little better off than I used to be in tho^e days.'. 
 
 'What is that to me?'
 
 182 THE COURSE OF TIIUE LOVE 
 
 ' Plenty ; if you won't be spiteful, and set others 
 against me in this part :' — by ' others,' doubtless 
 Hickman intended Mrs. Mayfield. 
 
 ' I shall neither speak nor think of you,' was the cold 
 answer. 
 
 Had Richard Hickman been capable of fathoming 
 Rachael Wright, or even of reading her present marble 
 look and tone aright, he would have seen that he had 
 little to apprehend from her beyond contempt, a thing 
 he would not in the least have minded ; but he was 
 cunning, and, like the cunning, shallov/ish, so he 
 pursued his purpose feeling his way with her to the 
 best of his ability. 
 
 ■ *I have had a smart bit of money left me lately, 
 Rachael.' 
 
 ' What Is that to me ?' 
 
 ' What is it ? why, a good deal, because I could 
 assist you noiv, maybe.' 
 
 'And what right have you to assist me 7ww .'' 
 
 ' Confound it, Rachael, how proud you are ! — why 
 you are not the same girl. Oh ! I see, as for assisting 
 you, I know you would rather work than be in debt to 
 any one ; but then there is another besides you, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' What other ?' said Rachael, losing her impassibility, 
 and trembling all over at this simple word. 
 
 ' What other ? why, confound it, who ever saw a 
 girl fence like this. I suppose you think I am not man
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 183 
 
 enough to do what's right : I am though now I have 
 
 got the means.' 
 ' To do what ?' 
 
 ' Why to do my duty by hhn — to provide for him.' 
 ' For WII03I ?' cried Rachael wildly, ' when he is 
 
 DEAD !' 
 
 ' Dead ?' 
 
 ' Dead !' 
 
 ' Don't say so, Rachael ; don't say so.' 
 
 ' He is dead !' 
 
 ' Dead ! I never thought I should have cared much ; 
 hut that word do seem to knock against my heart. I'd 
 give a hundred pounds to any one would tell me 
 it is not true — poor thing ; I've been to blame ; I've 
 been to blame.' 
 
 ' You were not near us when he came into the 
 world ; you were not near us when he went out of it. 
 He lived in poverty with me ; he died in poverty for 
 all I could do, and it is against my will if I did not die 
 with him. Our life or our death gave you no care. 
 ^^lliles he lived, you received a letter every six months 
 from me, claiming my rights as your wife.' 
 
 Hickman nodded assent. 
 
 ' Last year you had no letter.' 
 
 ' No more there was.' 
 
 ' And did not that tell you ? Poor Rachael had lost 
 her consolation and her hope, and had no more need of 
 iinything !'
 
 184 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Poor Rachael !' cried the man, stung with sudden 
 remorse. ' Curse it all ! Curse you, Dick Hickman 1' 
 Then, suddenly recovering his true nature, and, like us 
 men, never at a loss for an excuse against a woman, he 
 said angrily, ' What is the use of letters — why didn't 
 you come and tell me you were so badly off?' 
 
 ' Me come after you the wrong-doer ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! confound your pride ! should have sent the old 
 man to me, then.' 
 
 'My grandfather, an old soldier as proud as fire ! 
 Send him to the man who robbed me of my good name 
 by cheating the law. You are a fool ! Three times 
 he left our house with his musket loaded to kill you — 
 three times I got him home again ; but how ? — by 
 prayers, and tears, and force — all three, or you would 
 not be here in life.' 
 
 ' The devil ! what an old Tartar ! I say, is he here 
 along with you ?' 
 
 ' Oh, you need not fear,' said Hachael, with a faint 
 expression of scorn, ' he is going directly, and I am 
 going too ; and when I do go from here I shall have 
 lost all the little pleasure and hope I have in the world/ 
 said Rachael, sorrowfully, and, as she said this, she 
 became unconscious of Hickman's presence, and moved 
 away without looking at him ; but that prudent person 
 dared not part with her so. He was one of those men 
 who say, ' I know the women,' and, in his sagacity, he 
 dreaded this woman's tongue. He determined.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 185 
 
 therefore, to stop her tongue, and not to risk Rose 
 Mayfield and thousands for a few pounds. 
 
 ' Now, llachacl, listen to me. Smce the poor child 
 is dead, there is only you to think of. We can do one 
 another good or harm, you and I ; better good than 
 harm, I say. Suppose I offered you twenty pounds, 
 now, to keep dark Y 
 
 ' You poor creature !' 
 
 'Well, thirty, then?' 
 
 ' Oh ! hold your tongue — you make me ashamed of 
 myself as well as you.' 
 
 ' I see what it is, you want too much ; you want me 
 to be your husband.' 
 
 ' No ; while my child lived, I claimed my right for 
 his sake ; but not now, not now,' and the poor girl 
 suddenly turned her eyes on Hickman with an inde- 
 scribable shudder, that a woman would have interpreted 
 to the letter ; but no man could be expected to read it 
 quite aright, so many things it said. 
 
 Hickman, the sagacious, chose to understand by it 
 pique and personal hostility to him, and desire of 
 vengeance ; and, having failed to bribe her, he now 
 resolved to try and outface her. 
 
 It so happened that at this very moment meriy 
 voices began to sound on every side. The clatter was 
 heard of tables bein<r brouofht out of the kitchen, and 
 the harvest-home peo[)le were seen coming tov>aids the 
 place where llachael and Hickman were : so Hickman
 
 186 THE COUIISE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 said, hastily, ' Any way, don't think to blow mc — for 
 if you do, I'll swear ye out, my lass, I'll swear ye 
 out' 
 
 ' No doubt you know how to lie,' was the cold 
 reply. 
 
 ' There, Rachael,' cried Hickman, piteously, lower- 
 ing his tone of defiance in a moment ; ' don't expose 
 me before the folk, whatever you do. Here they all 
 come, confound them !' 
 
 Rachael made no answer. She retired into the 
 Hathorns' house, and in a few minutes the tables were 
 set just outside the house, and loaded with good cheer, 
 and the rustics began to ply knife and fork as zealously 
 as they had sickle, and rake, and pitchfork ; and so, on 
 the very spot of earth where Rachael had told Hickman 
 her child was dead and vrith him her heart, scarce five 
 minutes afterwards came the rattle of knives and forks, 
 and peals of boisterous lauglitcr and huge feeding. 
 And thus it happens to many a small locality in this 
 world. — tragedy, comedy, and farce are acted on it by 
 turns, and all of them in earnest. So harvest-home 
 dinner proceeded with great zeal ; and after the solids 
 the best ale was served round ad libitum ; and intoxica- 
 tion, sanctified by immemorial usage, followed in due 
 course. However, as this symptom of harvest was a 
 long time coming on upon the present occasion, owing 
 to peculiar interruptions, the reader will not have to 
 follow us so far, w^hich let us hope he will not regi-et.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 187 
 
 Few words, worthy of being embalmed in an im- 
 mortal story, warranted to live a month, were uttered 
 during the discussion of the meats, for when the fruges 
 consumers nati are let loose upon beef, bacon, and pud- 
 ding, among the results dialogue on a large scale is not. 
 
 ' Yet shall the Muse ' embalm a conversation that 
 passed on this occasion between the Brothers Messenger, 
 labourers aged about fifty, who had been on this farm 
 nearly all their lives. 
 
 Bob Messenger was carving a loin of veal. Jem 
 Messenger sat opposite him, eating bacon and beans 
 on a very large scale. 
 
 Boh, (aiming at extraordinary politeness) : ' Wool 
 you have some veal along with your bacon, Jem ?' 
 
 Jem. ' That I wool not, Bob,' (with a reproachful 
 air, as one whom a brother had sought to entrap.) 
 
 When the table was cleared of the viands, the ale- 
 mugs and horns were filled, and Mrs. May field and the 
 Hathorns took part in the festive ceremony — that is, 
 they did not sit at the table, but they showed themselves 
 from time to time, and made their humble guests 
 heartily welcome by word and look and smile, as their 
 forefathers had done at harvest-time each in their 
 century and generation. 
 
 Presently Bob Messenger arose solemnly, with his 
 horn of ale in his hand. The others rose after him, 
 knowing well what he was 'going to do, and chaunted 
 with him the ancient Harvest-home stave : —
 
 188 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Here's a health unto our master, 
 The founder of the feast, 
 Not only to our master, 
 But to our mistress. 
 Ta-o Voices. Then drink, boys, drink, 
 
 And see as you do not spill. 
 For if you do you shall drink to 
 Our health with a free goodwill. 
 Chorus. Then drink, boys, drink,' &c. 
 
 Corporal Patrick and Rachael left the table. They 
 had waited only to take part in this compliment to 
 their entertainers, and now they left. The reason was, 
 one or two had jeered them before grace. 
 
 The corporal had shaved and made himself very 
 clean, and he had put on his faded red jacket, which he 
 alv/ays carried about, and Rachael had washed his 
 neck-handkerchief, and tied it neatly about his neck, 
 and had put on herself a linen collar and linen wrist- 
 band, very small and plain, but white and starched ; and, 
 at this their humble attempt to be decent and nice, one 
 or two, (who happened to be dirty at the time), could 
 not help sneering. Another thing, Rachael and 
 Patrick were strangers. Some natives cut a jest or two 
 at their expense, and Patrick was about to answer by 
 flinging his mug at one man's head, but Rachael re- 
 strained him, and said, ' Be patient, grandfather. They 
 were never taught any better. When the farmer's 
 health has been drunk we can leave them.' 
 
 People should be able to take jests, or to answer 
 them in kind, not to take them to heart ; but Rachael
 
 NEVEU DID RUN SMOOTH. 189 
 
 and Patrick had seen better days, (they were not so 
 very proud and irritable then), and now Patrick, 
 naturally high spirited, was sore, and could not bear to 
 be fdliped, and llachael was become too cold and 
 bitter towards all the vulgar natures that blundered up 
 against her, not meaning her any good nor much 
 harm either, poor devils ! 
 
 A giggle greeted their departure ; but it must bo 
 owned it was a somewhat uneasy giggle. 
 
 There was in the company a certain Timothy Brown 
 John, who was naturally a shoemaker, but was turned 
 out into the stubble annually at harvest time. The lad 
 had a small rustic genius for music, which he illustrated 
 by playing the clarionet in church to the great regret 
 of the clergyman. Now after the chorus one or two 
 were observed to be nudging this young man, and he 
 to be making those mock-modest difficulties which are 
 part of a singer in town or country. 
 
 ' Ay, Tim,' cried Mrs. May field, ' you sing us a 
 song.' 
 
 ' He have got a new one. Mistress !' put in a carter's 
 lad, with saucer eyes. 
 
 ' What is it about boy ?' 
 
 ' Well,' replied the youngster, ' it is about love,' (at 
 which the girls giggled) ; ' and I think it is about you, 
 Dame Mayfield.' 
 
 ' About me ! then it must be nice.' 
 
 Chorus of Rustics — ' Haw ! luiw ! haw I'
 
 190 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Come, Mr. Brown John, I will trouble you for It, 
 directly. I can see the bottom of some of their mugs, 
 Jane.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Brown John, looking down, ' I 
 don't know what to say about it. Mayhap, you might n't 
 like it quite so well before so much company.' 
 
 ' Why not ? pray.' 
 
 ' Well, you see, Dame, I am afeard I shall give you 
 a red face, like, with this here song.' 
 
 ' If you do, I'll give you one w'ith this here hand.' 
 
 Chorus — ' Haw, haw ! Ho !' 
 
 ' Drat the boy, sing, and have done with it.' 
 
 ' I'll do my best. Ma'am,' replied Tim gravely. 
 
 On this, Mr. Brown John drew from his pocket a 
 diminutive flute, with one key, and sounded his G at 
 great length. He then paused, to let his G enter his 
 own mind and those around ; he then composed his 
 features like a preacher, and was about to enter on his 
 undertaking, when the whole operation was suddenly 
 and remorselessly and provokirigly interrupted by Mr. 
 Casenower, who, struck as it appeared with a sudden 
 irresistible idea, burst upon them all with this question — 
 
 ' Do any of you know one Rebecca Reid, in this part 
 of the world ?' 
 
 The company stared. 
 
 Some, to whom this question had been put by him 
 before, giggled ; others scratched their heads ; others 
 got no farther than a stricken look. A few mustered
 
 NEVER DID KUX SMOOTH. 191 
 
 together their wits, and assured J\lr. Casenower tl)ey 
 had never heard tell of the ' wench.' 
 
 ' How odd/ cried Casenower, ' it is not such a com- 
 mon combination of" sounds, one would think.' 
 
 ' I know Hannah Reid,' squeaked a small cow-boy ; 
 he added, with enthusiasm, ' she is a capital slider, she 
 is ! ! !' and he smiled at some reminiscence, perchance 
 of a joint somersault upon the ice last winter. 
 
 ' Hannah does not happen to be Rebecca, young gen- 
 tleman,' objected Casenower ; 'sing away, John Brown.' 
 
 ' I'm agoing-, sir. G g g g ' and he 
 
 impressed the key note once more upon their souls. 
 Then sang Brown John the following song, and the 
 rest made the laughing chorus, and, as they all laughed 
 in different ways, though they began laughing from 
 their heads, ended in laughing from their hearts. It 
 was pleasant and rather funny, and proved so successful, 
 that after this II Maedro Brown John and his song- 
 were asked to all the feasts in a circle of seven miles. 
 
 There were eight verses : we will confine ourselves 
 to two, because paper is not absolutely valueless, what- 
 ever the trivoluminous may think. 
 
 ' When Richartl appeared, how my heart pit-a-pat 
 With a tenderly motion, with which it was seized! 
 To hear the young feUow's gay innocent chat 
 I could listen for ever — oh dear! I'm so pleased! 
 I 'm so pleased ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 r m so pleased ! ha ! ha ! ha I ha ! 
 I'm agoing to be married — oh dear! I'm so pleased! 
 I'm agoing to be married — oh dear I I'm so pleased! 
 Chorus. I 'm so pleased, &c.
 
 192 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 *0h, sweet is the smell of the new-mown hay, 
 And Eweet are the cowslips that spring in May ; 
 But sweeter's my lad than the daisied lawn, 
 Or the hay, or the flower, or the cows at the dawn. 
 I'm so pleased,' &e. 
 
 We writers can tell ' the what,' but not so very often 
 ' the how,' of anything-. I can give Tim's bare words, 
 but it is not in my power nor any man's to write down 
 the manner of II Maestro in singing. How he dwelt 
 on the short syllables, and abridged the long — his 
 grave face till he came to his laugh — and then the 
 enormous mouth that flew suddenly open and the jovial 
 peal that came ringing through two rows of teeth like 
 white chess-pawns, and with all this his quaint, inde- 
 scribable, dulcet, rustic twang, that made his insignifi- 
 cant melody ring like church bells heard from the 
 middle of a wood, and taste like metheglin come down 
 to us in a yew-tree cask from the Druids ! 
 
 During the song, one Robert Munday and his son, 
 rural fiddlers, who by instinct nosed festivities, appeared 
 at the gate each with a green bag. A shriek of 
 welcome greeted them ; they were set in a corner, with 
 beef and ale galore, and soon the great table was 
 carried in, the ground cleared, the couples made, and 
 the fiddles tuning. 
 
 The Messrs. Munday made some preliminary flou- 
 rishes, like hawks hovering uncertain where to pounce, 
 and then, like the same bird, they suddenly dashed 
 into ' The Day in June.'
 
 NEVEE DID RUN SMOOTH, 193 
 
 Their style was rough, and bore a family likeness to 
 ploughing, but it was true, clean, and spirited ; the 
 notes of the arpeggio danced out like starry sparks in 
 fireworks. 
 
 Moreover, the Messrs. Munday played to the foot, 
 which is precisely what your melted-butter-violinist 
 always fails to do, whether he happens to be washing 
 out the soul of a waltz, or of a polka, or of a reel. 
 
 They also played so as to raise the spirits of all who 
 heard them, young or old, which is an artistic effect of 
 the very highest order however attained, and never is 
 and never will be attained by the melted-butter 
 violinist. 
 
 The fiddlers being merry, the dancers were merry ; 
 the dancers being merry, the fiddlers said to themselves 
 ' Aha ! we have not missed fire,' and so grew merrier 
 still ; and thus the electric fire of laughter and music 
 darted to and fro. Dance, sons and daughters of toil I 
 None had ever a better right to dance than you have 
 this sunny afternoon in clear September. It was you 
 who painfully ploughed the stiff' soil ; it was you 
 who trudged up the high incommoding furrow and 
 cast abroad the equal seed. You that are women 
 bowed the back and painfully drilled holes in the soil, 
 and poured in the seed ; and this month past you have 
 all bent, and with sweating brows cut down and housed 
 the crops that came from the seed you planted. 
 Dance ! for those yellow ricks, trophies of your labour 
 

 
 194 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOTE, 
 
 say you have a right to ; those barns, bursting with 
 golden fruit, swear you have a right to. Harvest-tide 
 comes but once a year. Dance ! sons and daughters 
 of toil. Exult over your work, smile with the smiling 
 year, and, in this bright hour, oh, cease my poor souls 
 to envy the rich and great ! Believe me, they are 
 never, at any hour of their lives, so cheery as you are 
 now. How can they be ? With them dancing is tame 
 work, an every-day business — no rarity, no treat — 
 don't envy them — God is just, and deals the sources of 
 content with a more equal hand than appears on the 
 surface of things. Dance, too, without fear ; let no 
 Puritan make you believe it is wrong; things are 
 wrong out of season, and right in season ; to dance in 
 harvest is as becoming as to be grave in church. The 
 Almighty has put it into the hearts of insects to dance 
 in the afternoon sun, and of men and women in every 
 age and every land to dance round the gathered crop, 
 whether it be corn, or oil, or wine, or any other fami- 
 liar miracle that springs up sixty-fold and nurtures and 
 multiplies the life of man. More fire, fiddlers ! play to 
 the foot, play to the heart, the sprightly ' Day in June.' 
 Ay ! foot it freely, lads and lasses ; my own heart is 
 warmer to think you are merry once or twice in your 
 year of labour — dance, my poor brothers and sisters, 
 sons and daughters of toil ! 
 
 After several dances, Mrs. Mayfield, who had been 
 uneasy in her mind at remaining out of the fun, could
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 195 
 
 bear inaction no longer, so she pounced on Robert 
 Hathorn and drew him into the magic square. Robert 
 danced, but in a very listless way : so much so, that his 
 mother, who stood by, took occasion to give him a 
 push and say, ' Is that the way to dance ?' at which 
 poor Robert tried to do better, but his limbs, as well 
 as his face, showed how far his heart was from his 
 heels. 
 
 Now, in the middle of this dance, suddenly loud and 
 angry sounds were heard approaching, and the voice of 
 old Patrick was soon distinguished, and the next 
 moment he was seen following Mr. Hickman, and, 
 hanging on his rear, loading him with invective. 
 Rachael was by his side, endeavouring, in vain, to 
 soothe him, and to end what to her was a most terrible 
 scene. At a gesture from Mrs. Mayfield, the fiddlers 
 left off and the rustics turned, all curiosity, towards 
 the interruption. 'There are bad hearts in the world,' 
 shouted Patrick to all present* vermin that steal into 
 honest houses and file* them — bad hearts, that rob the 
 poor of that which is before life ; oh, yes, far before 
 life !' and as he uttered the words, Patrick was observed 
 to stagger. 
 
 ' The old man is drunk,' said Hickman. ' I don't 
 know what he means.' 
 
 Rachael coloured high and cried, 'No I Master 
 Robert, I assure you he is not drunk, but he is not 
 * For defile. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 himself; he has been complaining this hour past ; see ! 
 look at his eye. Good people, my grandfather is ill ;' 
 and indeed, as she said these words, Patrick, who from 
 the moment he had staggered, had stared wildly and 
 confusedly around him, suddenly bowed his head and 
 dropped upon his knees ; he would have fallen on his 
 face, but Rachael's arm now held him up. 
 
 In a moment several persons came round them ; 
 amongst the rest Robert and Mrs. Mayfield. Robert 
 loosened his neckcloth, and looking at the old man's 
 face and eye, he said, gravely and tenderly, ' Rachael, 
 I have seen the like of this before — in harvest' 
 
 ' Oh, Master Robert, what is it ? 
 
 ' Rachael, it is a stroke of the sun !' — he turned to 
 his mother. ' God forgive us all, the old man was 
 never fit for the work we have put him to.' 
 
 ' Come, don't stand gaping there,' cried Mrs. May- 
 field ; ' mount my mare and gallop for the doctor — 
 don't spare her — off" wJth you ! Betsy, get a bed ready 
 in my garret.' 
 
 'Eh, dear!' said Mrs. Hathorn, 'I doubt the poor 
 thing's troubles are over,' and she put up her apron 
 and began to cry, 
 
 ' Oh, no !' cried Rachael. ' Grandfather — don't 
 leave me ! — don't leave me !' 
 
 Corporal Patrick's lips moved. 
 
 * I can't see ye ! I can't see any of ye !' he said, half 
 fretfully. ' Ah !' he resumed, as if a light had broken
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 197 
 
 in on him. ' Yes !' said he very calmly, ' I think I am 
 going;' but the next moment he cried in tones that 
 made the bystanders thrill, so wild and piteous they 
 were — 'My daughter! my daughter! — she will miss 
 me!' 
 
 Robert Hathorn fell on his knees, and took the old 
 hand with one of those grasps that bring soul into 
 contact with soul ; the old soldier, who was at this 
 moment past seeing or hearing, felt this grasp, and 
 turned to it as an unconscious plant turns to the light. 
 'I can't see you,' said he faintly; 'but, whoever you 
 are, take care of my child ! — she is such a good child !' 
 The hands spoke to one another still ; then the old 
 soldier almost smiled, and the anxious frightened look 
 of his face began to calm. ' Thank God,' he faltered, 
 ' they are going to take care of my child !' And, 
 almost with these words, he lost all sense, and lay pale, 
 and calm, and motionless at their feet, and his hand 
 could grasp Robert's no more* There was a moment 
 of dead silence and inquiring looks. Robert looked 
 into his face gravely and attentively. 
 
 When he had so inspected him a little while, he 
 turned to them all, and he said, in a deep and almost 
 a stern voice, 
 
 'Hats off!' 
 
 They all uncovered, and stood looking like stricken 
 deer at the old soldier as he lay. The red jacket had 
 nothing ridiculous now. When it was new and bright,
 
 198 THE COURSE OF TEUE LOVE 
 
 it had been in great battles. They asked themselves 
 now had they really sneered at this faded rag of 
 England's glory, and at that withered hero ? 
 
 ' Did n't think the old man was a going to leave us 
 like that,' said one of these rough penitents, 'or I 'd 
 never ha wagged my tongue again un.' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield gave orders to have him carried up to 
 her garret : and four stout rustics, two at his head and 
 two at his feet, took him up the stairs, and laid him 
 there on a decent bed. When Rachael saw the clean 
 floor, the little carpet round the foot of the bed, the 
 bright walls and windows, and the snowy sheets made 
 ready for her grandfather, she hid her face and wept? 
 and said but two words — ' too late ! too late !' 
 
 As Rachael was following her grandfather up the 
 stairs, she met Hickman : that worthy had w^atched 
 this sorrowful business in silence ; he had tears in his 
 eyes, and coming to her, he whispered in her ear, 
 ' Rachael, don't fret — # will not desert you now.' On 
 the landing, a moment after, Rachael met Robert 
 Hathorn : he said to her, ' Rachael, your grandfather 
 trusted you to me.' 
 
 When Hickman said that to her, Rachael turned and 
 looked at him. 
 
 When Robert said that to her, she lowered her eyes 
 away from him.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 199 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The poor battered soldier lay some hours between life 
 and death. Just before sunrise, Rachael, who had 
 watched him all night, and often moistened his temples 
 with vinegar, opened the window ; and as the morning 
 air came into the room, a change for the better was 
 observed in the patient — a slight colour stole into his 
 pale cheeks, and he seemed to draw a fuller breath, 
 and his heart beat more perceptibly. Rachael kneeled 
 and prayed for him, and then she prayed to him not to 
 leave her alone : the sun had been up about an hour, 
 and came fiery bright into the white-washed room ; for 
 it looked towards the East ; and Corporal Patrick's lips 
 moved, but without uttering a sound. Rachael prayed 
 for him again and most fervently. About nine o'clock 
 his lips moved, and this time Ik spoke, — 
 
 ' Rear rank, right wheel ! — ' 
 
 The next moment, a light shot into his eye. His 
 looks rested upon Rachael : he smiled feebly, but 
 contentedly, then closed his eyes, and slumbered 
 again. 
 
 Corporal Patrick lived. But it was a near thing, a 
 very near thing — he was saved by one of those accidents 
 we call luck. When Mrs. Mayfield's Tom rode for the 
 doctor, the doctor was providentially out. Had he
 
 200 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 been in, our tale would be now bidding farewell to 
 Corporal Patrick — for this doctor was one of the pig- 
 stickinor ones. He loved to stab men and women with 
 a tool that has slain far more than the sword in 
 modern days ; it is called ' the lancet.' Had he found 
 a man insensible, he would have stabbed him ; he 
 always stabbed a fellow-creature when he caught it 
 insensible: not very generous, was it? — now had he 
 drawn from those old veins one table-spoonful of that 
 red fluid which is the life of a man, the aged man 
 would have come to his senses only to sink the next 
 hour, and die for want of that vital stream stolen from 
 him by rule. 
 
 As it was he breathed ; and came back to life by 
 slow degrees. At first his right arm was powerless ; 
 then he could not move the right leg, but at last he 
 recovered the use of his limbs, but remained feeble, and 
 his poor head was sore confused : one moment he 
 would be quite himself |l another his memory of recent 
 events would be obscured — and then he would shake 
 his head and sigh — but Nature was strong in him : and 
 he got better — but slowly. 
 
 As soon as he was able to walk, Rachael proposed 
 to Mrs. Mayfield to return home, but Mrs, Hathorn 
 interposed, and requested Rachael to take her own 
 servant's place for another week, in order to let the 
 servant visit her friends. On these terms Rachael 
 remained, and did the work of the Hathorns' house,
 
 XEVER DID RUN SMOOTH, 201 
 
 and it was observed that during this period more 
 colour came to her cheek, and her listlessness and 
 languor sensibly diminished. 
 
 She was very active and zealous in her work, and 
 old Hathorn was so pleased with her, that he said one 
 day to Mrs, Hathorn : ' I don't care if Betsy never 
 comes back at all ; this one is worth a baker's dozen of 
 her, this Rachael.' 
 
 ' Betsy will serve our turn as well in the long run,' 
 said Mrs. Hathorn, somewhat drily and thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Betsy I' replied the fanner, contemptuously ; 'there 
 is more sense in this Rachael's forefinger than in that 
 wench's whole carcass.' 
 
 It was about two days after this, that the following 
 conversation took place between Robert Hathorn and 
 his mother : — 
 
 ' Is it true, what I hear, that Mr. Patrick talks about 
 going next week ?' 
 
 ' Have not they been here long enough, Robert ? I 
 wish they may not have been here too long.' 
 
 * Why too long, when you asked them to stay your- 
 self, mother ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I did, and I doubt I did very wrong. But it 
 is hard for a mother to deny her son.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to you, mother, but I don't 
 remember that ever I asked you,' 
 
 ' No ! no ! I don't say that you ever spoke your 
 mind, Robert ; but you looked up in ray face, and
 
 202 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 showed your wish plain enough to my eye ; and you 
 see a poor foolish body like me doesn't know how to 
 say no to her boy that never vexed her. I should 
 have been a better friend to you if I had turned my 
 head away, and made-believe not to see what is in 
 your heart.' 
 
 Robert paused awhile, then in a low anxious voice, 
 he whispered, 
 
 ' Don't you like her, mother ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! I like her, my poor soul. What is there to 
 dislike in her ? But I don't know her ?' 
 
 ' But I know her as well as if we had been seven 
 years acquainted.' 
 
 ' You talk like a child ! How can you know a girl 
 that comes from a strange part ?' 
 ' I'd answer for her, mother.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't answer for any young wench of them 
 all ! I do notice she is very close : ten to one if she 
 has not an acquaintance of some sort, good or bad.' 
 
 'A bad acquaintance, mother! Never! If you 
 had seen her through all the harvest-month as I did, 
 respect herself and make others respect her, you 
 Avould see that girl never could have made a trip in 
 her life.' 
 
 ' Now, Robert, what makes you so sad like, if you 
 have no misgivings about her ?' 
 
 ' Because, mother, I don't think she likes me so w^ell 
 as I do her.'
 
 * NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 203 
 
 ' All the better,' said Mrs. Hathorn, drily, ' make 
 
 up you mind to that.' 
 
 ' Do not say so ! do not say so !' said Robert, 
 
 piteously. 
 
 ' Well, Robert, she does not hate you, you may be 
 
 sure of that. Why is she in such a hurry to go away ?' 
 ' Because she has some one in her own country she 
 
 likes better than me.' 
 
 ' Ay ! that is the way you boys read women. More 
 
 likely she is afraid of liking you too well, and making 
 
 mischief in a family.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, do you think it is that?' 
 
 ' There, I am a fool to tell you such things.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no, no ! There is no friend like a mother.'' 
 
 ' There is no fool like a mother, that is my belief.' 
 
 ' No, no ! Give me some comfort, mother ; tell me 
 
 you see some signs of liking in her.' 
 
 ' Well, then, when she is quite sure you are not 
 
 looking her way, I can see her eye dwell upon you as 
 
 if it was at home.' 
 
 ' Oh, how happy you make me ; but, mother, how 
 
 you must have watched her ?' 
 
 ' Of course, I w atched her, and you, too. I 've seen 
 
 a long while how matters were going.' 
 
 ' But you never spoke to Rose, or my father ?' 
 
 ' If I had, she would tiave been turned out of the 
 
 house, and a good job, too ; but you W'ould have 
 
 fretted, you know,' and Mrs. Hathorn sighed.
 
 204 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE* 
 
 ' Mother, I must kiss you. I shall have courage to 
 speak to father about it now.' 
 
 ' Take a thought, Robert. His heart is set upon 
 your marrying your cousin. It would be a bitter pill 
 to the poor old man, and his temper is very hasty. 
 For Heaven's sake, take a thought. I don't know 
 what to do, I am sure.' 
 
 ' I must do it soon or late,' said Robert, resolutely. 
 ' No time so good as now. Father is hasty, and he will 
 be angry no doubt ; but after a while he will give in ; 
 I don't ask him favours every day. Do you consent, 
 mother ?' 
 
 ' Oh, Robert, what is the use asking me whether I 
 consent? I have only one son, and he is a good one. 
 I am afraid I could not say no to your happiness, 
 suppose it was ray duty to say no ;' but your father 
 is not such a fool as I am, and I am main doubtful 
 whether he will ever consent. I wish you could think 
 better of it?' 
 
 ' I will try him, mother, no later than to-day. Why, 
 here he comes. Oh, there is Mr. Casenower with him ; 
 that is unlucky. You get him away, mother, and I '11 
 open my mind to father.' 
 
 Old Hathorn came past the window, and entered the 
 room where Robert and Mrs. Hathorn were. The 
 farmer stumped in, and sat down with some appearance 
 of fatigue. Mr. Casenower sat down opposite him. 
 
 That gentleman had in his hand a cabbage. He
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 205 
 
 was proving to the farmer that this plant is more 
 nutritious than the potato. The theory was German in 
 the first instance. * There are but three nourishing 
 principles in all food,' argued Mr. Casenower, ' and of 
 those what we call " fibrine," is the most effective. 
 Now, see, I put my nail to this stalk, and it readily 
 reduces itself to a bundle of little fibres ; see, those are 
 pure fibrine, and, taken into the stomach, make the 
 man muscular. Can anything be clearer ?' 
 
 Mr. Hathorn, who had shown symptoms of im- 
 patience, replied to this effect, ' That he knew by 
 personal experience that cabbage turns to nothing but 
 hot water in a man's belly.' 
 
 ' There are words to come out of a man's mouth !' 
 objected Mrs. Hathorn. 
 
 ' Better than cabbage going into it,' grunted the 
 farmer. 
 
 ' Ah, you know nothing of chemistry, my good 
 friend.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, you say there is a deal of heart in a 
 cabbage?' 
 
 ' I do.' 
 
 ' Then I tell you what I '11 do with you, sir. There 
 is some fool has been and planted half an acre of 
 cabbages in my barley-field ' 
 
 ' It was not a fool,' put in Mrs. Hathorn, sharply, ' it 
 was me.' 
 
 ' It was not a fool, you see, sir : it was a woman,
 
 206 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 responded Hathorn, mighty drily. 'Well, sir, you 
 train on the Dame's cabbages for a month, and all that 
 time I'll eat nothing stronger than beef and bacon, and 
 at the end of the month I '11 fight you for a pot of beer, 
 if you are so minded.' 
 
 ' This is the way we reason in the country, eh, Mr. 
 Robert?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir : it would serve father right if you took 
 him up, sir, with his game leg ; but I don't hold with 
 cabbages for all that ; a turnip is watery enough, but a 
 cabbage and a sponge are pretty much one, it seems 
 to me.' 
 
 ' Mr. Casenower,' put in Mrs. Hathorn, ' didn't you 
 promise to show me a pansey in your garden, that is to 
 win the next prize at Wallingford ?' 
 
 ' I did, Ma'am, but you should not call it " Pansey ;" 
 " Heart's-ease " is bad enough, without going back to 
 " Pansey." Viola tricolor is the name of the flower — 
 the scientific name.' 
 
 ' No,' said old Hathorn, stoutly." 
 
 ' No ! What do you mean by no ?' 
 
 ' What are names for ? To remember things by ; 
 then the scientifickest name must be the one that it 
 is easiest to remember. Now, pansey is a deal easier 
 to remember than " vile tricolour." ' 
 
 ' I am at your service, Mrs. Plathom ; come along, 
 for Heaven's sake ;' and off bustled Mr. Casenower 
 towards the garden with Mrs. Hathorn.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 207 
 
 ' Father,' said Robert, after an uneasy pause, ' I 
 have something to say to you, very particular.' 
 ' Have you though ? well out with it, my lad !' 
 'Father !' — 
 
 At this moment, in bustled Mr. Casenower again. 
 *0h, Mr. Robert, I forgot something. Let me tell 
 you, now I think of it. I want you to find out this 
 Rebecca Reid for me. She lives somewhere near, 
 within a few miles. I don't exactly know how many. 
 Can't you find her out?' 
 
 ' Why, sir,' said Robert, ' it is like looking for one 
 poppy in a field of standing wheat.' 
 
 'No, no! When you go to market, ask all the 
 farmers from different parishes whether they know her.' 
 
 ' Haw, haw, haw !' went Hathorn, senior. ' Yes, do, 
 Robert. Ho, ho !' 
 
 ' Have you any idea what he is laughing at ?' said 
 Mr. Casenower, drily. 
 
 ' Father thinks you will make me the laughing-stock 
 of the market, sir,' said Robert, with a faint smile ; 
 ' but never mind him, sir, I shall try and oblige you.' 
 
 ' You are a good fellow, Robert. I must go back to 
 Mrs. Hathorn,' and off he bustled again. 
 
 ' Father,' began Robert ; but before he could open 
 his subject, voices were heard outside, and Mrs. May- 
 field came in, followed by Richard Hickman. 
 
 ' Tic ! tic ! tic !' said poor Robert, pee\'ishly, for he 
 foresaw endless interruptions.
 
 208 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Mr. Hickman had been for some minutes past em- 
 ployed in the agreeable occupation of bringing Mrs. 
 Mayfield to the point ; but, for various reasons, Mrs. 
 Mayfield did not want to be brought to the point that 
 forenoon. One of those reasons was, that although 
 she liked Hickman well enough to marry him, she 
 liked somebody else better, and she was not yet sure 
 as to this person's intentions. She wanted, therefore, 
 to be certain she could not have Paul, before she com- 
 mitted herself to Peter. Now, certain ladies when 
 they do not want to be brought to the point, have ways 
 of avoiding it that a man would hardly hit upon. One 
 of them is, to be constantly moving about; for, they 
 argue, 'if he can't pin my body to any spot, he can't 
 pin my soul, for my soul is contained in my body,' and 
 there is a certain vulgar philosophy in this. Another 
 is, to be so absorbed in some small matter, that just 
 then they cannot do justice to the larger question, and 
 so modestly postpone it. 
 
 ' Will I be yours till death us do part ? now, how 
 can I tell you just now ? such a question demands at 
 least some attention ; and look at this hole in my lace- 
 collar, which I am mending ; if I don't give my whole 
 soul to it, how can I mend it properly?' 
 
 Mr. Hickman had no sooner shown Mrs. Mayfield 
 that he wanted to bring her to the point, than he found 
 himself in for some hard work : twice he had to cross 
 the farmyard with her : he had to take up a sickly
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 209 
 
 chicken and pronounce upon its ailment. He had to 
 get some milk in a pail and give one of her calves a 
 drink. He had to bring one cow from paddock to stall, 
 and another from stall to paddock ; and when all this 
 and much more was done, the lady caught sight of 
 our friends in the Hathorns' kitchen, and crying 
 briskly, ' come this way,' led Mr. Hickman into company 
 where she knew he could not press the inopportune 
 topic. 
 
 'Curse her!' muttered the enamored one, as he 
 followed her into the Hathorns' kitchen. 
 
 After the usual greetings, the farmer observing 
 Robert's impatience, said to Hickman, ' If you will 
 excuse me for a minute, farmer, Robert wants to speak 
 to me ; we are going towards the barn,' He then 
 beckoned Mrs. Mayfield, and whispered in her ear, 
 ' Don't let this one set you against ray Robert that is 
 worth a hundred of him.' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield whispered in return, 'and don't let 
 your Robert shilly-shally so, because this one does not 
 — you understand.' 
 
 ' All right,' replied Hathorn, ' ten to one if it is not 
 you he wants to speak to me about.' 
 
 Hathorn and his son then sauntered into the farm- 
 yard, and Hickman gained what he had been trying 
 for so long, a quiet tete-a-tete with Mrs. Mayfield — for 
 all that, if a woman is one of those that have a wish, it 
 is dangerous to drive her to the point. 
 
 P
 
 210 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 *Well, Mrs. Mayfield,' said he, quietly but firmly, 
 ' I am courting you this six months, and now I should 
 be glad to have my answer. " Yes," or " no," if you 
 please.' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield sidled towards the window : it com- 
 manded the farmyard : Robert and his father were 
 walking slowly up and down by the side of the farm- 
 yard pond. Mrs. Mayfield watched them intently, 
 then half turning towards Hickman, she said slowly, 
 ' Why as to that, Mr. Hickman, you have certainly 
 come after me awhile, and I'll not deny I find you very 
 good company ; but I have been married once and 
 made a great mistake, as you have heard I dare say ; 
 so now I am obliged to be cautious.' 
 
 ' What, are you afraid of my temper, Rose ? I am not 
 reckoned a bad-tempered one, any more than yourself 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I have no fault to find with you— only we 
 have not been acquainted so very long.' 
 
 ' That is a fault will mend every day.' 
 
 ' Of course it will ; well, when you are settled on 
 Bix, we shall see you mostly every day, and then we 
 shall know one another better ; for if you have no faults, 
 I have ; and then you will know better what sort of a 
 bargain you are making; and then— we will see 
 about it.' 
 
 ' Better tell the truth,' said the all-observant Hick- 
 man. 
 
 'The truth!'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 211 
 
 ' Ay ! that the old man wants you to marry Bob 
 Hathorn — Oh ! I am down upon him this many a day.' 
 
 ' Robert Hathorn is nothing to me,' replied the May- 
 field, ' but since you put him in my head, I confess I 
 might do worse.' 
 
 ' How could you do worse than marry a lad who has 
 nothing but his two arms ?' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield looking slily through the window, ob- 
 served Robert and his father to be in earnest conversa- 
 tion ; this somewhat colored her answer. She replied 
 quickly, 'Better poor and honest, than half rich and 
 three parts of a rogue !' 
 
 ' Is that for me, if you please ?' said Hickman, calmly 
 but firmly. 
 
 ' No ! I don't say it is,' replied the lady, fearful she 
 had gone too far ; ' but still I wonder at your choosing 
 this time for pressing me.' 
 
 ' Why not this time, as well as another, pray ?' and 
 Hickman eyed her intently, though secretly. 
 
 ' Why not !' said she, and she paused ; for the dia- 
 logue between Hathorn and his son was now so animated, 
 that the father's tones reached even to her ear. 
 
 ' Ay ! why not ?' repeated Hickman. 
 
 The lady turned on him, and with a sudden change 
 of manner, said very sharply, ' Ask your own conscience.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean !' 
 
 ' I '11 tell you. This old Patrick was miscalling you, 
 when he fell ill. They say it was a stroke of the sun — 
 
 r 2
 
 212 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 may be it was ; but I should say passion had something 
 to do with it too : the old man said words to you that 
 none of the others noticed, but I did. He said as 
 much as that you had robbed some one of what is 
 before life in this world.' 
 
 ' Ay, and what is before life, I wonder ?' asked the 
 satirical Hickman. 
 
 'Why, nothing,' replied the frank Mrs. IMayfield, 
 ' if you go to that ; but it is a common saying that a 
 *' good name is before life," and that is what the old 
 man meant.' 
 
 ' I wonder you should take any notice of what that 
 old man says, and above all his daughter.' 
 
 ' His daughter, Mr. Hickman ! Why, I never men- 
 tioned his daughter, for my part. You have been and 
 put your own bricks on my foundation.' 
 
 Hickman looked confused. 
 
 ' You are a fool, Richard Hickman ! You have told 
 me more than I knew, and I see more than you tell 
 me. You have led that girl astray, and deserted her 
 likely, you little scamp !' (Hickman was five foot ten.) 
 
 ' Nonsense !' put in Hickman. ' That Rachael shall 
 never come between you and me ; but I'll tell you who 
 the girl stands between : you and your Robert, that the 
 farmer wants to put in the traces with you against his 
 will.' 
 
 ' You are a liar !' cried Rose IMayfield, coloring to 
 her temples.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 213 
 
 Hickman answered coolly, ' Tliaiik you for the com- 
 pliment, Rose. No, it is the truth. You see, when a 
 man is wrapped up in a woman, as I am in you, he 
 finds out everything that concerns her ; and your boy 
 Tom tells me that Robert is as fond of her as a cow of 
 a calf.' 
 
 ' He fond of that Rachael ! No !' 
 
 ' Why, Rachael is a well-looking lass, if you go to that.' 
 
 ' And so she is,' pondered Mrs. Mayfield ; and in a 
 moment many little circumstances in Robert's conduct 
 became clear by this new light Hickman had given her. 
 She struggled, and recovered her outward composure. 
 ' Well,' said she, stoutly, ' what is it to me ?' 
 
 ' "Why not much, I hope. Give me your hand. Rose ; 
 I don't fancy any girl but you. And name the day, if 
 you will be so good.' 
 
 ' No, no !' said Rose Mayfield, nearly crying with 
 vexation. ' I won't marry any of you, a set of rogues 
 and blockheads. And if it is true, I don't thank you 
 for telling me. You are a sly, spiteful dog, and I don't 
 care how often you ride past my house without hooking 
 bridle to the gate, Dick Hickman.' 
 
 Hickman bit his lips, but he kept his temper. ' What ! 
 all this because Bob Hathorn's taste is not so good as 
 mine ! Ought I to suffer for his folly ?' 
 
 ' Oh, it is not for that, don't think it ? But I don't 
 want a lover that has ruined other women ; it is not 
 lucky, to say the least.'
 
 214 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' What, all this, because a girl jumped into my arms 
 one day ! Why, I am not so hard upon you. I hear 
 tales about you, you know, but I only laugh — even 
 about Frank Fairfield and you. (Mrs. Mayfield gave 
 a little start.) Neither you nor I are angels, you know. 
 Why should we be hard on one another?' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield, red as fire, interrupted him. 'My 
 faults, if I have any, have hurt me only ; but yours 
 never hurt you, and ruined others ; and you say no 
 more about me than you know, or you will get a slap 
 in the mouth — and — there's my door ; you take it at a 
 word, and Fll excuse any further visits from you, INlr. 
 Hickman.' 
 
 These words, with a finger pointing to the door, and 
 a flashing eye, left nothing for Hickman but to retire, 
 which he did boiling with indignation mortification 
 and revenge. ' This is all along of Rachael. She has 
 blown me,' muttered he between his teeth. ' I have got 
 the bag ; you shan't gain anything by it, Rachael !' 
 
 It will be remembered that when Patrick lay dying 
 or dead, as supposed, this Hickman* had a good 
 impulse, and told Rachael he would never desert her : 
 in this he was perfectly sincere at the moment. 
 People utterly destitute of principle abound in im- 
 pulses. They have good impulses, which come to 
 nothing or next to nothing ; and bad impulses, which 
 they put in practice. 
 
 Mr. Hickman had time to think over his good
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 215 
 
 impulse, and, accordingly, he thought better of it, and 
 found that Rose Mayfield was too great a prize to 
 resign. He therefore kept out of the way more than 
 a week, (a suspicious circumstance, which Mrs. May- 
 field did not fail to couple with old Patrick's words), 
 and his pity for Rachael evaporated in all that time. 
 ' What the worse is she for me now ? Hang her, I 
 offered her money, and what not ; but I suppose 
 nothing will serve her turn but hooking me for life, or 
 else having her spite out, and spilling my milk for me 
 here.' 
 
 It was a fixed notion in this man's mind that 
 Rachael would do all she could to ruin his suit with 
 Mrs. Mayfield, and when he got the ' sack,' or, as he 
 vulgarly called it, ' the bag,' he attributed it, in spite 
 of Rose Mayfield's denial, to some secret revelation on 
 Rachael's part, and a furious impulse to be revenged 
 on her took possession of him. 
 
 Now this bad impulse, unlike his good one, had no 
 time to cool. As he went towards the stable, in 
 luck would have it he should meet Robert Hathorn. 
 At sight of him our worthy acted upon his impulse. 
 Robert, who was coming hastily from his father, with 
 his brow knit and his countenance flushed, would have 
 passed Hickman with the usual greeting, but Hickman 
 would not let him oiF so easily. 
 
 ' What, so you have got my old lass here tt'.ll, 
 Master Robert ?'
 
 21 G THE COURSE OF TllUE LOVE 
 
 ' Your old lass ! Not that I know of.' 
 
 ' Racbael Wright, you know/ 
 
 ' Rachael Wright, your lass !' 
 
 ' Ay ! and a very nice lass to, till we fell out. She 
 gave me a broad hint just now, but 1 am for higher 
 game. You could not lend me a spur, could you, 
 Mr, Robert? Mine is broken.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Never mind ; good morning ! good morning !' 
 
 Hickman's looks and contemptuous tones had eked 
 out the few words with which he had stabbed Robert, 
 and, together with the libertine character of the man, 
 had effectually blackened Rachael in Robert's eyes. 
 
 This done, away went the poisoner, and chuckled as 
 he went. 
 
 Robert Hathorn stood pale as death, looking after 
 him. To this stupefaction succeeded a feeling of 
 sickness, and a sense of despair, and Robert sat down 
 upon the shaft of an empty cart, and gazed with stony 
 eye upon the ground at his feet. His feelings were 
 inexpressibly bitter. Where was he to hope to find a 
 woman he could respect, if this paragon was a girl of 
 loose conduct ? Then came remorse : for this Rachael 
 he had this moment all but quarrelled with his father 
 — their first serious misunderstanding. After a fierce 
 struggle with himself, he forced himself to see that she 
 must be wrenched out of his heart. He rose, pale but 
 stern, after a silent agony, that lasted a full hour,
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 217 
 
 thoiiorli to him it seemed but a minute, and went and 
 looked after his father. He found him in the barn 
 watching the thrashers, but like one who did not see 
 what he was looking at. His countenance was fallen 
 and sad ; the great and long-cherished wish of his 
 heart had been shaken, and by his son ; and then he 
 had given that son bitter and angry words, and 
 threatened him ; and that son had answered respect- 
 fully, but firmly as iron, and the old man's heart began 
 to sink. 
 
 He looked up and there was Robert, pale and stern, 
 looking steadfastly at him with an expression he quite 
 misunderstood. Old Hathorn lifted his head and said 
 sharply and bitterly to his son, 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Father,' said Robert, in a languid voice, ' I am 
 come to ask your pardon.' 
 
 Farmer Hathorn looked astonished. Robert went 
 on. 
 
 ' Fll marry any woman you like, father — they are all 
 one to me now.' 
 
 ' Why, what is the matter, Bob ? that is too much 
 the other way.' 
 
 ' And if I said anything to vex you, forgive me 
 father Klyou please.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! no !' cried old Hathorn, ' no more about 
 it, Bob ; there was no one to blame but my hasty 
 temper, — no more about it. Why, if the poor chap
 
 218 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 hasn't taken it quite to heart, hasn't a morsel of 
 colour left in his cheek !' 
 
 ' Never mind my looks,' gasped Robert. 
 
 ' And don't you mind ray words either then. Robert, 
 you have made me happier than I have been any time 
 this twenty years !' 
 
 ' I am glad of it,' faltered Robert. ' I'll look to this, 
 if you have anything else to do.' He wanted to be 
 alone. 
 
 ' Thank you, Bob ; I want to go into the village ; 
 keep up your heart, my lad. She is the best-looking 
 woman I know, with the best heart I ever met, and I 
 am older than you : and you see the worst of her the 
 first day ; her good part you are never at the bottom 
 of; it is just the contrary with the sly ones. There, 
 there ! I'll say no more. Good bye.' And away 
 went the old farmer, radiant. 
 
 ' Be happy,' sobbed Robert ; ♦ I am glad there is 
 one happy.' And he sat down cold as a stone in his 
 ftither's place. After awhile " he rose and walked 
 listlessly about, till at last his feet carried him through 
 habit into his father's kitchen; on entering it his 
 whole frame took a sudden thrill, for he found Rachael 
 there tying up her bundle for a journey. She had 
 heard his step, and her head was turned away from 
 the door ; but near her was a small round, old- 
 fashioned, mirror, and glancing into this Robert saw 
 that tears were stealing down her face.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 219 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Old Hathorn paced down the village with his oak 
 stick a happy man ; but for all that he was a little 
 mystified. But two hours ago Robert had told him he 
 loved Rachael, and had asked his leave to marry her, 
 and in answer to his angry, or to speak more correctly 
 his violent refusal, had told him his heart was bound up 
 in her, and he would rather die than marry any other 
 woman. What could have worked such a sudden 
 change in the young man's mind ? ' May be I shall 
 find out,' was his concluding reflection ; and he was 
 right ; he did find out, and the information came from 
 a most unexpected quarter. As he passed the village 
 public-house he was hailed from the parlour window ; 
 he looked up, and at it was farmer Hickman, mug in 
 hand. Now, to tell the truth, Hathorn was not averse 
 to ale, especially at another man's expense, and, 
 thought he, ' Farmer is getting beery, looks pretty red 
 in the face ; I'll see if I can't pump something 
 out of him about him and Rose.' So he joined 
 Hickman ; and in about half an hour he also was 
 redder in the face than nature intended. 
 
 If the wit is out when the wine is in, what must it 
 be when the beer is in ? 
 
 Old Hathorn and Hickman were much freer over
 
 220 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 their glass than they had ever heen hefore, and 
 Hathorn pumped Hickman ; but inasmuch as Hick- 
 man desired to be pumped, and was rather cunninger 
 half drunk than sober, the old farmer drew out of hira 
 nothing about Eose, but he elicited an artful and 
 villainous mixture of truth and falsehood about Rachael 
 Wright ; it was not a vague sketch like that with 
 which he had destroyed Robert's happiness ; it was a 
 long circumstantial history, full of discolored truths 
 and equivokes, and embellished with one or two good 
 honest lies ; but of these there were not many ; poor 
 Richard could not be honest even in dealing with the 
 Devil : a great error ; since that personage is not to be 
 cheated ; honesty is your only card in any little trans- 
 action with him. The symposium broke up. Hick- 
 man's horse was led round ; he mounted, bade Hathorn 
 good day, and went off. In passing the farm his red 
 face turned black, and he shook his fist at it, and 
 said, 
 
 ' Fight it out now amongst ye.' And the poisoner 
 cantered away. 
 
 In leading Robert Hathorn and others so far, we 
 have shot ahead of some little matters which must not 
 be left behind, since without them the general posture 
 which things had reached when Robert found Rachael 
 tying up her bundle could hardly be understood. 
 
 When Mrs. May field gave Hickman ' the sack,' or, 
 as that coarse young man called it, ' the bag,' she was
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 221 
 
 in a towering passion, and not being an angel, but a 
 female with decided virtues and abominable faults, she 
 w^as just now in anything but a Christian temper, and 
 woe to all who met her. 
 
 The first adventurer was Mr. Casenower : he saw 
 her at a distance, for she had come out of the house 
 in which she found she could hardly breathe, and came 
 towards her with a face all wreathed in smiles. Mr. 
 Casenower had of late made many tenders of his 
 affection to her, which she had parried by positively 
 refusing to see anything more than a jest in them ; but 
 Casenower, who was perfectly good-humored and 
 light-hearted, had taken no offence at this, nor would 
 he consider this sort of thing a refusal ; in short, he 
 told her plainly that it gave him great pleasure to 
 afford her merriment, even at his own expense ; only 
 he should not leave off hoping until she took his 
 proposal into serious consideration ; that done, and his 
 fate seriously pronounced, he told her she should find 
 he was too much of a gentleman not to respect a lady's 
 will ; only, when the final ' No,' was pronounced, he 
 should leave the farm, since he could not remain in it 
 and see its brightest attraction given to another. 
 Here he caught her on the side of her good-nature, 
 and she replied, ' Well, I am not anybody's yet.' She 
 said to herself, ' the poor soul seems happy here, with 
 his garden, and his farm of two acres, and his nonsense : 
 and why drive the silly goose away before the time ?'
 
 222 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 So she suspended the final ' No,' and he continued to 
 offer admiration, and she to laugh at it. 
 
 It must be owned moreover that she began, at times, 
 to have a sort of humorous terror of this man. A 
 woman knows by experience that it is the fate of a 
 woman not to do what she would like, and to do just 
 what she would rather not, and often, though ap- 
 parently free, to be fettered by cobwebs, and driven 
 into some unwelcome corner by whips of gossamer. 
 One day Mesdames Hathorn and Mayfield had looked 
 out of the parlour window into the garden, and there 
 they saw Mr. Casenower, running wildly among the 
 beds, with his hat in his hand. 
 
 ' What is up now ?' said Mrs. Mayfield, scornfully. 
 
 'I dare say it is a butterfly,' was the answer; 'he 
 collects them.' 
 
 ' What a fool he is !' 
 
 ' He is a good soul for all that.' 
 
 ' Fools mostly are — Jane !' said Mrs. Mayfield, very 
 solemnly. 
 
 ' Yes, Eose !' 
 
 ' Look at that man ; look at him well, if you please. 
 Of all the men that pester me, that is the one that is 
 the most ridiculous in my eye. Ha ! ha ! the butterfly 
 has got safe over the wall, I'm so glad ; — Jane !' 
 
 'Well!' 
 
 ' You mark my word — I shan't have the butterfly's 
 luck.'
 
 NEVER DID KUX SMOOTH. 223 
 
 * What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' That man is to be my husband ! — that is all.' 
 ' La, Rose, how can you talk so ! you know he is the 
 last man you will ever take.' 
 
 ' Of course he is, and so he will take me ; I feel he 
 will ; I can't bear the sight of him, so he is sure to be 
 the man ; you will see ! — you will see !' — and casting 
 on her cousin a look that was a marvellous compound 
 of fun and bitterness, she left the room brusquely, 
 with one savage glance flung over her shoulder into 
 the garden. 
 
 I do not say that such misgivings were frequent ; 
 this was once in a way ; still it is characteristic, and 
 the reader is entitled to it. 
 
 Mr. Casenow^er then came to Mrs. Mayfield and pre- 
 sented her a clove pink from his garden ; he took off 
 his hat with a flourish, and said, with an innocent, but 
 somewhat silly playfulness, ' Accept this, fair lady, in 
 token that some day you will accept the grower.' 
 
 The gracious lady replied by slapping the pink out 
 of his hand, and saying, ' That is how I accept the 
 pair.' 
 
 Mr. Casenower colored very high, and the water 
 came into his eyes ; but Mrs. Mayfield turned her back 
 on him, and flounced into her own house. When there, 
 she felt she had been harsh, and looking out of the 
 window, she saw poor Casenower standing dejected on 
 the spot where she had left him ; she saw him stoop
 
 224 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 and pick up the pink ; he eyed it sorrowfully, placed it 
 In his bosom, and then moved droopingly away. 
 
 ' What a brute I am !' was tlie Mayfield's first reflec- 
 tion. ' I hate you !' was the second. 
 
 So then, being discontented with herself, she accu- 
 mulated bitterness, and in this mood flounced into the 
 garden, for she saw Mrs. Hathorn there. When she 
 reached her, she found that her cousin was looking at 
 Rachael, who was cutting spinach for dinner, while 
 the old corporal, seated at some little distance, watched 
 his grand-daughter ; and as he watched her, his dim 
 eye lighted every now and then with affection and 
 intelligence. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield did not look at the picture ; all she 
 saw was Rachael ; and after a few trivial words, she 
 said to Mrs. Hathorn in an under-tone, but loud 
 enough to be heard by Rachael, ' Are these two going 
 to live with us altogether?' 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn did not answer ; she colored and cast 
 a deprecating look at her cousin : Rachael rose fi'ora 
 her knees and said to Patrick in an undertone, the 
 exact counterpart of Mrs. Mayfield's : ' Grandfather, 
 we have been here long enough, come — ' and she led 
 him into the house. 
 
 There is a dignity in silent unobtrusive sorrow, and 
 some such dignity seemed to belong to this village girl 
 Rachael, and to wait upon all she said or did ; and 
 this seemed to put everybody in the wrong who did or
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 225 
 
 said anything against her. When she led off her 
 grandfather with those few firm sad words, in the utter- 
 ance of which she betrayed no particle of anger or 
 pique, Mrs. Hathorn cast a glance of timid reproach at 
 her cousin, and she herself turned paler directly ; but 
 she replied to Mrs. Hathorn's look only by a disdainful 
 toss of the head, and not choosing to talk upon the sub- 
 ject, she flounced in again and shut herself up in her 
 own parlour — there she walked up and down like a 
 little hyaena. Presently she caught sight of the old 
 farmer, standing like a statue, near the very place 
 where Robert had left him after announcing his love 
 for Rachael and his determination to marry no other 
 woman. At sight of the farmer, an idea struck Mrs. 
 Mayfield — ' that Hickman is a liar after all ; don't let 
 me be too hasty in believing all this about Robert and 
 that girl. I'll draw the farmer.' 
 
 ' I'll draw the farmer !' my refined reader is looking 
 to me to explain the lady's phraseology. That which in 
 country parlance is called ' drawing,' is also an art, oh, 
 pencil — men that have lived thirty or forty years and 
 done business in this wicked world, learn to practise it at 
 odd times. Women have not to wait for that ; it is born 
 with most of them an instinct, not an art. It works 
 thus : you suspect something, but you don't know : you 
 catch some one who does know, and you talk to him as if 
 you knew all about it. Then, if he is not quite on his 
 guard, he lets out what you wanted to knovr. 
 
 Q
 
 226 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield walked up to Hathorn with a great 
 appearance of unpremeditated wrath, and said to him, 
 ' A fine fool you have been making of me, pretending 
 your Robert looked my way, when he is over head and 
 ears in love with that Rachael !' 
 
 ' Oh !' cried the farmer, ' what the fool has been and 
 told you too !' 
 
 ' So it is true, then ?' cried the Mayfield sharply. 
 
 Machiavel, No. 2, saw his mistake too late, and 
 tried to hark back. ' No ! he is not over head and 
 ears ; it is all nonsense and folly ; it will pass : you set 
 your back to mine, and we will soon bring the ninny to 
 his senses.' 
 
 ' I back you to force your son my way !' cried Rose 
 in a fury : ' what do I care for your son or you either ? 
 — let him marry his Rachael ! the donkey will find 
 whether your mock-modest ones are better or worse 
 than the frank ones — ha ! ha !' 
 
 ' Rose,' cried the farmer, illuminated with sudden 
 hope ; ' if you know anything against her, you tell me, 
 and I'll tell Robert.' 
 
 ' No !' said she, throwing up her nose into the air in 
 a manner pretty to behold, ' I am no scandal-monger 
 — it is your afiair, not mine : let him marry his 
 Rachael, ha ! ha ! oh !' — and off she went laughing 
 with malice and choking with vexation. 
 
 There now remained to insult only Robert and Mrs. 
 Hathorn. But the viraffo was afraid to scold Mrs.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 227 
 
 Hathorn, who she knew would burst out crying at the 
 first hard word, and then she would have to beg the 
 poor soul's pardon ; and Robert she could not find just 
 then. Poor fellow, at this very moment he was 
 writhing under Hickman's insinuations, and tearing 
 his own heart to pieces in his efibrts to tear Eachael 
 from it. 
 
 So the Mayfield ran up stairs to her own bed-room 
 and locked herself in, for she did not want sense, and 
 she began to see and feel that she was hardly safe to 
 be about. 
 
 Meantime Rachael had come to take leave of Mrs. 
 Hathorn ; that good lady remonstrated, but feebly ; 
 she felt that there would never be peace now till the poor 
 girl was gone ; but she insisted upon one thing ; the 
 old man in his weak state should not go on foot. 
 
 ' You are free to go or stay for me, Rachael,' said 
 she, ' but if you go, I will not have any harm come to 
 the poor old man within ten miles of this door.' 
 
 So, to get away, Rachael consented to take a horse 
 and cart of the farmer's, and this is how it came about 
 that Robert found Rachael tying up her bundle of 
 clothes. Her tears fell upon her little bundle as she 
 tied it. 
 
 Q 'I
 
 228 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Robert Hathorn had found in Hickman's insinua- 
 tions a natural solution of all that had puzzled him in 
 Eachael. She was the deserted mistress of a man 
 whom she still loved — acting on this he apologised to 
 his father, placed his future fate with heart-sick 
 indifference in that father's hands, and despaired of 
 the female sex, and resigned all hope of heart-hap- 
 piness in this world. But all this time Eachael had 
 been out of sight. She stood now before him in per- 
 son, and the sight of her, beautiful, retiring, submissive, 
 sorrowful, smote his heart and bewildered his mind. 
 Looking at her, he could not see the possibility of this 
 creature having ever been Hickman's mistress. He 
 accused himself of having been too hasty ; he would 
 have given worlds to recall the words that had made 
 his father so happy, and was even on the point of 
 leaving the kitchen to do so ; but on second thoughts 
 he determined to try and learn from Rachael herself 
 whether there was any truth in Hickman's scandal — and 
 if there was, to think of her no more. 
 
 ' What are you doing, Rachael ?' 
 
 ' I am tying up my things to go, Master Robert' 
 
 'Togo?' 
 
 ' Yes ! we have been a burden to vour mother some
 
 NEVER BED RUX S3I00TH. 229 
 
 time ; still, as I did the work of the house, I thought 
 my grandfather would not be so very much in the way ; 
 but I got a plain hint from Mrs. Mayfield just now.' 
 
 ' Confound her !' 
 
 ' No, sir ! we are not to forget months of kindness 
 for a moment of ill-humor. So I am going, Mr. 
 Robert, and now I have only to thank you for all your 
 kindness and civility. We are very grateful, and wish 
 we could make a return ; but that is not in our power. 
 But grandfather is an old man near his grave, and 
 he shall pray for you by name every night, and so will 
 I ; so then, as we are very poor, and have no hopes 
 but from Heaven, it is to be thought the Almighty will 
 hear us and bless you sleeping and waking for being so 
 good to the unfortunate.' 
 
 Robert hid his face in his hands a moment ; this was 
 the first time she had ever spoken to him so warmly 
 and so sweetly, and at what a moment of dark suspi- 
 cion had these words come to him. Robert recovered 
 himself and said to Rachael, ' Are you sure that is the 
 real cause of your leaving us so sudden ?' 
 
 Rachael looked perplexed. 'Indeed, I think so, 
 Mr. Robert. At least I should not have gone this 
 very day but for that.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but you know very well you had made up 
 your mind to go before that ?' 
 
 ' Of course I looked to go some day ; we don't 
 belong here, grandfather and I.'
 
 230 THE COURSE OF TKUE LOVE 
 
 'That is not it either. Rachael, there is an ill 
 report sprung- up about you.' 
 
 ' What is that, sir ?' said Rachael, with apparent 
 coldness. 
 
 ' What is it ? How can I look in your face and say 
 anything to wound you?' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Robert. I am glad there is one 
 that is inclined to show me some respect' 
 
 ' Do something for me in return, dear Rachael ; tell 
 me your story, and I'll believe your way of telling it, 
 not another's; but if you will tell me nothing, what 
 can I do but believe the worst, impossible as it seems. 
 Why are you so sorrowful ? Why ^re you so cold like ? 
 
 ' I have nothing to tell you, Mr. Robert ; if any one 
 has maligned me, may Heaven forgive them ; if you 
 believe them, forget me. I am going away. Out of 
 sight out of mind.' 
 
 ' What ! can a girl like you, that has won all our 
 respects, go away and leave scandal behind her ? No ! 
 stay, and face it out, and let us put it down for ever.' 
 
 ' Why should I trouble myself to do that, sir ?' 
 
 ' Because if you do not, those who love you can love 
 you no more.' 
 
 Rachael sighed, but she wrapped herself in coldness, 
 and replied, ' But I want no one to love me.' 
 
 ' You don't choose that any one should ever marry 
 you, then?' 
 
 'No, Mr, Robert, I do not'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 231 
 
 * You would not answer Richard Hickman so !' 
 
 * Richard Hickman !' said Rachael, turning pale. 
 When she turned pale Robert turned sick. 
 
 * He says as much as that you could not say " No " 
 to him.' 
 
 ' Richard Hickman speaks of me to you !' cried 
 Rachael, opening her eyes wildly. Then in a moment 
 she was ice again. ' Well, I do not speak of him !' 
 
 ' Rachael,' cried Robert, ' what is all this ? For 
 Heaven's sake, be frank with me. Don't make me 
 tear the words out of you so ; give me something to 
 believe, or something to forgive. I should believe any- 
 thing you told me : I am afraid I should forgive any- 
 thing you had done.' 
 
 'I do not ask you to do either, sir.' 
 
 ' She will drive me mad !' cried Robert frantically. 
 ' Rachael, hear me. 1 love you more than a woman was 
 ever loved before ! You talk of being grateful to me. 
 I don't know why you should, but you say so. If you 
 are, be generous, be merciful. I leave it to you. Be 
 my wife ! and then, perhaps, you will not lock your 
 heart and your story from your husband. I cannot 
 believe ill of you. You may have been maligned, or 
 you may have been deceived, but you cannot be guilty. 
 There !' cried he, wildly, ' no word but one ! Will you 
 be my wife, Rachael?' 
 
 Rachael did not answer, at least in words ; she wept 
 silently.
 
 232 THE COUKSE OF TEUE LOVE 
 
 Robert looked at her despairingly. At last he 
 repeated his proposal almost fiercely, ' I ask you, 
 Rachael, will you be my wife ?' 
 
 As he repeated this question, who should stand in 
 the doorway but Mrs. May field. She was transfixed, 
 petrified, at these words of Robert, but, being a proud 
 woman, her impulse was to withdraw instantly, and 
 hear no more. Ere she was out of hearing however, 
 Rachael replied, 
 
 ' Forgive me, Mr. Robert. I must refuse you !' 
 ' You refuse to be my wife ?' 
 ' I do, sir !' but still she wept. 
 Mrs. Mayfield, as she retreated, heard the words, 
 but did not see the tears. Robert saw the tears, but 
 could not understand them. He gave a hasty, despair- 
 ing gesture, to show Rachael that he had no more to 
 say to her, and then he flung himself into a chair, and 
 laid his brow on the table. Rachael glided softly 
 away. At the door she looked back on Robert with 
 her eyes thick with tears. She had hardly been gone 
 a minute when Rose Mayfield returned, and came in 
 and sat gently down opposite Robert, and watched him 
 intently, with a countenance in which the most opposite 
 feelings might be seen struggling for the mastery.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 233 
 
 CHi^PTER VI. 
 
 Robert lifted his head, and saw Mrs. Mayfield. He 
 spoke to her sullenly. ' So you turn away our servants ?' 
 ' Not I,' replied Mrs. Mayfield sharply. 
 
 * It is not we that send away Rachael, it is you.' 
 
 * I tell you no ; do you believe that girl before me ?' 
 ' You affronted her. What had she done to you ?' 
 
 ' I only just asked her, how long she meant to stay 
 here, or something like that. Hang me if I remember 
 what I said to her ! They are a bad breed all these 
 girls ; haughty and spiteful ; you can't say a word, but 
 they snap your head off.' Mrs. Mayfield said no more, 
 for at that moment Rachael came into the room with 
 her grandfather and Mrs. Hathorn : this last appeared 
 to be smoothing matters down. 
 
 ' No, Daddy Patrick,' said she in answer to some 
 observation of the old man's, ' nobody sends you away ; 
 you leave us good friends, and you are going to drink 
 a cup of ale with us before you go.' 
 
 A tray was then brought in and a jug of ale, and 
 Patrick drank his mug of ale slowly ; but Rachael put 
 hers to her lips and set it down again. 
 
 Then Robert went and sat on the window-seat and 
 there he saw them bringing round the waggon to carry
 
 234 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 away Rachael and her grandfather. His heart turned 
 dead-sick within him. He looked round for help, and 
 looking round he saw Mrs. Mayfield bending on him a 
 look in which he seemed to read some compassion, 
 blended with a good deal of pique. In his despair he 
 appealed to her : ' There, they are really going ; is it 
 fair to send away like that folk that have behaved so 
 w^ell, and were minded to go of themselves only mother 
 asked them to stay ? See how that makes us look ; and 
 you that were always so kind-hearted, Mrs. Mayfield. 
 Rose, dear Rose !' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield did not answer Robert, whose appeal 
 was made to her in an under-tone, but she said to 
 Mrs. Hathorn : ' Jane, the house is yours ; keep them 
 if it suits you, I am sure it is no business of mine.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you Rose,' cried Robert ; but his thanks 
 were cut short by the voice of the elder Hathorn, who 
 had just come in from the yard. ' They are going,' 
 said he, ' I make no complaint against them. There is 
 no ill-will on either side ; but I say they ought to go, 
 and go they shall.' 
 
 ' Go they shall !' said the old corporal with a mysti- 
 fied look. 
 
 The farmer spoke with a firmness and severity, and 
 even with a certain dignity, and all felt he was not in 
 a mood to be trifled with. Robert answered humbly — 
 
 ' Father, you are master here ; no one gainsays you 
 — but you are a just man. If you were to be cruel to
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 235 
 
 the poor and honest, you would be sorry for it all your 
 days,' 
 
 Before the farmer could answer, Rose Mayfield put 
 in hastily, 
 
 ' There, bid them stay — you see your son holds to 
 the girl, you will have to marry them one day or 
 other, and so best — that will put an end to all the 
 nonsense they talk about the boy and me. I dare 
 say Robert is fool enough to think I wanted him for 
 myself.' 
 
 ' I — Mrs. Mayfield ? — never. — What makes you 
 fancy that?' 
 
 ' And,' cried Mrs. Mayfield, as if a sudden light 
 broke in upon her, ' what are "\ve all doing here ? we 
 can't help folks' hearts. — Robert loves her. Are we 
 to persecute Robert, an innocent lad, that never offended 
 one of us, and has been a good son to you, and a good 
 friend and brother to me ever since we could walk ? I 
 think the Devil must have got into ray heart : but I 
 shall turn him out, whether he likes, or no. I say he 
 shall have the girl old man ; and more than that, I 
 have got a thousand pounds loose in Wallingford 
 Bank ; they shall have it to stock a farm ; it is little 
 enough to give Robert — I owe him more than that for 
 Drayton, let alone years of love and good-will. 
 There now, he is going to cry, I suppose. — Bob, don't 
 cry for Heaven's sake ; I can't abide to see a man 
 cry.'
 
 236 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' It is you make me, Rose, praising me just when 
 everybody seemed to turn against me.' 
 
 'You are crying yourself, Rose,' whimpered Mrs. 
 Hathorn. 
 
 ' If I am, I don't feel it,' replied Mrs. Mayfield. 
 
 Rachael trembled — but she said in her low firm voice, 
 ' We are going away of our own accord. Mistress 
 Mayfield, and we thank you kindly for this, and for all 
 — but we are going away.' 
 
 ' You don't love Robert, then T[ 
 
 ' No, Mrs. Mayfield,' said Rachael, with the air of 
 one confessing theft or sacrilege, ' I don't love Mr. 
 Robert!' and she lowered her eyes with their long 
 lashes, and awaited her sentence. 
 
 ' Tell that to the men,' replied Rose, ' you can't draw 
 the wool over a sister's eye, young lady.' 
 
 ' The young woman is the only one among you that 
 has a grain of sense,' said old Hathorn roughly. ' Why 
 don't you let her alone ? — she would thank you for it.' 
 
 ' Can you read a woman's words, you old ass ?' was 
 the contemptuous answer. 
 
 ' I am not an ass young woman,' said Hathorn 
 gravely and sternly, ' and I am in my house, which you 
 seem to forget — ' Rose colored up to the eyes — 
 'and I am the master of it, so long as it is your 
 pleasure I should be here.' 
 
 ' John !' cried Mrs. Mayfield, with a deprecating aw. 
 
 ' And I am that young man's father, and it is his
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 237 
 
 duty to listen to me, and mine not to let him make a 
 fool of himself. I don't pretend to be so particular 
 as Eobert is — used to be, I mean — and I was 
 telling him only yesterday, that, suppose you have 
 kicked over the traces a bit, as you have never broken 
 your knees, least-ways to our Tcnowlege^ Rose, it did 
 not much matter.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Daddy Hathom, much obliged to you 
 I am sure.' 
 
 ' But there's reason in roasting of eggs : this one has 
 been off the course altogether, and therefore I say 
 again, she shows sense by going home, and you show 
 no sense by trying to keep her here.' 
 
 ' Father,' said Robert, ' you go too far ; we know 
 nothino- ag^ainst Rachael, and till I know I won't believe 
 anything.' 
 
 ' Why, Bob, I thought Hickman had told you all 
 about it — I understood him so — ay, and he must too, 
 or why did you come to me in the yard, and eat umble 
 pie ?' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean by telling mo all 
 about it, father : he hinted as much as that he and 
 Rachael had been too familiar once upon a time.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Well ! how often has he told me the same of a 
 dozen others? that is a common trick of Dick Hick- 
 man's, to pretend he has been thick v;ith a girl, that 
 perhaps does not know his face from Adam's. Father,
 
 238 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 I can't believe a known liar's tongue, against such A 
 face as that.' 
 
 ' Face as that ! it is a comely one, but seems to me 
 it does not look us so very straight in the face just 
 now ; and there's more than a liar's tongue on t'other 
 side : there's chapter and verse as the saying is.' 
 
 ' I don't understand your hints, and I don't believe 
 that blackguard's. I am not so old as you, but I have 
 learned that truth does not lie in hints.' 
 
 ' I'm older than you, and a woman's face can't make 
 me blind and deaf to better witnesses.' 
 
 ' There are no better witnesses ! For shame, father ! 
 Hickman is no authority with Hathorn.' 
 
 ' But the Parish Register is an authority,' cried the 
 old man sternly, and losing all his patience. 
 
 ' The Parish Register ?' 
 
 ' And if you look at the Parish Register of Long 
 Compton, you will find the name of a child she is the 
 mother of and no father to show.' 
 
 ' Father !' 
 
 'Ask herself! — you see she doesn't deny it.' 
 All eyes turned and fastened upon Rachael ; and 
 those who saw her at this moment will carry her face 
 and her look to their graves, so fearful was the anguish 
 of a high spirit ground into the dust and shame ; her 
 body seemed that moment to be pierced with a hundred
 
 NEVER DID EUN SMOOTH. 239 
 
 poisoned arrows. She rose white to her very lips, and 
 stood in the midst of them quivering like an aspen- 
 leaf, her eyes preternaturally bright and large, and 
 she took one uncertain step forwards, as if to fling 
 herself on the weapons of scorn that seemed to hem 
 her in ; and she opened her mouth to 'speak, but her 
 open lips trembled, and trembled, and no sound came. 
 And all the hearts round, even the old farmer's, began 
 now to freeze and fear at the sight of this wild agony ; 
 and at last, after many efforts, the poor soul would 
 have said something, God knows what, but a sudden 
 and most unexpected interruption came. Corporal 
 Patrick was by her side, nobody saw how, and seizing 
 her firmly by the arm, he forbade her to speak. 
 
 ' Silence, girl !' cried the old soldier fiercely. ' I 
 dare you to say a word to any of them.' 
 
 Then Rachael turned and clung convulsively to his 
 shoulder, and trembled and writhed there in silence. 
 All this while they had not observed the old man, or 
 they would have seen that the mist had gradually 
 cleared away from his faculties ; his mind brightened 
 by his deep love for Rachael was keenly awake to all 
 that concerned her ; and so her old champion stood in 
 a moment by her side with scarce a sign left of age or 
 weakness, upright and firm as a tower. 
 
 ' Silence, girl ! I dare you to say a word to any of 
 them.' 
 
 ' There,' sobbed Mrs. Hathom, ' you thought the
 
 240 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 poor old man was past understanding, and now you 
 make him drink the bitter cup as well as her.' 
 
 ' Yes ! I must drink my cup too/ said Old Patrick. 
 • I thought I was going to die soon, and to die in peace ; 
 but I'll live and be young again, if it is but to tell ye, 
 ye are a pack of curs. The Parish Register ! does the 
 Parish Register tell you, the man married her with a 
 wife living in another part ? Is it wrote down along with 
 that child's name in the Parish Register, how his father 
 fell on his knees to his mother a girl of seventeen, and 
 beg'fjed for the dear life she wouldn't take the law of 
 him and banish him the country ? What was she to 
 think ? could she think, that when his sick wife died, 
 he'd reward her for sparing him by flying the country 
 not to do her right? The Parish Register! You 
 welcome this scoundrel to your house, and you hunt his 
 
 victim out like a vagabond, ye d d hypocrites. 
 
 Come Rachael, let us crawl away home, and die in 
 peace.' 
 
 ' No, no ! you must not go like that,' cried Mi-s. 
 Hathorn, and Robert rose and was coming to take his 
 hand ; but he waived his staff furiously over his head. 
 
 ' Keep aloof, I bid ye all, he cried ; * I have fought 
 against Buonaparte, and I despise small blackguards.' 
 He seized Rachael and drew her to the door: then 
 he came back at them again^ — ' 'Tis n't guilt you have 
 punished ; you have insulted innocence and hard for^ 
 tune ; you have insulted your own mothers, for you
 
 NEVER DID EUN SMOOTH. 241 
 
 have insulted me that fought for them before the 
 best and oldest of you was born — no sculking before 
 the enemy, girl' — for Kachael was drooping and 
 trembling' — ' rio^ht shoulders forward — march !' and he 
 almost tore her out of the house. He was great, and 
 thundering, and terrible in this moment of fury ; he 
 seemed a giant and the rest but two feet high. His 
 white hair streamed, and his eyes blazed defiance and 
 scorn. He was great and terrible by his passion and 
 his age, and his confused sense of past battles and present 
 insult. They followed him out almost on tip-toe. He 
 lifted Rachael into the waggon, placed her carefully on 
 a truss of hay in the waggon, and the carter came to tlie 
 horses' heads, and looked to the house to know whether 
 he was to start now. 
 
 Robert came out and went to Rachael's side of the 
 waggon, but she turned her head away. 
 
 ' Won't you speak to me, Rachael ?' said Robert. 
 
 Rachael turned her head away and was silent. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Robert quietly, very quietly. 
 
 ' Go on,' cried old Hathorn. 
 
 The next moment there was a fearful scream fi-om 
 the women, and Robert was seen down among the 
 horses' feet, and the carter was forcing them back, or 
 the waggon would have been over him ; the carter 
 dragged him up— he was not hurt, but very pale ; he 
 told his mother, who came running to him, that he 
 had felt suddenly faint and had fallen, and he gave a 
 
 R
 
 242 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 sickly smile and bade her not be frightened — he was 
 better. 
 
 K.ose May field was as white as a sheet. 
 
 ' Go on,' cried the farmer again, and at a word from 
 the carter the horses drew the waggon out of the yard, 
 and went away down the lane with Rachael and Patrick. 
 
 They were gone. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Corporal Patrick was correct in his details ; the 
 Parish Register gave a very vague outline of Rachael 
 Wright's history, Mr. Hickman had gone through 
 the ceremony of marrying her ; nay more, at the time 
 he had firmly intended the ceremony should be binding, 
 for his wife lay dying a hundred miles off, and Rachael 
 had at this period great expectations from her aunt, 
 Mrs. Clayton. This Mrs. Clayton was the possessor of 
 Bix Farm. She was a queer-tempered woman, and a 
 severe economist ; this did not prevent her allowing 
 Patrick and Rachael a yearly sum, which helped to 
 maintain them in homely comfort. And she used to 
 throw out mysterious hints that, at her death, the pair 
 would be better off than other relations of hers who 
 dressed finer and held their heads higher at present. 
 Unfortunately for Rachael this aunt was alive at the 
 period when Hickman's bigamy was discovered by old
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 243 
 
 Patrick. The said aunt had never done anything of 
 the kind herself, nobody had ever married her illegally, 
 and she could not conceive how such a thing could take 
 place without the woman being in fault as well as the 
 man ; so she was very cross about it, and discontinued 
 her good offices. The Corporal wished to apply the 
 law at once to Hickman ; but he found means to dis- 
 arm Rachael, and Rachael disarmed the old soldier. 
 Rachael, young, inexperienced, and honest, was easily 
 induced to believe in Hickman's penitence, and she 
 never doubted that upon his wife's death, who was 
 known to be incurably ill, Richard would do her ample 
 right. So meantime she agreed to do herself in- 
 justice. 
 
 Mrs. Hickman died within a short time of the 
 exposure ; but unfortunately for Rachael, another 
 person died a week or two before her, and that person 
 was Rachael's aunt. No will appeared, except an old 
 one which was duly cancelled by the old lady herself, 
 in the following manner : — First, all the words were 
 inked out with a pen ; secondly, most of them were 
 scratched out with a knife ; lastly, a formal document 
 was affixed and witnessed, rendering the said instrument 
 null as well as illegible. The mutilated testament 
 bequeathed Bix Farm to Jack White, her graceless 
 nephew. He had offended her after the will was made, 
 so she annulled the will. The graceless nephew could 
 afford to smile at these evidences of wrath ; he happened 
 
 K 2
 
 244 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 to be her heir-at-law, and succeeded to Bix in the 
 absence of all testament to the contrary. Hickman 
 was with his dying wife in Somersetshire. The news 
 about Bix reached him, and he secretly resolved to 
 have nothing more to do with Eachael. To carry out 
 this with more security, the wretch wrote her affectionate 
 letters from time to time, giving plausible excuses for 
 remaining in Somersetshire ; and so he carried on the 
 game for three months after his wife was dead ; he then 
 quietly dropped the mask and wrote no more. 
 
 So matters went on for some years, until one day the 
 graceless nephew finding work a bore, announced Bix 
 Farm to let. Poor Hickman had set his heart upon 
 this Bix, and as he could not have it for his own, he 
 thought he should like to rent it, so he came up and 
 made his offer, and was accepted as tenant. The rest 
 the reader knows, I believe ; but what iron passed 
 through the hearts of Rachael and the old soldier all 
 this time, that let me hope he knows not.
 
 NEVER DID RUX SMOOTH. 245 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The events we have recorded had no sooner taken 
 place, than a great change seemed to come over Mrs. 
 Mayfield. She went about her avocations as usual, but 
 not with the same alacrity ; and her spirits were so 
 unstrung, that every now and then she burst into tears. 
 The female servants, honest country wenches that were 
 not sublimely indifferent, like London domestics, to 
 everybody in the house but themselves, seeing the 
 gloom of the house, and Mrs. Mayfield continually 
 crjdng who never cried before, began to whimper for 
 sympathy, and the house was a changed house. Bobert 
 had disappeared ; and they all felt it was a charity not 
 to ask where, or to go near him for a while : all but 
 the mother, who could not resist the yearnings of a 
 mother's nature ; she crept silently at a distance, and 
 watched her boy, lest perchance evil should befall him. 
 Mrs. Mayfield then, after many efforts to go through 
 her usual duties, gave way altogether, and sat herself 
 down in her own parlour, and cried over all the sorrow 
 that had come on the farm ; and, as all generous natures 
 do, if you give them time to think, she blamed herself 
 more than any one else, and wished herself dead and 
 out of the way, if by that means the rest could only be
 
 246 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 made happy as they used to be. While she was In this 
 mood, her head buried in her hands, she heard a shght 
 noise, and, looking up, saw a sorrowful face at the 
 door : it was Mr. Casenower. 
 
 ' I am come to bid you good-bye, Mrs. Mayfield.' , 
 
 * Come to bid me good-bye ?' 
 
 *Yes. All my things are packed up except this; 
 which I hope you will do me the favour to accept, since 
 I am going away and shall never tease you again.' 
 
 ' You never teased me that I know,' said Mrs. 
 Mayfield, very gently. * What is it, sir ?' 
 
 ' It is my collection of birds' eggs : will you look 
 at it?' 
 
 ' Yes. Why, here are a hundred different sorts, and 
 no two kinds alike.' 
 
 ' No two kinds ? I should think not. No two eggs^ 
 you mean.' 
 
 ' How beautiful they look when you see them in such 
 numbers !' 
 
 ' They are beautiful. Nature is very skilful ; we 
 don't take half as many hints from her as we might. 
 Do you observe these eggs all of one colour — these 
 delicate blues — these exquisite drabs? If you ever 
 wish to paint a room, take one of these eggs for a model, 
 and you will arrive at such tints as no painter ever 
 imagined out of his own head, I know. I once hoped 
 we should make these experiments together ; but it was 
 not to be. Good-bye, dear Mrs. Mayfield !'
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 247 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Casenower, I did not think you came to 
 quarrel with me.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! But you love somebody else.' 
 
 ' No : I don't.' 
 
 ' Yes : you know you do ; and you rejected me this 
 morning-.' 
 
 ' I remember I was rude to you, sir ; I knocked a 
 flower out of your hand. Does that rankle in your 
 heart so long ?' 
 
 * Mrs. Mayfield, it is for your sake I am going, not 
 out of anger ; you know that very well.' 
 
 * I know no such thing : it is out of spite ; and a pretty 
 time to show your spite, when my heart is breaking. 
 If you want to please me, you would wait till I bid you 
 go.' 
 
 * You don't bid me go, then ?' 
 
 * It doesn't seem like it' 
 ' You bid me stay ?' 
 
 *Not I, sir. Don't let me keep you here against 
 your will.' 
 
 ' But it is not against my will ; only you seemed to 
 hate me this morning.' 
 
 ^1 ' What signifies what I did this morning ?' cried Mrs. 
 Mayfield, sharply, ' it is afternoon now. This morning 
 they put me out ; I wanted somebody to quarrel with ; 
 you came in my way, so I quarrelled with you. Now I 
 have made you all unhappy, so I am miserdble myself, 
 as I deserve ; and now I want somebody to comfort me,
 
 248 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 and you come to me : but instead of comforting me, all 
 you can think of is to quarrel with me — oh ! oh ! oh !' 
 This speech was followed by a flood of tears. 
 
 Casenower drew his chair close to hers, and took her 
 hand, and promised to console her — to die for her, if 
 necessary. 
 
 ' Tell me your trouble,' said he, ' and you shall see 
 how soon I will cure it, if a friend can cure it. Mrs. 
 Mayfield — Rose — what is the matter ?' 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Casenower, Robert is in love with that 
 Eachael — the farmer has insulted her, and sent her and 
 her grandfather away — Robert is breaking his heart ; — 
 and all this began with a word of mine, though that 
 blackguard Hickman is more to blame still. But I am 
 a woman that likes to make people happy about me ; I 
 may say I live for that ; and now they are all unhappy ; 
 and if I knew where to find a dose of poison, I would 
 not be long before I would take it this day. I can't 
 bear to make folk unhappy — oh ! oh ! oh !' 
 
 ' Don't cry, dearest,' said Casenower ; ' you shall 
 have your wish ; you shall make everybody happy !' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no ! that is impossible now.' 
 
 ' No such thing — there is no mischief that can't be 
 cured — look here, Rose, the old farmer is very fond of 
 money ; Rachael is poor ; well, I am rich. I will soon 
 find Robert a thousand pounds or two, and he shall 
 have the girl he likes.' 
 
 'Ah, Mr. Casenower, if money could do it I should
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 249 
 
 have settled it that way myself. Oh! what a good 
 creature you are. I love you — no, I don't, I hate you, 
 because I see how all this is to end. No, no ! we have 
 insulted the poor things and set their hearts against us, 
 and we have set poor Robert against the girl, who is 
 worth the whole pack of us twice counted. They are 
 gone, and the old man's curse hangs like lead upon the 
 house and all in it.' 
 
 ' Where are they gone ?' 
 
 ' Newbury way.' 
 
 ' How long ?' 
 
 ' An hour and a half.' 
 
 ' In two hours I'll have them back here.' 
 
 ' Don't be a fool now, talking nonsense.' 
 
 ' Will you lend me your mare ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! no ! The old farmer would kill us.' 
 
 ' Hang the old farmer ! Who cares for him ? Is 
 this your house or his ?' 
 
 ' jNIine to be sure.' 
 
 ' Then I shall bring them to this house.' 
 
 'Yes, but — but — ' 
 
 ' You have a right to do what you like in your OM'n 
 house, I suppose. Why, how scared you look ! Where 
 is all your spirit ? You have plenty of it sometimes.' 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Casenower — don't tell anybody — I have 
 not a grain of real spirit. I am the most chicken- 
 hearted creature in the world : only I hide it when I 
 fall in with other cowards, and so then I can bully
 
 250 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 them, you know. I have Hectored it over you more 
 than once, and so I would again ; but it would be a 
 shame, you are so good — and besides you have found 
 me out now/ 
 
 ' Well ! I am not afraid of anybody, if I can please 
 you. I will ride after them and fetch them here, and 
 if you are afraid to give them house-room, I will hire 
 that empty house at the end of the lane, and this very 
 night they shall be seated in a good house, by a good 
 fire, before a good supper, within fifty yards of your 
 door.' 
 
 ' Let me go with you. You don't know the way.' 
 
 * Thank you ; I should be sure to lose the way by 
 myself; go and get your habit on. Lose no time. I 
 will saddle the horses.' 
 
 ' How a man takes the command of us,' thought 
 Mrs. Mayfield. ' I shall have to marry you for this, I 
 suppose,' said she, gaily, shining through her late 
 tears. 
 
 ' Not unless you like,' said Casenower, proudly. ' I 
 don't want to entrap you, or take any woman against 
 her will.' 
 
 The Mayfield colored up to her eyes. 
 
 ' You had better knock me down,' said she. ' I 
 know you would like to,' and, casting on her com- 
 panion a glance of undisguised admiration, she darted 
 upstairs for her habit. 
 \ . Ten minutes later she was in the saddle, and giving
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 251 
 
 her mare the rein, she went after our poor travellers 
 like a flash of liorhtning. 
 
 Casenower followed as he raig-ht. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was a glorious evening : the sun, gigantic and red, 
 had just begun to tip the clouds with gold, and rubies, 
 and promises of a fine day to-morrow ; the farm was 
 quiet ; the farmer's homely supper was set on a table 
 outside the door, and he and his wife sat opposite each 
 other in silence. 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn helped herself to a morsel ; but she 
 did not care to eat it, and, in fact, she only helped 
 herself to encourage her husband to eat. She did not 
 succeed ; Farmer Hathorn remained in a brown study, 
 his supper untasted before him. 
 
 ' Eat your supper, husband.' 
 
 ' Thank you, wife ; I am not hungry.^ 
 
 * Take a drop of beer, then.' 
 ' No, Jane, I am not dry.' 
 
 'You are ill then, John ; you don't look well.^ 
 ' I'm well enough, I tell you.' 
 ' You are in trouble, like many more in this house.' 
 ' Me ? No : I never was happier in my life !' 
 ' Indeed ! What is there to be happy about ?' 
 
 * Come, now, what is it ?' cried the farmer, angrily.
 
 552 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' Out with it, and don't sit looking at me with eyes 
 like a adder's.' 
 
 ' My man, you see your conscience in your wife's 
 eyes ; that is all the venom they have/ 
 
 ' You had better tell me Uobert is in his senses to 
 love that girl. I would cut my arm off at the shoulder 
 sooner than consent to it.' 
 
 * Would you cut your son off sooner?' said Mrs. 
 Hathorn, with forced calmness. 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 * You take very little notice of what passes, John.' 
 • * What do you mean ?' 
 
 'Didn't you see what Robert tried for when the 
 waggon started with them ?' 
 
 'Oh, about his fainting! I could have kicked the 
 silly fool ill hadn't been his father.' 
 
 ' Don't you think it is very odd he should faint like 
 that ; just under the wheel of a waggon ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! when a chap swoons away he can't choose the 
 bed he falls on.' 
 
 ' A moment more the wheel would have been on his 
 head ; if Thomas hadn't been lightsome* and stopped 
 the horses all in a minute, Robert Hathorn would have 
 been a corpse in this house.' 
 
 ' Well !' 
 
 'Well!' 
 
 * Pronouuced lissome.
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 253 
 
 The man lowered his voice : ' You had better tell 
 me you think he did it on purpose !' 
 
 Mrs, Hathorn leaned over the table to him. 
 
 ' I don't think it, John ; I am sure of it. Robert 
 never fainted at all ; he was as white as his shirt, but 
 he knew what he was about from first to last. He 
 chose his time ; and when Rachael turned her head 
 from him, he just said, " Very well, then," and flung 
 himself under the wheel. What did Thomas say, who 
 dragged him up from the horses' feet?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said old Hathorn, half sulkily, half 
 trembling. 
 
 ' He said, " That is flying in the face of Heaven, 
 young master." Jane heard him say it ; and you 
 know Thomas is a man that speaks but little. ^Vhat 
 did Rose Mayfield say, as she passed him next minute ? 
 " Would you kill your mother, Robert, and break all 
 our hearts ?" You cried out, " Go on — go on." Robert 
 said his foot had slipped ; and made as though he 
 would smile at me. Ah ! what a smile, John ! If you 
 had been as near it as I was, you wouldn't sleep this 
 night.' And Mrs. Hathorn began to sob violently, 
 and rocked herself to and fro. 
 
 * Then send for them back,' cried the farmer, sud- 
 denly starting up. ' Send, before worse ill comes — 
 confound them !' 
 
 'They will never come back here. They are 
 poor, but honest and proud ; and we have stung
 
 254 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 them too bitterly, reproaching them with their hard 
 lot' 
 
 ' Where is he ?' whispered the farmer. 
 
 ' In the barn ; with his face buried in the straw, like 
 one who wouldn't speak, or see, or hear the world again.' 
 
 ' Mayhap he is asleep ?' 
 
 ' No, he is not asleep.' 
 
 * Give him time ; he'll come to when he has cried his 
 bellyful.' 
 
 ' He shed tears ? Oh, no ! it is too deep for that ; 
 he will die by his own hand, or fret to death. He won't 
 be long here, I doubt : look for dark days, old man !' 
 
 ' Wife,' said Hathorn, trembling, ' you are very hard 
 upon me : to hear you, one would say I am a bad 
 father, and am killing my son.' 
 
 ' No — no — John ! But we were too ambitious, and 
 we have humbled the poor and the afflicted ; and 
 Heaven does not bless them that do so, and never will.' 
 
 ' I don't know what to do, Jane.' 
 
 ' No more do I, except pray to God : that is my 
 resource in dangers and troubles.' 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! that can do no harm any way.' 
 
 While the old couple sat there, with gloomy and 
 foreboding hearts, suddenly a cheerful cry burst upon 
 their ears. It was Mrs. Mayfield's voice ; she came 
 cantering up the lane with Mr. Casenower ; she dis- 
 mounted, flung him the bridle, and ran into her own 
 house, where she busied herself in giving orders and
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 255 
 
 preparing two rooms for some expected visitors. A 
 few minutes more, and, to the astonishment of Hathom 
 and delight of his wife, the waggon hove in sight with 
 Rachael and Patrick. 
 
 They descended from the waggon, and were led by 
 Mr, Casenower into Mrs. Mayfield's house, and there, 
 after all this day's fatigues and sorrows, they found a 
 welcome and bodily repose. But Rachael showed great 
 uneasiness ; she had been very reluctant to return ; 
 but Mrs. May field had begged them both so hard, with 
 the tears in her eyes, and Patrick had shown so strong 
 a wish to come back, that she had yielded a passive 
 consent. When the news of their return was brought 
 to Robert by his mother, he betrayed himself to her ; 
 he threw his arms around her neck like a girl — but in 
 his downcast look, and dogged manner, none of the 
 others could discover whether he was glad or sorry. 
 He went about his work, next morning, as usual, and 
 did not even make an inquiry about Rachael. 
 
 It was about twelve o'clock the next day, that Mrs. 
 Mayfield observed him return from the field, and 
 linger longer than usual in the neighbourhood of the 
 house. She invited Rachael to come and look at her 
 pet calf, and walked her most treacherously right up to 
 Robert. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried she, ' you must excuse me, here is 
 Robert, he will do as well. Robert, you take and show 
 her my calf, the red and white one, that's a good soul,
 
 256 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 they want me in-doors.' And in a moment she was 
 gone, and left Robert and Rachael looking alternately 
 at each other and the ground. 
 
 When Rose left these two together, she thought, 
 innocently enough, that the business was half done, as 
 far as they were concerned. She had not calculated the 
 characters of the parties, and their pride. They were 
 little nearer each other now than at twenty miles distant. 
 
 ' Well, Rachael/ said Robert, ' I am glad you are 
 here again ; they were wrong to insult you, and now 
 they are right to bring you back ; but it is no business 
 of mine.' 
 
 ' No, Master Robert,' said Rachael quietly, ' and it 
 is against my will I am here.' 
 
 With these words she was moving away, when 
 Robert intercepted her, and, intercepting her, said, 
 ' Oh ! I don't hinder you to stay or to go. The folk 
 say a heap of things about you and me ; but did I ever 
 say a word to you more than civility ?' 
 
 ' No ! nor would I have suffered it.' 
 
 'Oh! you are proud; it suits your situation,' said 
 Robert, bitterly. 
 
 ' A man and a Christian would think twice ere he 
 reminded me of my situation,' cried Rachael, with 
 flashing eyes, ' and since you can't feel for it, why speak 
 to me at all ?' 
 
 ' I did not mean to affront you,' said Robert, with 
 feeling. ' I pity you.'
 
 XEVEK DID RUN SMOOTH. 257 
 
 'Keep your pity for one that asks it,' was the 
 spirited reply. 
 
 ' What ! are we to worship you ?' 
 ' Misfortune that does not complain should meet some 
 little respect, I think.' 
 
 ' Yes, Rachael, but it would be more respected if 
 you had not kept it so close.' 
 
 ' Master Robert,' answered Rachael, in what we 
 have already described as her dogged manner, ' poor 
 folk must work, and ought to work ; and as they won't 
 let a girl in my situation, as you call it, do work or 
 be honest, I concealed my fault — if fault it was of 
 mine.' 
 
 ' And I call it cruel to let a man love you, and hide 
 your story from him.' 
 
 ' Nay, but I never encouraged any man to love me ; 
 so I owe my story to no man." 
 
 ' Keep your secrets, then,' said Robert savagely, 
 'nobody wants them, without it is Richard Hickman. 
 I hear his cursed voice in the air somewhere.' 
 
 ' Richard Hickman ;' gasped Rachael. ' Oh ! why did 
 I come to this place to be tortured again ?' 
 
 Richard Hickman had come here expressly to have 
 a friendly talk with Mr. Patrick. Mr. Patrick owed 
 this honor to the following circumstance : — 
 
 As the waggon returned to the farm, Thomas had 
 stopped at a certain way-side public-house, in which 
 Mr. Hickman happened to be boozing. Patrick was 
 
 s
 
 258 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 breathing threats against Hickman, and insisting on 
 Rachael's taking the law of him, and sending him out 
 of the country. Eachael, to get rid of the subject, 
 yielded a languid assent ; and Hickman, who was 
 intently listening, trembled in his shoes. To prevent 
 this calamity, the prudent Richard determined to make 
 a pseudo-spontaneous offer of some sort to the Corporal 
 and hush up the whole affair. 
 
 At sight of Hickman, the Corporal was for laying 
 on, as our elder-dramatists have it ; but Mr. Casenower, 
 who was there, arrested his arm, and proposed to him 
 to hear what the man had to say. 
 
 ' Well,' cried Patrick, ' let him speak out then 
 before them all — they have all seen us affronted through 
 his villainy. Where is Rach'ael ?' 
 
 So then the Corporal came round to where Rachael 
 stood, pale as death ; and Robert sat pale, too, but 
 clenching his teeth like one who would die sooner than 
 utter a cry ; though many vultures, called passions, 
 were gnawing the poor lad's heart at this moment; 
 and to make matters worse, both Mr. and Mrs. Hathorn, 
 seeing this assemblage, were drawn by a natural curio- 
 sity to join the group. 
 
 And here Mr. Hickman's brass enabled him to cut a 
 more brilliant figure than his past conduct justified ; 
 he cast a sly satirical look at them, especially at poor 
 Robert, and, setting his back to the railings, he opened 
 the ball thus : —
 
 ne\t:r did run smooth. 259 
 
 ' 1 come to speak to Mrs. Mayfield ; she says, " Speak 
 before all the rest." ^Yith all my heart. I come to 
 say three words to Mr. Patrick, " Speak before all 
 the rest," says he; well, why not? it is a matter of 
 taste. Mr. Patrick. I have done you wrong, and I own 
 it ; but you have had your revenge. You have told 
 the story your way, and the very boys are for throwing 
 stones at me here, and you have set Mrs. Mayfield 
 against me, that used to look at me as a cat does at 
 cream.' 
 
 ' As a cat does at water, you mean — you impudent 
 ugly dog.' 
 
 ' Keep your temper, my darling : you were for having 
 everything said in public, you know. Well, now let 
 us two make matters smooth, old man. How much 
 will you take to keep your tongue between your teeth 
 after this ?' 
 
 Patrick's reply came in form of a question addressed 
 to the company in general. 
 
 ' Friends, since Corporal Patrick of the 47th Foot 
 was ill amongst you, and partly out of his senses, has 
 he done any dirty action that this fellow comes and 
 offers him money in exchange for good name ?' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Patrick,' said Robert, breaking silence for 
 the first time. ' You are an honest man, and a better 
 man than ever stood in Dick Hickman's shoes.' 
 
 Hickman bit his lip, and cast a wicked glance at 
 Robert. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 ' And your daughter is as modest a lass as ever 
 broke bread, for all her misfortunes,' cried Mrs. 
 Hathorn. 
 
 ' And none but a scoundrel would hope to cure the 
 mischief he has done with money,' cried the Mayfield. 
 
 ' Spare me good people,' said Hickman, ironically. 
 
 ' Ay, spare him,' said Patrick, simply. ' I have 
 spared him this five years for Rachael's sake ; but my 
 patience is run out,' roared the old man, and, lifting 
 his staff, he made a sudden rush at the brazen Hickman. 
 Casenower and Old Hathorn interposed. 
 
 ' Let him alone,' said Hickman, ' you may be sure 
 I shan't lift my hand against four-score years. I'll 
 go sooner,' and he began to saunter off. 
 
 ' What ! you are a coward as well, are you ?' roared 
 Patrick. ' Then I pity you. Begone, ye lump of dirt, 
 with your idleness, your pride, your meanness, your 
 money, and the shame of having offered it to a soldier 
 like me that has seen danger and glory.' 
 
 'Well done, Mr. Patrick,' cried Hathorn, 'that is 
 an honour to a poor man to be able to talk like that.' 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Patrick, that was well said.' 
 
 ' It is well said, and well done.' 
 
 Every eye was now bent with admiration on Patrick, 
 and from him they turned with an universal movement 
 of disdain to Hickman. The man writhed for a moment 
 under this human lightning difficult to resist, and then 
 it was he formed a sudden resolution that took all
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 261 
 
 present by surprise. Conscience pricked him a little, 
 Rachael's coldness piqued him, jealousy of Robert stung 
 him, general disdain annoyed him, and he longed to 
 turn the tables on them all. Under this strange medley 
 of feelings and motives, he suddenly wheeled round, 
 and faced them all, with an air of defiance that made 
 him look much handsomer than they had seen him yet, 
 and he marched into the middle of them. 
 
 * I'll show you all I am not so bad as you make me 
 out — you listen, old man — Rachael, you say that you 
 love me still, and that 't is for my sake you refuse Bob 
 Hathorn, as I believe it is, and the devil take me if I 
 won't marry you now, for all that is come and gone.' 
 He then walked slowly and triumphantly past Robert 
 Hathorn, looking down on him with superior scorn, 
 and he came close up to Rachael, who was observed to 
 tremble as he came near her. ' Well, Rachael, my lass, 
 I am Richard Hickman, and I offer you the ring before 
 these witnesses — say yes, and you are mistress of Bix 
 Farm— and Mrs. Hickman. Oh ! I know the girl I 
 make the offer to,' added he, maliciously, ' if you could 
 not find out what she is worth, I could. Where are 
 you all now? — name the day Rachael, here is the 
 man.' 
 
 Rachael made no answer. 
 
 It was a strange situation, so strange that a dead 
 silence followed Hickman's words. Marriage offered 
 to a woman before a man's face who had tried to kill
 
 262 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 himself for her but yesterday, and offered by a man 
 who had neglected her entirely for five years, and had 
 declined her under more favourable circumstances. 
 Then the motionless silence of the woman so addressed 
 — they all hung upon her lips, poor Mr. Casenower not 
 excepted, who feared that, now Rachael was to be Mrs. 
 Hickman, Robert might turn to Mrs. Mayfield and 
 crush his new raised hopes. 
 
 As for Robert, he did everything he could to make 
 Rachael say ' Yes ' to Hickman. He called up a 
 dogged look of indifference, and held it on his face by 
 main force. It is to be doubted, though, whether this 
 imposed on Rachael. She stole a single glance at him 
 under her long lashes, and at last her voice broke softly, 
 but firmly, on them all, and it sounded like a bell, so 
 hushed were they all, and so highly strung was their 
 attention and expectation. 
 
 ' I thank you, Richard Hickman, but I decline your 
 offer.' 
 
 'Are you in earnest, little girl ?' 
 
 ' Rachael,' said Patrick, ' think — are you sure you 
 know your own mind ?' 
 
 ' Grandfather, to marry a man I must swear in the 
 face of heaven to love and honor him. How could I 
 respect Richard Hickman ? if he was the only man left 
 upon the earth, I could not marry him and I would not. 
 I would rather die !' 
 
 Robert drew a lona: breath.
 
 NE\T:R did RUIf SMOOTH. 263 
 
 ' You have got your answer,' said Patrick, ' so now, 
 if I was you, I'd be off.' 
 
 ' If I don't I'm a fool. I shall go to my uncle : he 
 lives ninety miles from here, and you'll see I shall get 
 a farm there and a wife and all — if so be you don't 
 come there a reaping, Mr. Patrick.' 
 
 ' Heaven pardon you then,' said the old man gravely. 
 ' You are but young ; remember it is not too late to 
 repair your ill conduct to us by good conduct to others 
 — so now good aaternoon.' 
 
 ' Good aaternoon, Daddy Patrick,' said Hickman, 
 with sudden humility. ' Your servant, all the company,' 
 added he, taking off his hat. So saying, he went off. 
 He had no sooner turned the corner than he repented 
 him of the manner of his going ; so, putting his hands 
 in his pockets, he whistled the first verse of ' The 
 Plough-boy,' until out of hearing. As these last 
 sounds of Hickman died away they all looked at one 
 another in silence. Old Hathorn was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 ' That was uncommon spirity to refuse Hickman,' 
 said he, bluntly, ' but you have too much pride, both of 
 you!' 
 
 ' No, not I, farmer,' said the old man, sorrowfully, 
 ' I have been proud, and high-spirited too ; but it is 
 time that passed away from me. I am old enough to 
 see from this world into another, and from this hour to 
 my last (and that won't be long, I hope), I am patient ;
 
 264 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 the sky is above the earth ; my child has had wrong — 
 cruel, bitter, undeserved wrong; but we will wait for 
 Heaven's justice, since man has none for us : and we 
 will take it when it comes, here, or hereafter.' 
 
 The fiery old man's drooping words brought the 
 water into all their eyes, and Robert, in whose mind so 
 sore a struggle had been raging, sprang to his feet. 
 
 ' You speak well,' he cried, ' you are a righteous 
 man, and my ill pride falls before your words ; it is my 
 turn to ask your daughter of you. Rachael, you take 
 me for husband and friend for life. I loved you well 
 enough to die for you, and now I love you well enough 
 to live for you ; Rachael, be my wife — if you please.' 
 
 ' She won't say " No !" this time,' cried Rose May- 
 field, archly. 
 
 ' Thank you, Robert,' said Rachael, mournfully. ' I 
 am more your friend than to say " Yes." ' 
 
 ' Rachael,' cried Mrs. Hathorn, ' if it is on our 
 account, I never saw a lass I would like so well for 
 daughter-in-Jaw as yourself.' 
 
 ' No, mother,' said Robert ; ' it is on account of 
 father. Father, if you will not be offended, I shall put 
 a question to you that I never thought to put to my 
 father. Have I been a good son or a bad son to you 
 these eight-and-twenty years ?' 
 
 ' Robert !' cried the old man in a quivering tone, 
 that showed these simple words had gone through and 
 through his heart. Then he turned to Rachael : ' My
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 265 
 
 girl, I admire your pride ; but have pity on my poor 
 boy and me.' 
 
 ' And on yourself,' put in Mrs. Mayfield. 
 
 ' May Heaven bless you, Mr. Hathorn !' said 
 Rachael. ' If I say " No !" to Robert, I have a reason 
 that need offend no one. Folk would never believe I 
 was not in fault ; they would cast his wife's story in his 
 teeth, and sting us both to death ; for he is proud, and 
 I am proud too. And what I have gone through — oh ! 
 it has made rae as bitter as gall — as bitter as gall !' 
 
 ' Rachael Wright,' cried the old Corporal, sternly? 
 ' listen to me !' 
 
 'Rachael Wright,' yelled Casenower. 'Oh! 
 gracious heavens — Rachael ^Vright — it is — it must be. 
 I knew it was an odd combination — I got it into my 
 head it was " Rebecca Reid " — is this Rachael Wright, 
 sir ?' 
 
 ' Of course it is,' said the Corporal, peevishly. 
 
 ' Then I have got something for her from my late 
 partners. I'll find it — it is at the bottom of my seeds,' 
 and away scampered Casenower. 
 
 He presently returned, and interrupted a rebuke 
 Mr. Patrick was administering to Eachael, by giving 
 her a long envelope. She opened it with some surprise, 
 and ran her eye over it, for she was what they call in 
 the county a capital scholar. Now as she read, her 
 face changed and changed like an April sky, and each 
 change was a picture and a story. They looked at her
 
 266. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 in wonder as well as curiosity. At last a lovely red 
 mantled in her pale cheek, and a smile like a rainbow, 
 a smile those present had never seen on her face, came 
 back to her from the past. The paper dropped from 
 her hands as she stretched them out, like some benign 
 goddess or nymph, all love, delicacy, and grace. 
 
 * Robert,' she cried, and she need have said no more, 
 for the little word ' Robert,' as she said it, was a vo- 
 lume of love, ' Robert, I love, I always loved you, I 
 am happy — happy — happy !' and she threw her arm 
 round Robert's neck, and cried and sobbed, and, crying 
 and sobbing, told him again and again how happy she 
 was. 
 
 ' Hallo !' cried Hathorn, cheerfully, ' wind has shifted 
 in your favor, appearently. Bob.' 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield picked up the paper. 'This has 
 done it,' cried she, and she read it out ipro bono. The 
 paper contained the copy of a will made by Rachael's 
 aunt, a year before she died. The sour old lady, being 
 wrath with Rachael on account of her misconduct in 
 getting victimized, but not quite so wrath as with her 
 graceless nephew, had taken a medium course. She 
 had not destroyed this will, as she did the other by 
 which graceless nephew was to benefit, but she hid it 
 in the wall, safe as ever magpie hid thimble, and dying 
 somewhat suddenly she died intestate to all appearance. 
 This old lady was immeasurably fond of the old ram- 
 shackly house she lived in. So, after a while, to show
 
 NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 267 
 
 liis contempt of her, graceless nephew had the house 
 pulled down ; the workmen picked out of the wall the 
 mil in question. An old servant of the lady, whom 
 gi'aceless nephew had turned off, lived hard by, and 
 was sorrowfully watching the demolition of the house, 
 when the will was picked out. Old servant read the 
 will, and found herself down for 100?. Old servant 
 took the will to a firm of solicitors, no other than 
 Casenower's late partners. They sent dowTi to 
 Rachael's village ; she and Patrick were gone ; a 
 neighbour said they were reaping somewhere in 
 Oxfordshire. The firm sent a copy of the will to 
 Casenower as a forlorn hope, and employed a person 
 to look out for Rachael's return to her own place, as 
 the best chance of doing business with her. By the 
 will, 2000Z. and Bix Farm were bequeathed to Rachael. 
 
 ' Bix Farm ! Three hundred acres !' cried Hathorn. 
 
 'Bix Farm — the farm Hickman is on,' cried Rose 
 Mayfield. ' Kick him out, he has no lease. If you 
 don't turn him out neck and crop before noon to- 
 mon'ow, Fm a dead woman.^ 
 
 ' The farm is Robert's,' said Rachael ; ' and so is all 
 I have to give him, if he will accept it.' And though 
 she looked at Mrs. Mayfield, she still clung to Robert. 
 
 Robert kissed her, and looked so proudly at them 
 all I ' Have I chosen ill ?' said Robert's eyes.
 
 268 THE COUKSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 When everybody sees how a story will end, the story 
 is ended. 
 
 Robert and Rachael live on their own farm, Bix ; 
 Corporal Patrick sits by their fire-side. 
 
 People laugh at Mr. Casenower's eccentricities ; but 
 it is found unsafe to laugh at them in presence of Mrs. 
 Casenower, late Mayfield. 
 
 I think I cannot conclude better than by quoting a 
 few words that passed between Mrs. Hathorn and 
 Corporal Patrick, as they all sat round one table that 
 happy evening. 
 
 ' Rose,' said this homely good creature, ' I do notice 
 that trouble comes to all of us at one time or other ; 
 and I think they are the happiest that have their 
 trouble (like these two children) in the morning of 
 their days.' 
 
 ' Ay, dame,' said the Corporal, taking up the word, 
 ' and after that a bright afternoon, and a quiet evening 
 —as mine will be now, please God !' 
 
 Friendly reader (for I have friendly as well as un-
 
 NEVEPw DID RUN SMOOTH. 269 
 
 friendly readers), I do not wish you a day without a 
 cloud, for you are human, and I, though a writer, am 
 not a humbug. But, in ending this tale, I wish you 
 a bright afternoon, and a tranquil evening, and above 
 all a clear sky when the sun goes down. 
 
 THE END,
 
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