LIBRARY 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 THE HOLY ROSE 
 
 ETC. 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN,' 'children OF GIBEON,' 
 
 'TO CALL HER MINE,' ETC 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY FRED. BARNARD 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & W INDUS 
 
 1896

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 OnAPTEtt PAOB 
 
 PROLOGUE ...... 1 
 
 I. IN MY GARDEN - - - - - 10 
 
 II. PORCH ESTER CASTLE - - - - 23 
 
 III. THE FAMILY LUCK - - - - 32 
 
 IV. IN THE OTHER CAMP - - - - 38 
 V. TOM'S UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE - - - 44 
 
 VI. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY - - - -52 
 
 VII. THE DEPARTURE OF THE PRISONERS - 59 
 
 VIII. HE CANNOT CHOOSE BUT GO - - - - 65 
 
 IX. RAYMOND'S JOURNEY - - ■ - 67 
 
 X. IN THE TOWER - - - - - - 75 
 
 XI. THE KISS OF JUDAS - - - - 81 
 
 XII. THE TRIAL - - - - - 87 
 
 XIII. AT HOME - . .... 94 
 
 XIV. THE RELEASE - - - - - 99 
 XV. CONCLUSION ------ 108 
 
 THE LAST MASS ... . - 114
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER PA OB 
 
 PROLOGUE : AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION - - 142 
 
 I. THE SUPPER-BELL .... - 152 
 
 II. GROUT, SUFFRAGAN • 164 
 
 III. CHRISTINE AT HOME ----- 173 
 
 IV. WHAT IS LOVE ? - - - - - 192 
 V. THE OPEN DOOR ----- 202 
 
 VI. THE ARCH-PHYSICIAN - - - - - 211 
 
 VII. THE FIDELITY OF JOHN LAX - - - - 218 
 
 Till. THE ARCH TRAITOR ----- 225 
 
 IX. IN THE INNER HOUSE ----- 229 
 
 X. THE COUNCIL IN THE HOUSE - - - - 235 
 
 XI. THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE - - - - 240 
 
 XII. THE REBELS ------ 248 
 
 XIII. THE EXECUTION ... - - 254 
 
 XIV. PRISONERS ------ 261 
 
 XV. THE RECRUITING SERGEANT - 265 
 
 XVI. A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION - - - 269 
 
 EVEN WITH THIS 279 
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING - 301
 
 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 PKOLOGUE. 
 
 All night long, until within a couple of hours of daybreak, the 
 ships' boats were rowing to and fro between the fleet and the 
 shore, swiftly, yet without haste, as if the work had to be done 
 without delay, yet must be done in order. They were embarking the 
 English and the Spanish troops, for the town was to be abandoned. 
 All night long the soldiers stood in their ranks, waiting for their 
 turn in stolid patience. Some even slept leaning on their muskets, 
 though the season was mid-winter, and though all round them 
 there was such a roaring of cannon, and such a bursting and 
 hissing of shells, as should have driven sleep far away. But the 
 cannon roared and the shells burst harmlessly, so far as the 
 soldiers were concerned, for they were drawn up in the Fort 
 Lamalque, which is on the east of the town, while the cannon- 
 ading was from Fort Caire, which is on the west. The Republi- 
 cans fired, not upon the embarking army, but upon the town ar.rl 
 upon the boats in the harbour, where the English sailors we •• 
 destroying those of the ships which they could not take away wil \\ 
 them, so that what had been a magnificent fleet in the evening 
 became by the morning only a poor half-dozen frigates. They 
 burned the arsenal ; they destroyed the stores ; not until the work 
 of destruction was complete, and all the troops were embarked, 
 did they turn their thoughts to the shrieking and panic-stricken 
 people. 
 
 What do we, who all our lives have sat at home in peace and 
 quietness, know of such a night ? What do we, who, so far, have 
 lived beyond the reach of war, comprehend of such terror as fell 
 upon all hearts when — 'twas the night of the eighteenth of Decem- 
 ber, in the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and ninety- 
 
 1
 
 *i THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 three — the people of Toulon discovered that the English and 
 Spanish troops were leaving the town, and that they were left to 
 the tender mercies of the Republicans ? Toulon was their last 
 camp of refuge ; Lyons had fallen ; Marseilles had fallen. As the 
 English gathered together in the fens and swamps to escape the 
 Normans, so the Provencal folk fled to Toulon out of the way of 
 the Republicans. As for their tender mercies, it was known 
 already what had been done at Lyons, and what at Marseilles. 
 "What would they not do at Toulon, which had not only, pro- 
 nounced against the Republic, but had even invited the English 
 and the Spanish to occupy and hold the town ? And now their 
 allies were embarking, and they were without defence. 
 
 It took time for them to understand the situation. They did 
 not learn that Fort Caire and the Pharon had been taken by the 
 Republicans, until the cannon of the forts were turned upon the 
 town, and the bombardment began. Then they ran out of their 
 houses, because it is better to die in the open than to die in a hole, 
 and congregated — some in the churches, some in the Place dArmes, 
 and some on the quays. It was dreadful, even there, because the 
 shells which flew hurtling in the air sometimes burst over their 
 heads, and the cannon-shot sometimes flew through the crowd, 
 making long lanes where the dead and wounded lay. It was more 
 dreadful when the English sailors fired the arsenal and the stores, 
 and the lurid flames leaped up into the sky, and roared and ran 
 from place to place. It was more dreadful still when the lubberly 
 Spaniards blew up the powder-ships instead of sinking them, and 
 that with so terrible an explosion that the boats in the harbour 
 were blown clean out of the water. But it was most dreadful of 
 all when it became known that the English had abandoned the 
 town, and were even then embarking at Fort Lamalque, where 
 they were secure from the fire of the other forts j because then the 
 people understood that they would be left to certain death. 
 
 Then with one consent they rushed upon the Quai. The women 
 carried their little ones and dragged the elder children by the 
 hand ; the men snatchtd up whatever, in the terror of the moment, 
 they could save that seemed worth saving, and there, crowded all 
 together, they shrieked and cried to the English boats, and implored 
 the sailors to carry them on board. 
 
 All night long they vainly cried, the men cursing the English for 
 their inhumanity, the women holding up the children — for the 
 flames of the arsenal made the Quai as light as day — if the sight of 
 the tender innocents would move their hearts. All night long the
 
 PROLOGUE. 3 
 
 •sailors, unmoved, went on with their work of destruction in the 
 harbour, and of embarkation on the fleet. But in the early 
 morning, two hours before daybreak, they had done all that they 
 had time to do, and they thought of the wretched people. 
 
 AVhen the boats touched the Quai there arose a desperate cry, for 
 it seemed here indeed, as with those who of old time stood or lay 
 about the Pool of Siloam, that only he who stepped in first would 
 come out whole. Then those behind pushed to the front, and 
 those in front leaped into the boats, and some in their haste leaped 
 into the water instead and were drowned ; and, to make the terror 
 worse, the forcats, who had been released when the arsenal was 
 fired, came down upon the crowd, six hundred strong, yelling, 
 4 The Republicans are upon us ! They are coming ! They are 
 coming !' Then even those who had been most patient, fearing 
 above all things to lose each other, and resolved to cling to their 
 treasures if possible, either lost their heads and rushed forward, or 
 were forced to the front by those behind and separated ; and in the 
 confusion they dropped their treasures, which the convicts picked 
 up. And some were pushed into the water, and some, especially 
 the women and children, were thrown down and trampled to 
 death ; and at this moment the cannon-shot of Fort Caire fell into 
 the densest part of the crowd. And some went mad, and began to 
 laugh and sing, and one or two fell dead with the terror and dis- 
 traction of it. But the Euglish sailors went on steadily with their 
 work, helping the people into the boats, and when those were full 
 pushing off and making room for others, as if they were Portsmouth 
 wherries taking holiday folk to see the ships at Spithead ; so that, 
 although at daybreak they were forced to desist, out of twenty 
 thousand souls who were in Toulon, they took on board, all told, 
 fourteen thousand five hundred men, women and children. 
 
 Among the groups on the outskirts of the crowd there was one of 
 four, consisting of two ladies, a man, and a boy. One of the ladies 
 eat upon the arm of an anchor, holding the boy by the hand. She 
 had stuffed his ears with wool and covered his head with her 
 shawl, so that he should see and hear as little as possible. The 
 other, who stood by her, was dressed as a nun. In her hands she 
 held a golden crucifix, and her eyes were turned to the heavens. 
 The man stood silent, only from time to time whispering to the 
 lady with the boy : 
 
 ' We can die but once, Eugenie. Courage, my wife.' 
 
 Then came the false alarm of the forcats, and a surging wave of 
 humanity suddenly rushed upon them, bearing them along upon the 
 
 1-2
 
 4 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 tide. And as for the lady called Eugenie, she was carried off her 
 feet, but held the boy in her arms, and knew nothing until the 
 strong hands of two English sailors caught her as she was falling 
 headlong into the water, crying : 
 
 ' Now then, Madam Parleyvoo, this is your way ; not into the 
 harbour this time. Lay down, ma'am ; lay down, and sit quiet.' 
 
 "When it was daybreak, the refugees upon the deck looked 
 around them. They were seeking for brother and sister, husband, 
 wife, lover, parent, or child ; with them Madame Eugenie. Alas \ 
 the husband was nowhere on the ship. They comforted her with 
 the hope that he might be on one of the other vessels. But she 
 was to see him no more. Presently her eyes fell upon a figure 
 lying motionless beside a cannon on the deck. It was a nun in 
 blue and white. 
 
 ' Sister !' cried Madame Eugenie ; * Sister Claire ! You are 
 saved ! oh, you are saved !' 
 
 The nun slowly opened her eyes, looking about her. 
 
 'I thought,' she said, ' that we had passed through the pangs of 
 death, and were on our way to the gates of heaven.' The terror of 
 the night had made her reason wander for the moment. ' Where 
 are we, sister ?' 
 
 I We are safe, dear. But where — oh, where is Raymond ?' 
 
 I I know not. What has happened ? What have I here ?' 
 In her hand she carried a bag. 
 
 I have said that in the hurry of the moment each snatched up 
 what seemed most precious. This lady, for her part, held in her 
 hand a large leather bag, containing something about eighteen 
 inches long. If we consider how weak a woman she was, in what a 
 crowd she was pressed, how she was carried into the boat and 
 hoisted on board, and how her wits fled for terror, it seems nothing 
 short of a miracle that she should have brought that bag on board 
 in safety. But she did, and thus a miracle, she always believed, was 
 wrought in behalf of her and those she loved. 
 
 She sat up and began to recover herself. 
 
 ' Oh, my sister !' she said, bursting into tears, ' you are safe ; 
 and I have saved the Rose, the Holy Rose, the Rose blessed by the' 
 Pope.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Eugenie, ' have lost my husband. Thank God, the- 
 boy is safe. But where is Raymond ?' 
 
 Then followed the sound of a fierce cannonading ; the last, 
 because the Republicans now discovered that the place was aban- 
 doned.
 
 PROLOGUE. 5 
 
 The nun kissed the crucifix. 
 
 ' Those who are not with us,' she said solemnly, ' are with God. 
 If they are not dead already, they will be presently killed by those 
 who are the enemies of God and the King. Let us pray, my sister, 
 for the souls of the martyrs.' 
 
 In the afternoon of that day, the English and Spanish ships 
 being now under full sail and out of sight, there was the strangest 
 sight that the Toulonnais had ever seen. The performance took 
 .place in the Place d'Armes, under the trees which, in summer, make 
 a grateful shade in the hot sun. Generally there is a market there, 
 which begins at daybreak, and is carried on lazily, and with many 
 intervals for sleep and rest, until the evening. But to-day the 
 market-women were not at their stalls, and the stalls were empty. 
 The smoke of the still-burning arsenal was blowing slowly over the 
 town, obscuring the sky ; some of the ships in the harbour were 
 still on fire, adding their smoke, so that, though the sky was clear 
 and the sun was bright, the town was dark. Under the trees at the 
 western end of the Place sat four Commissioners, forming four 
 courts. They were dressed in Eepublican simplicity of long flow- 
 ing hair, long coats with high collars, and their throats tied up in 
 immense mufflers. They were provided with chairs, and they were 
 surrounded by a guard of soldiers. The fellows were in rags, and 
 for the most part barefooted ; but every man had his musket, his 
 bayonet, and his pouch. They carried nothing more. Their hair 
 was longer than that of the Commissioners ; their cheeks were 
 hollow, partly from short rations long continued, and partly from 
 the fatigue of the last week's incessant fighting. And their eyes 
 were fierce — as fierce as the eyes of those Gauls who first met a 
 Roman legion. In the open part of the Place, where there were 
 no trees to shelter them, were grouped a company of prisoners, 
 driven together at the point of the bayonet. They were the 
 helpless and unresisting folk who had been left behind by the re- 
 treating English. The men stood silent and resigned, or, if they 
 spoke, it was to console the women, who, for their part, worn out 
 by terror and fatigue, sat as if they could neither hear, nor see, nor 
 feel anything at all, not even the wailing of the children. 
 
 At the east end of the Place were more soldiers, and these were 
 ■engaged in turn, by squads of six, in standing shoulder to shoulder 
 and firing at a target which was continually changed. 
 
 A strange occupation, surely, for soldiers of the Republic 1 For 
 the target at which they aimed, at ten feet distance, was by turns a
 
 6 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 man, a woman, or a child, as might happen. They always hit that 
 target, which then fell to the ground, and became instantly white 
 and cold, and was dragged away to be replaced by another. 
 
 For the Republic, revengeful as well as indivisible, was executing 
 Justice upon her enemies. With this Republic, which was naturally 
 more ruthless, because less responsible, than any Tyranny, Justice 
 was always spelt with a capital, and meant Death. So exactly was 
 Justice at this time a synonym for La Mort, that one is surprised 
 that the latter word should have survived at all during the early 
 years of Revolution, when the thing was signified equally well by 
 the word Justice. The judges here were those pure and holy 
 spirits, Citizens Freron, Robespierre the Younger, Barras, and 
 Saliceti, all virtuous men, and all fully permeated with a conviction 
 of the great truth, that when a man is dead he can plot no more. 
 Therefore, as fast as the traitors of Toulon, who had held out for 
 the family of Capet, and had invited the detestable and perfidious 
 English into their city, and had been contented with their rule, 
 were brought before them, they were sentenced to be done to death 
 incontinently, and without any foolish delay in the investigation of 
 the case, or in appeals to any higher court, or any waste of time over 
 prayers and priest. 
 
 Presently there was brought before Citizen Freron a Gentleman. 
 There could be no doubt upon this subject, because, even at this 
 moment, when the result of his trial was certain, he preserved the 
 proud and self-possessed air which exasperated the Republicans, 
 who easily succeeded in looking fearless and resolute, but never 
 preserved calmness. It wants a very well-bred man to possess his 
 soul and govern himself with dignity in the presence of a violent 
 death. When it came to the turn of the Robespierres, for example,. 
 one of them jumped out of window, and the other shot himself in 
 the head. Yet in the dignity of the Nobles the fiery Republicans- 
 read contempt for themselves, and it maddened them. This gentle- 
 man was a handsome man of five-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with 
 straight and regular features, black eyes, and a strong chin. You 
 may see his face carved upon those sarcophagi of Aries, where are 
 sculptured a whole gallery of Roman heads belonging to the second 
 century. It was, in fact, a Roman face such as may be seen to this 
 day at Tarascon, Aiguesmortes, and Aries ; a clear-cut face, whose 
 ancestor was very likely some gallant legionary born in the Cam- 
 pagna, who, his years of service accomplished, was left behind,, 
 grizzled and weather-beaten, but strong still, to settle in the Pro- 
 yincia, to marry one of the black-haired, half-bred Gaulish maidens
 
 PROLOGUE. 7 
 
 to bring up his family, presently to die, and then to be remembered 
 for another generation at least in the yearly commemorative Festival 
 of the Dead. 
 
 ' Your name ?' asked Commissioner Freron. 
 
 There were no clerks, and no notes were taken of the cases. 
 But certain formalities must be observed in the administration of 
 justice. 
 
 ' My name is Raymond d' Arnault, Comte d'Eyragues,' the prisoner 
 replied in a clear, ringing voice. 
 
 'You have been found in the town which for two months has 
 harboured and entertained the enemies of the Republic. You were 
 on the Quai, endeavouring to escape. Why were you endeavouring 
 to escape V 
 
 The prisoner made no reply. 
 
 * Friends of the Republic do not fly before the presence of hei 
 soldiers. What have you to say ?' 
 
 ' Nothing,' said the prisoner. 
 
 1 Is there any present who can give evidence as to the accused ?' 
 asked the President. 
 
 A man stepped forward. 
 
 ' I can give evidence, Citizen Commissioner.' 
 
 He was a man, still young, whose face bore certain unmistakable 
 signs denoting an evil life. Apparently his courses had led him to 
 a condition of poverty, for his clothes were old and shabby. His 
 coat, which had once been scarlet, was now stained with all tho 
 colours that age and rough treatment can add to the original 
 colour ; its buttons had formerly been of silver, but were now of 
 horn ; his hair was tied with a greasy black ribbon ; his shoes had 
 no buckles, and were tied with string ; his stockings were of a 
 coarse yarn. As he stepped to the front, he seemed to avoid look- 
 ing at the prisoner. 
 
 Some of those who assisted at the trial might have noticed a 
 strange thing. The man was curiously like the prisoner. They 
 were both of the same stature ; each of them had black eyes and 
 black hair ; each of them had a shapely head and strong, regular 
 features. But the face of one was noble, and that of the other 
 was ignoble, which makes a great difference to begin with. And 
 one was calm in his manner, though death stared him in the 
 face ; and the other, though nobody accused him of anything, wa3 
 uneasy. 
 
 * What is your name ?' asked the Court. 
 
 •My name, Citizen Commissioner, is Louis Leroy/'
 
 THE HOL V ROSE. 
 
 At these words there was a murmur among all who heard them ; 
 and the Court itself showed its displeasure. 
 
 ' It is my name,' said the witness. ' A man does not make his 
 own name.' 
 
 ' Citizen, your name is an insult to the Republic' 
 1 1 will change it, then, for any other name you please.' 
 ' What is your profession, citizen ?' 
 
 ' I am' — he hesitated for a moment — ' I am a dancing-master at 
 Aix.' 
 
 ' A dancing-master may be a good citizen. As for your name, it 
 shall be Gavotte — Citizen Gavotte For your first name, it shall be 
 no longer Louis, but Scipio. Proceed, Citizen Scipio Gavotte, and 
 quickly. Do you know the accused ?' 
 
 1 I have known him all my life.' 
 
 ' What can you tell the Court about him ?' 
 
 ' He is an aristocrat and a Royalist, therefore the enemy of 
 the Republic ; also a devout Catholic, therefore the enemy of man- 
 kind.' 
 
 1 What is his business in the city of Toulon ? Why is he found 
 here ?' 
 
 ' He was one of those who invited the English into the town. 
 It was thought that Marseilles, Lyons, and Toulon would all hold 
 out together, and be three centres for rallying the Royalists. The 
 Count was strong in favour of English intervention.' 
 
 ' Have you anything further to depose, Citizen Gavotte ?' asked 
 the Court. 
 
 ' Nothing more.' 
 
 'Accused, have you anything to ask the witness ?' 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied the Count. 
 
 • Citizen Arnault,' said the President, ' you have heard the 
 evidence. You are charged with inviting the enemies of the 
 Republic to insult with their presence the sacred soil of the 
 Republic ; you have delivered into their hands the fleets of France ; 
 you have destroyed the arsenals and the munitions of war. Have 
 you anything to urge in defence ?' 
 
 I Nothing.' 
 
 4 You admit the charge, then ?' 
 
 I I admit the charge. It is quite true. I would not willingly waste 
 the time of this honourable Court. There are many hundreds of 
 honest people waiting their turn to be treated as you treated the 
 people of Lyons. I have nothing more to say.' 
 
 ' Death !' said Commissioner Fre"ron.
 
 PROLOGUE. 9 
 
 The Count heard the sentence -with a slight bow. Then the 
 soldiers led him away to the other end of the Place, where the 
 prisoners already sentenced were gathered together waiting their 
 turn, men and women. As for the former, they affected indiffer- 
 ence ; but the women, with clasped hands and white faces, gazed 
 into the light of day, which they were to see no more, and some 
 hung upon the shoulders of husband or lover, and some sat together, 
 their arms about each other's necks, whispering that they should 
 not be separated for many moments, and that the pang of death 
 was momentary. 
 
 The Count spoke to no one ; but he turned his head slowly, 
 surveying the scene as if it was a very curious and interesting 
 spectacle, full of odd and amusing details, which he would not 
 willingly forget. The ragged soldier, the mock dignity of the Court, 
 seemed to amuse him. But among those who stood among the 
 soldiers, he suddenly observed the fellow who had given evidence 
 against him. He was crouching in the crowd, his eyes aglow with 
 hatred and eagerness to see the carrying out of the sentence. With 
 a gesture of authority the Count beckoned him. The man, per- 
 haps from force of habit, obeyed. So for a moment they stood 
 face to face. Truly, they were so much like each other that you 
 might have taken them for brothers. 
 
 ' Louis,' said the Count, speaking as one speaks to a dependent 
 or a humble friend, ' it needed not thy testimony, my friend. I 
 was already sentenced. Pity that I could not die without finding 
 out that you were my enemy — you.' 
 
 The man said nothing. 
 
 ' Why, Louis, why V the Count continued. ' We were boys 
 together ; once we were playfellows. I loved thee in the old days, 
 before thy wild ways broke thy mother's heart. It was not I, but 
 my father, who bade thee begone from the village for a vaurien. 
 Why, then, Louis ?' 
 
 1 Your name and your estate should have belonged to me, and 
 gone to my son. I was born before you, though my mother was 
 not married to — your father.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said the Count coldly. • So this rankled, did it ? Poor 
 Louis ! I never suspected it. Yet my death will not undo the 
 past. Louis, I shall be shot, but thou wilt not inherit the name or 
 the estate.' 
 
 ' I shall buy the estate,' said the man. ' Estates of emigres and 
 traitors can be bought for nothing in these times ; so that after all 
 the elder brother will inherit.'
 
 io THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 1 And yet, Louis, 'tis pity ; because tby brother's death -will now 
 be laid to thy charge. There can be, methinks, little joy for one 
 who murders his brother.' 
 
 The man's face flushed. 
 
 ' What do I care ?' he said. ' Go to be shot, and when you fall 
 remember that the vineyards and the olive-groves will be mine — 
 the property of the brother who was sent away in disgrace to be a- 
 gambler, a poet, a dancing-master — anything.' 
 
 'My brother,' the Count replied, ' thou hast changed thy name. 
 It is no longer Leroy, nor Gavotte, but Cain. Farewell, brother, 
 enjoy the estates and be happy.' 
 
 He dismissed him with a gesture cold and disdainful. 
 
 4 Enjoy thy estates, Cain.' 
 
 Citizen Gavotte slunk back ; but he waited on the Place watching,, 
 until his brother fell. 
 
 Meantime the Commissioners of the Republic continued to ad- 
 minister justice, and the file of soldiers continued to execute it, 
 and every man and woman had his fair turn and no favour, which 
 the Republic always granted to its prisoners ; and each one, 
 when his turn came, stood before the pointed muskets, and then 
 fell heavily, white of cheek, his heart beating no longer, upon the 
 stones. 
 
 When justice was thoroughly satisfied, which took several days, 
 and the remnant of the Toulonnais was reduced to slender pro- 
 portions, they threw the bodies into the Mediterranean, where they 
 lie to this day. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN MY GARDEN'. 
 
 The village of Porchester is a place of great antiquity, but it is 
 little, and, except for its old Castle, of no account. Its houses are 
 all contained in a single street, beginning at the Castle-gate and 
 ending long before you reach the Portsmouth and Fareharn road, 
 which is only a quarter of a mile from the Castle. Most of them 
 are mere cottages, with thatched or red-tiled roofs, but they are not 
 mean or squalid cottages ; the folk are well-to-do, though humble, 
 and every house in the village, small or great, is covered all ovor, 
 back and front, with climbing roses. The roses cluster over the 
 porches, they climb over the red tiles, they peep into the latticed 
 windows, they cover and almost hide the chimney. In the summer
 
 IN MY GARDEN. n 
 
 months the air is heavy with their perfume ; every cottage is a 
 bower of roses ; the flowers linger sometimes far into the autumn, 
 and come again with the first warm days of June. Nowhere in the 
 country, I am sure, though I have seen few other places, is there 
 such a village for roses. Apart from its flowers, I confess that the 
 place has little worthy of notice ; it cannot even show a church, 
 because its church is within the Castle walls, and quite hidden from 
 the village. 
 
 On a certain afternoon of April, in the year of grace one thousand 
 eight hundred and two, the colour of the leaves was just beginning 
 to show on the elms, the buds were swollen in the chestnuts, the 
 blossom was out on the almond, and the hedges were already green. 
 The sunshine was so warm that one could bring one's work out to 
 the porch, with a shawl round the neck ; the village was not quiet, 
 and yet it was peaceful ; that is to say, there were the ordinary 
 sounds which are expected, and therefore do not annoy. The 
 children were playing and shouting, the soldiers were disputing 
 outside the tavern door, the village blacksmith and his two appren- 
 tices were hammering something on a tuneful anvil, which rang 
 true at every stroke like a great bell ; the barber was flouring a 
 wig at the open door, and whistling through his teeth over the job, 
 as a groom whistles while he rubs down a horse ; a flock of geese 
 walked along the road croaking and calling to each other ; a dog 
 barked after his sheep, keeping them in order, and the cobbler 
 sitting in his doorway was singing aloud while he cut the leather, 
 adjusted it, and hammered it into place. Sometimes he sang out 
 merrily, sometimes he sang low. This was according as the work 
 went easily and to his liking, or the contrary. 'Twas a rogue who 
 always had some merry ditty in his mouth, and to-day it was the 
 famous ale-house song which begins : 
 
 • I've cheated the parson, I'll cheat him agen ; 
 For why should the rogue have one pig in ten ? 
 One pig in ten, 
 One pig in ten, 
 Why should the rogue have one pig in ten ?' 
 
 Here something interrupted his song ani bij work, hi irrits: > 
 ately afterwards he went on again : 
 
 1 One pig in ten, 
 One pig in ten, 
 Why should the rogue have one pig in ten f 
 
 When I had resolved to write down my history, and was con- 
 sidering how best to relate it, there came into my mind, quite un-
 
 12 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 expectedly, a single afternoon. At first there seemed no reason 
 ■why this day more than any other should be remembered. Yet the 
 memory of it is persistent, and has so forced itself upon me that 
 every moment of it now stands out as clear and distinct before my 
 eyes as if it were painted on canvas. Perhaps in the world to come 
 we shall have the power and the "will to recall day by day the whole 
 of our lives, and so be enabled to live each moment again, and as 
 often as we please and as long as we please. I confess that I am 
 so poorly endowed with spiritual gifts, that I should desire nothing 
 better than to prolong at will the blessed years of love and happi- 
 ness with my husband (who, to be sure, has never ceased to be my 
 lover) and my children. But Madam Claire (who was never 
 married) says that the joys of our earthly life will appear to us 
 hereafter as poor, unworthy things, and that subjects of more holy 
 contemplation will be provided for us which will more fitly occupy 
 our thoughts. That may be so, and if anyone now living in this 
 world should know aught of the next it is Madam Claire, a saint, 
 though a Roman Catholic, and formerly a nun. Still, for one who 
 has tasted the joys of earthly love and been a mother of children, 
 the memory of these, or their renewal, would seem enough happi- 
 ness for ever and ever. Amen. 
 
 The day which came into my head is that day in spring of which 
 I have just spoken. The porch in which I was sitting belonged to 
 a house in a great garden, which stretched back from the village 
 street. The garden was full of everything which can grow in this 
 country. Apple and pear trees were trained in frames beside the 
 beds. These were bare as yet, except for the cabbages, but in a 
 month or two they would be green with peas and beans, asparagus, 
 lettuce, and everything else of green herbs that is good for food. 
 There were glass frames for cucumbers and melons ; a great glass- 
 house for grapes and peaches ; there was quite a forest of raspberry- 
 canes, gooseberry and currant bushes ; and there was an orchard 
 full of fruit-trees, apples of the choicest kinds, such as the golden 
 pippin, the ribston and king pippin, and the golden russet ; there 
 were also pears, Windsor and jargonelle, plums and damsons, 
 cherries and mulberries, Siberian crab and medlar. Again, if the 
 beds were full of vegetables, the narrow edges were planted with 
 all kinds of herbs good for the still-room and for medicines — such 
 as lavender for the linen, to take away the nasty smell of the soap ; 
 the tall tansy for puddings ; tliyme, parsley, mint, fennel, and sage 
 for the kitchen ; rosemary, marjoram, southernwood, feverfew, 
 swectbriar, for medicines and strong waters. Among the herbg
 
 IN MY GARDEN. iy 
 
 flourished, though not yet in bloom, such flowers as will grow 
 without trouble, such as double stocks, carnations, gillyflowers, 
 crocus, lily-of-the-valley, bachelors'-buttons, mignonette, nastur- 
 tium, sunflower, monkshood, lupins, and tall hollyhocks. In short, 
 it was, and is still, a beautiful, bounteous, and generous garden,, 
 the equal and like of which I have never seen. 
 
 The house stood in one corner of the garden, its gable-end turned 
 to the road. Like all the houses in the village, it was covered with 
 roses, and, except the Vicarage, it was the most considerable house 
 in the place. It was of red brick, and had a porch in the front, 
 facing a broad lawn, which served for a bowling-green. The porch 
 was of wood, painted white, and was so broad that there was a 
 bench on either side, where one could be sheltered from north and 
 east winds. At the back of the house a brick wall marked one 
 boundary of our land. It was an ancient broad wall, with no stint 
 of red bricks, such as I love, and covered with moss and lichen — 
 green, gray, red, and yellow. In the places where the mortar had 
 fallen out grew pellitory and green rue, while the top of the wall 
 was bright with yellow stonecrop, tall grasses, and wallflowers 
 already in blossom. The wall ran from the road to within a short 
 distance of high-water mark, where it was succeeded by a wooden 
 paling. Thus our garden was bounded on three sides by road, 
 wall, and sea ; on the fourth side it was separated from the Castle 
 by a field of coarse grass, growing in tufts and tall bents. Under 
 the shelter of the brick wall was a row of bee-hives ; a mighty 
 humming the bees made in summer evenings, and a profitable 
 thing was their honey when it came in, for, of all living creatures, 
 the sailor has the sweetest tooth. 
 
 There is always work to do, and someone doing it, in this great 
 garden all the year round. This afternoon the boys were busy 
 among the beds. Sally stood over them, rope's-end in hand, but 
 more for ornament and the badge of office, as the bo's'n carries his 
 cane, than for use, though every boy in our employment has tasted 
 of that rope's-end. Her father, sitting on a wheelbarrow, had a 
 broom in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, thus giving his counte- 
 nance, so to speak, to the boys' work. To look at him you would 
 have thought that his working days were now over and done, so- 
 wrinkled was his face and so bent his shoulders. Yet he was only 
 seventy-five, and lived for twenty years longer. 
 
 He it was who managed the boat, taking her down the creek 
 every morning, summer and winter, wet or dry, fair weather or 
 foul, high tide or low. Every sailor in the King's ships knew the.
 
 i 4 THE HOLY ROSE, 
 
 boat and the old man, commonly called Daddy, who rowed or 
 sailed her ; and every sailor knew Porchester Sal, the bumboat- 
 woman, who came alongside in the morning with a boat-load of 
 everything belonging to the season ; who knew all the young gentle- 
 men, and even had a word for the first lieutenant. As for the tars, 
 she freely talked with them in their own language, and a rough 
 language that is. She would also, it was said, drink about with any 
 of them, and in the cold mornings, when the air was raw, smoked 
 a pipe of tobacco in the boat. At this time she was five-and-forty 
 years of age, and single. She dressed in all seasons alike, in a 
 sailor's jacket, with a short petticoat and great waterman's boots. 
 For head-gear she never wore anything but a thick thread cap, tied 
 tightly to her head ; round her neck was a red woollen wrapper, 
 the ends tucked under the jacket. Her face was as red and 
 weather-beaten as any sailor's, her hands were as rough and hard ; 
 and I verily believe that her arms were as strong with the daily 
 handling of the oars, the carrying of the baskets, the digging, 
 weeding, and planting of the garden, and the correction of the boys. 
 This garden was my own, mine inheritance, bequeathed to me by 
 my mother's father, and a providential bequest it proved. The 
 boat was my own. Daddy and Sally were my own, I suppose, for 
 they belonged to the garden. And they sold for us, on board the 
 ship or in the town, the fruits and vegetables in due season. They 
 also prepared and sold to the purveyors of ships' stores, and for 
 those who sold smuggled tea secretly — there are many such in 
 Portsmouth — a great quantity of leaves picked by the boys from 
 the sloe, ash, and elm trees, dried ready for mixing with the real 
 tea. And Sally also grew for the herbalists a great quantity of 
 plants for those concoctions which some people think better than 
 any doctors' stuff. 
 
 We had not always lived in Porchester. "We lived, when I first 
 remember anything, in a great house in Bloomsbury Square, close 
 to Bedford House. Here we had footman and a coach, and were, 
 as my father daily in after years reminded me, very great people 
 indeed, he being nothing less than an Alderman. ' But, my dear,' 
 he was wont to say, ■ I persuaded myself to retire.' Here he sighed 
 heavily. ' In the City we are born to amass wealth, but I retired. 
 I was already but three years off the Mansion House— but I retired. 
 Well,' here he would look about the room, which was, to be sure, 
 small and ill-furnished, ' the world seldom enjoys the spectacle of 
 a substantial merchant retiring into obscurity in a country cottage.' 
 Here he sighed again.
 
 IN MY GARDEN. 15 
 
 He retired when I was a little girl of eight or nine, so that I 
 knew nothing of the circumstances connected with his retirement, 
 hut I understood well enough that he deeply regretted that step, 
 ■and longed to be back again on 'CLange. 
 
 In two words, we now lived in this small house ; and my father, 
 instead of directing the affairs of a great London business, took 
 the accounts daily from Sally on her return from the harbour. 
 And a very flourishing and prosperous business it was, while the 
 war lasted ; and, though I neither knew nor inquired, it not only 
 kept us in comfort, but enabled my father to keep up the appear- 
 ance of a substantial merchant ; gave him guineas to jingle in his 
 pocket, and preserved for him among the officers and others who 
 used the best room at the tavern of an evening, the dignity and 
 authority which he loved. 
 
 At this time I was nineteen years of age. Alas ! it is more than 
 twenty years ago. Good King George is dead at last, and I am 
 nearly forty years old. The garden still lies before me, with its 
 fruit-trees, its flowers, and the bees, but what has become of the 
 girl of nineteen ? Oh, what becomes of our youth and beauty ? 
 Whither do they go when they leave us ? Whither go the fresh 
 •and rosy cheeks, the dancing eyes, and the smiling lips ? What 
 becomes of them when they disappear and leave no trace behind ? 
 Those were blue ej'es which Raymond loved, and the curls which 
 it pleased him to dangle in his hands and twirl about his fingers, 
 were light brown ; and as for the pink and white of the cheeks — 
 nay, it matters not. The girl was comely, and she found favour in 
 "the sight of the only man she could ever love. What more, but to 
 thank the Giver of all good things ? Love and beauty are among 
 the fruits of the earth, for which we pray that they may be given 
 us in due season. 
 
 I was sitting in the porch, pretending to be engaged in cutting 
 out and making a new frock. I remember that the stuff was a gray 
 camblet, which is a useful material, and that the frock was already 
 so far advanced that the lining was cut and basted on the camblet. 
 But I was not thinking at all about the work ; for, oh ! what 
 should a girl think about the very day after her lover had spoken 
 to her ? Spoken, do I say ? Nay, kneeled before her and prayed 
 to her, and sworn such vows as made her heart leap up, and her 
 cheek first flush with joy and then turn pale with terror ; for it is 
 the property of love to fill us first with gladness unspeakable and 
 then with fear. And, besides, I heard voices in the parlour, the 
 window being open, and I knew very well whose voices they were,
 
 16 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 namely, those of the Vicar and my father, and that they were talking 
 of Eaymond and myself. For the Yicar had always been the 
 patron and protector of the Arnolds, but it could not be denied 
 that they came from France, and my father hated all Frenchmen. 
 
 Presently, however, the conference was over and they both came 
 out together, my father carrying himself, it seemed to me, with 
 more than his usual dignity. Heavens ! what a Lord Mayor he 
 would have made, had Heaven so willed it ! Authority sat upon 
 his brow ; wealth and success were stamped upon his face. He 
 spoke slowly, and as one whose words bring a blessing upon those 
 who hear them. A corpulence above the common, joined to a 
 stature also above the common, a commanding nose, thick eyebrows, 
 and a deep voice, all joined in producing the effect of great natural 
 dignity. 
 
 While my father walked upright, swelling with consequence, the 
 Yicar beside him might have been the domestic chaplain to some 
 great nobleman in the presence of his master. For, being tall and 
 thin, and with a stooping figure, he seemed to be deferring to the- 
 judgment of a superior. Yet, as his eyes met mine, there was in 
 them a look of encouragement which raised my hopes. 
 
 1 Ha !' he said, standing before the porch, ' your garden is always 
 before mine, Molly. There is goodly promise for the year, they 
 tell me. Well, Naboth's vineyard was not more desirable. Perhaps 
 Ahab looked down upon it from the keep of his castle, which, I 
 dare say, greatly resembled yon great tower. It is a goodly garden. 
 It is a garden which in the spring should fill the heart with hope, 
 and in the autumn with gratitude.' 
 
 ' 'Tis well enough,' said my father, taking my seat. ' Tis well 
 enough, and serves to amuse the child. It grows a small trifle of 
 fruit too, sufficient — ay, 'tis sufficient— for the modest wants of 
 this poor house.' 
 
 No doubt one who has known such greatness as my father had 
 
 enjoyed could talk in such a manner concerning the garden. But 
 
 a trifle ! 
 
 ' In former days, Yicar,' my father continued, ' we had our early 
 peas and hothouse grapes from Covent Garden. But a merchant 
 who retires into the country has to content himself with whatever 
 trifle of garden he may light upon.' 
 
 * True, sir ; 'tis very true. But to our business. Molly, I have 
 
 this evening been an ambassador to thy father from — nay thou 
 
 canst surely guess, child ; indeed, in thy cheeks I see that thou hast 
 guessed rightly.'
 
 IN MY GARDEN. 17 
 
 ' From Raymond, Molly,' my father added kindly. ' From the 
 young man, Raymond Arnold.' 
 
 'I have pointed out to thy father, Molly, that a gentleman of the 
 ancient county of Provence is not a Frenchman, though he may for 
 the time be under French rule. He speaks not the same tongue ; 
 he hath not the same ancestry. "Wherefore, thy father's first objec- 
 tion against Frenchmen doth not hold in the case of Raymond.' 
 
 ' This I grant,' said my father. 
 
 ' Did not his father die in support of those principles for which 
 we are still contending ? And, again,' the Vicar continued, ' 'tis a 
 lad of honourable descent and of illustrious foreign rank, if that 
 were of importance.' 
 
 ' It is not,' said my father. ' There is no more honourable 
 descent than to be the child of a substantial London merchant. 
 Talk not to me, sir, of French nobles. Heard one ever of an 
 English peer teaching a mere accomplishment for a living ?' 
 
 ' Very well, sir ; but it is to the point that he is a lad of good 
 morals and sound principle ; no drinker or brawler ; who enjoys 
 already some success in his calling.' 
 
 ' These things, Vicar, are much more to the point.' 
 
 ' In short, Molly,' said the Vicar, turning to me, ' thy father 
 consents to this match, but it must be on a condition.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir !' I kissed my father's hand. 'You are all goodness. I3 
 it for me to dispute any condition you may think well to impose ?' 
 
 'The condition, Molly,' said the Vicar, 'is that no change may 
 be made in the existing arrangements.' 
 
 ' Why, sir, what change should be made ?' 
 
 ' When daughters marry, my child, they generally go away and 
 leave their fathers ; or they even turn their fathers out to make 
 room for the husbands.' 
 
 Lovers are a selfish folk. I had not considered the difference 
 which my marriage might make to my father. 
 
 ' Sir,' I threw myself at his feet, 'this house is yours. If there is 
 room in it for Raymond as well, we shall be grateful to you.' 
 
 ' Good girl,' he said, raising me, ' good girl ; I will continue to 
 manage this little property for thee, to be sure.' He looked at the 
 house with condescension. ' The cottage is small, yet it is comfort- 
 able ; in appearance it is hardly worthy of a substantial merchant, 
 yet my habits are simple ; the situation is quiet, and the garden 
 fruits are, as I said before, sufficient for my wants. I have retired 
 from the City ; I desire no more riches than I have. I would 
 willingly end my days here. Enough said, child ; I wish thee' — 
 
 2
 
 1 8 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 he kissed me on the forehead — ' I wish thee all happiness, my 
 dear.' 
 
 This said, he rose with dignity, as if no more need be said, and 
 walked out to the garden gate, and so to the tavern where the- 
 better sort met daily. 
 
 ' So,' said the Vicar, ' here is a pretty day's work — two young 
 fools made happy. Well, I pray that it may turn out well ; a fools'' 
 paradise is a very pretty place when one is young. He loves- 
 thee, that is very sure ; why, thou wilt be a Countess — Ho ! ho ! — 
 Countess Molly, when thou art married, child ; Sally will leave off 
 taking the boat down the harbour, I suppose, unless Raymond 
 paints a coronet upon the bows and thy new name, Madame la 
 Comtesse d'Eyragues.' 
 
 Then the Vicar left me and departed ; but he stopped in the 
 road, and listened to the cobbler singing his eternal refrain : 
 
 ' One pig in ten, 
 One pig in ten, 
 Why should the rogue have one pig in ten V 
 
 ' Jacob,' he said, ' must thy song ever smack of the pot-house ? 
 And when did thy Vicar ask thee for a pig ?' 
 
 ' With submission, your reverence,' said Jacob, hammer in air. 
 ' What odds for the words so the music fits the work ?' 
 
 * Idle words, Jacob, are like the thistle-down, which flies un- 
 heeded over the fields, and afterwards produces weeds of its kind. 
 Would not the Old Hundredth suit thy turn ?' 
 
 Jacob shook his head. 
 
 ' Nay, sir,' he said, ' my kind of work is not like yours. The 
 making of a sermon, I doubt not, is mightily helped by the Old 
 Hundredth or Alleluia ; but cobbling is delicate work, and wants 
 a tune that runs up and down, and may be sung quick or slow, 
 according as the work lays in heel or toe. I tried Alleluia, but, 
 Lord ! I took two days with Alleluia over a job that with " Morgan 
 Rattler " or " Black Jack " I could have knocked off in three 
 hours.' 
 
 4 In that case, Jacob,' said the Vicar, ' the Church will forgive 
 thee thy fib of one pig in ten.' 
 
 When they were gone I sat down again, my heart much lighter, 
 though my mind was agitated with thinking of what we should, 
 have done had my father withheld his consent. And for some time 
 I heard nothing that went on, though Sally administered the rope's- 
 end to one of the boys, and the cobbler went on singing and the 
 children shouting.
 
 IN MY GARDEN. 19 
 
 ' Presently, however, I was disagreeably interrupted by the 
 trampling of a horse's hoofs, the barking of dogs, the cracking of 
 a whip, and a loud, harsh voice railii g at a stable-boy. The voice 
 it was which affected me, because I knew it for the voice of my 
 cousin Tom, who had been drinking and laying bets with some of 
 the officers all the morning, and was now about to ride home. 
 Then the horse came clattering down the street, and he saw me in 
 the porch, I suppose, for he drew rein at the gate and bawled out, 
 his voice being thick with drink : 
 
 ' Molly, Cousin Molly, I say ! Come to the gate — come closer. 
 Well. I have to-day heard a pretty thing of thee — a pretty thing, 
 Molly,' he said ; ' truly, nothing less than that you want to marry 
 a Frenchman, a beggarly Frenchman.' 
 
 • What business is that of yours ?' I asked. 
 
 ' You may tell him, Mistress Molly, that I shall horsewhip him.' 
 
 I laughed in his face. A girl always believes that her lover is the 
 bravest of men. 
 
 ' You, Tom ? Why, to be sure, Raymond does not desire to fight 
 his sweetheart's cousin ; but if you so much as lift your little finger 
 at him, I promise you, big as you are, that you will be sorry for it.' 
 
 At this he used dreadful language, swearing what he would do 
 when he should meet the man I preferred to himself. 
 
 ' And him a Frenchman, Molly,' he concluded. ' To think of it ! 
 Wouldst throw me over for a beggarly Frenchman ? But wait, 
 only wait till I have made him roar for mercy and beg my pardon 
 on his knees. Then, perhaps ' 
 
 ' Oh !' I cried, 'go away quickly, lest he should come and take 
 you at your word.' 
 
 He began to swear again, but suddenly stopped and went away, 
 cantering along the road, followed by his dogs ; and, though 1 
 knew my Raymond to be brave and strong, I was glad that he did 
 not meet this half-drunken cousin of mine in his angry mood. 
 
 Tom Wilgress, my mother's nephew, and therefore my own first 
 cousin, who afterwards broke his neck over a hedge foi-hunting, 
 was then a young man about five-and-twenty. He was of a sturdy 
 and well-built figure, but his cheeks were already red and puffed 
 up with strong drink. He had a small estate, which he bequeathed 
 to me, part of which he farmed, and part let out to tenants. It 
 was situated north of Portsdown Hill, under the Forest of Bere. 
 But the greater part of his time he spent at the Castle or the 
 village tavern drinking, smoking tobacco, making bets, running 
 races, badger-drawing, cock-fighting, and all kinds of sport with 
 
 2—2
 
 3o THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 the officers of the garrison. He professed to be in love with me, 
 and continually entreated me to maiTy him, a thing which I could 
 not contemplate without horror. Sometimes he would fall on his 
 knees and supplicate me with tears, swearing that he loved me 
 better than his life (he did not say better than a bowl of punch), 
 and sometimes he would threaten me with dreadful pains and 
 punishments if I continued in my contumacy. 
 
 This evening I clearly foresaw, from the redness of his face, the 
 thickness of his voice, and a certain glassy look in his eye, that he 
 was about to adopt the latter method. Heaven pity the wife of 
 such a man as my cousin Tom ! But he is now dead, and hath 
 left me his estate, wherefore I will speak of him no more evil than 
 I can help, yet must speak the truth. 
 
 When he was gone, I returned to my work. 
 
 Presently, I was again interrupted, this time by Madam Claire. 
 She had with her one of the French prisoners. It was a young 
 man whom we all knew very well. He was a sous-lieutenant, 
 which means some kind of ensign in a French infantry regiment, 
 abo.it Raymond's age — that is, between twenty-three and twenty- 
 four — and had been a prisoner for three years. We knew a great 
 many of the French officers ; this was natural, because we were the 
 only people in the village who could talk their language. I say we, 
 because the Arnolds taught me, and in their cottage we spoke 
 both French and Provencal. But this young man was our special 
 friend ; he was the friend of Raymond, whom he called his 
 brother, and of Madam Claire, whom he called his mother. Of 
 <K)urse, therefore, he was my friend as well. The reasons for the 
 affection we bore him were many. First, he came from the South 
 of France, and was therefore a countryman of Raymond's, and had 
 spoken, like Raymond, the language of the South when a child. 
 Next, when he was first landed he fell ill with some kind of 
 malignant fever, which I believe would have carried him off but 
 for Madam Claire, who nursed him, sitting with him day and 
 night, a service for which he was ever grateful. Thirdly, he was 
 a young man of the happiest disposition, the kindest heart, and 
 the sweetest manners possible. 
 
 As he came from the same part of the country, it was not strange 
 that he should be like Raymond, those of Southern France being 
 all dark of complexion, and with black hair and eyes. But it was 
 remarkable that he should be so very much like him that the}' 
 might be taken for twins. They were of the same height, which 
 •was something under the average height of an Englishman } their
 
 IN MY GARDEN. 2* 
 
 heads were of the same shape, their eyes and hair of the same 
 shade, their chins rounded in the same way ; even their voices 
 were the same. 
 
 The resemblance was the greater this evening because, his owa 
 uniform having fallen into rags, Pierre wore the dress of a civilian, 
 a brown coat and a round hat. His hair was neatly tied and 
 powdered, his linen was clean ; he might have passed very well for 
 what they call the country Jessamy. 
 
 Of course, those who knew them well, knew the differences 
 between the two, just as a shepherd knows each sheep, though they 
 seem to the general world all exactly alike. So many were their 
 points of difference, that it was impossible to mistake one for the 
 other. Pierre was of a larger and stouter frame, in manner he was 
 more vivacious, his step was livelier, his gesture more marked, he 
 talked more. It was strange to note that Pierre, as well as 
 Raymond, had what is called the air of distinction. No one could 
 fail to remark that he looked, as we in England should say, every 
 inch a gentleman, and carried himself accordingly, yet with some- 
 thing of the French gallantry and swagger which was not unbecom- 
 ing. Yet he was by birth a son of the people ; he came, like 
 General Hoche, the soldier whom most he admired, from the gutter, 
 and he was proud of it. Raymond, for his part, was of a more 
 quiet habit — you would have taken him for a scholar — who talked 
 little ; a dreamer, contented to accept whatever fortune offered. 
 Had he been a soldier, he might have had the same ambitions as 
 his friend, but he would have talked about them less. 
 
 ' Their faces,' said Madam Claire, ' are those of my countrymen. 
 Some call it the Roman face ; you may see it on the old monu- 
 ments in the cemetery of Aries. Bonaparte is reported to have 
 this face, though he is but a Corsican.' 
 
 I have never seen any nuns, but when I hear or read of them I 
 must needs think of Madam Claire, who had been what is called a 
 religieuse, but I know not of what kind. In religion she was 
 named Sister Angelique, but her Chrissom name was Claire. She 
 wore a frock of blue stuff with a long cloak of the same ; on her 
 head was a cap or hood of the same, with a white starched cap 
 beneath ; she had also a large white collar, round her neck was a 
 gold chain with a crucifix, and in her hand she always carried a 
 book, because her rules obliged her to read prayers at certain hours 
 all through the day. She spent her time chiefly in the Castle 
 infirmary, where she nursed and comforted the sick prisoners. Her 
 face was pale, but sweet to look upon, and to me it seemed always
 
 22 THE 1I0L Y ROSE. 
 
 as if she never thought of herself at all, but always of the person 
 with whom she was speaking. 
 
 We are taught that to hide in a convent is but to exchange one 
 set of temptations for another, but it would surely be a blessed 
 thing if our Church allowed men and women to renounce the 
 things in which we weaker creatures place our happiness (such as 
 love, marriage, and tender children, or place, power, and wealth), 
 and to give all their labour and thought for the good of others. 
 This is what Madam Claire did. 
 
 'Great news!' cried Pierre. 'Great news indeed! Peace is 
 concluded and signed. "We are all going to be returned.' 
 
 This was news indeed. For four or five months nothing else 
 had been spoken of ; but though there was a cessation of hos- 
 tilities, there was always the fear that the negotiations would be 
 broken off. 
 
 ' Peace I' I replied. ' And what have they done for the Emigres ?' 
 
 4 1 believe they have done nothing. Vive la paix ! — until we are 
 ready to go home again. Then, tap-tap goes the drum, and to the 
 field again, and I come home a colonel at least.' 
 
 1 1 understand not,' said Madam, ' how peace can be concluded 
 unless the King returns with the nobles, and the old order is 
 established again.' 
 
 ' The old order !' Pierre laughed. ' Oh, ma mere, the old order 
 is the old world before the Deluge. But you do not understand. 
 Whatever else returns, the old order will never return. Why will 
 a people once free return to slavery ?' 
 
 4 But for what else has Great Britain fought, except for the old 
 order ?' 
 
 1 1 know not, indeed. But this I know, that the old order is 
 dead and buried.' 
 
 Certainly there was never any man who more honestly believed 
 in the Revolution than Pierre. Yet not like the wretches who 
 were our first prisoners in that war, who shouted the Carmagnole 
 and tossed their caps in the air, filled with hatred for priests and 
 aristos. They were gone, and they would never come back again. 
 
 1 How, then,' said Madam, ' are we to go back again, unless they 
 return us our property ?' 
 
 ' Your property is sold, and your rights are lost,' Pierre replied. 
 ' Come back and join the people. You are no longer a separate 
 caste ; we are all French together. Well, if you please, we will 
 carve a slice out of Germany and give it to you. And your share, 
 ma mere, I will conquer for you with my own sword.'
 
 IN MY GARDEN. 23 
 
 In the evening, when they were gone, I had another visitor — 
 Raymond himself — and we talked together, as lovers do, of nothing 
 but ourselves. The peace was signed. It was not possible that 
 Great Britain had abandoned the Emigres ; some compensation 
 would be made. For his part, he loved not the new order in 
 France, and decided not to live there ; he would be an English- 
 man ; but with this compensation, he would do this and that, 
 always with me. Oh, the dear, delightful talk ! 
 
 I went with him at nine o'clock to the garden gate. Sally was 
 standing there waiting for us, her arms akimbo — well, with her 
 ehort petticoats and big boots she looked exactly like a sailor. 
 
 1 So, young gentleman,' she said, ' I hear that my mistress has 
 promised to marry you.' 
 
 ' Indeed she has, Sally.' 
 
 1 A lucky and a happy man her husband will be.' 
 
 « He will, Sally.' 
 
 * We have known you a long time, Mr. Raymond.* 
 
 ' More than eight years, Sally.' 
 
 1 And yet it can't be denied that you are a Frenchman, much the 
 same as those poor fellows now in the Castle.' 
 
 'I am an Englishman now, Sally, because I shall have an English 
 wife, which of course naturalizes a man.' 
 
 ' I hope,' said Sally, ' that it's more than skin deep, and that we 
 shan't have no fallings off.' 
 
 '3 1 - 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 PORCH ESTER CASTLE. 
 
 The Castle, which, now that the long wars are over, one hopes for 
 many years, is silent and deserted, its ruined courts empty, its 
 crumbling walls left to decay, presented a different appearance 
 indeed in the spring of the year 1802. For in those days it was 
 garrisoned by two regiments of militia, and was occupied by the 
 prodigious number of eight thousand prisoners. 
 
 I am told that there are other ancient castles in the country even 
 more extensive and more stately than Porcbester ; but I have never 
 6een tiiem, and am quite satisfied to believe that for grandeur, 
 extent, and the awe of antiquity, there can be none which can 
 surpass, and few which can pretend to equal, this monument. It 
 is certainly ruinous in parts, yet still so strong as to serve for a
 
 »4 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 great prison, but it is not overthrown, and its crumbling wall.", 
 broken roofs, and dismantled chambers surround the place with; 
 a solemnity which affects the most careless visitor. 
 
 It is so ancient that there are some who pretend that parts of it 
 may belong to British times, while it is certain that the whole of 
 the outer wall was built by the Romans. In imitation of their 
 camps, it stands foursquare, and has hollow round towers in the 
 Bides and at the corners. The spot was chosen, not at the mouthr 
 of the harbour, the Britons having no means of attacking ships 
 entering or going out ; but at the very head of the harbour, where 
 the creek runs up between the shallows, which are banks of mud 
 at low water. Hither came the Roman galleys, laden with military 
 stores, to land them under the protection of the Castle. When the 
 Romans went away, and the Saxons came, who loved not fighting 
 behind walls, they neglected the fortress, but built a church within 
 the walls, and there laid their dead. When in their turn the 
 Normans came, they built a castle after their own fashion, within 
 the Roman walls. This is the stronghold, containing four square 
 towers and a fortified entrance. And the Normans built the water- 
 gate and the gate tower. The rest of the great space became the 
 outer bailly of the Castle. They also added battlements to the 
 wall, and dug a moat, which they filled with sea-water at high 
 tide. 
 
 The battlements of the Normans are now broken down or crum- 
 bling away ; great patches of the rubble work have fallen here and 
 there. Yet one can walk round the narrow ledge designed for the 
 bowmen. The wall is crowned with waving grass and wallflowers, 
 and up the sides grow elder-bushes, blackberry, ivy, and bramble, 
 as luxuriantly as in any hedge beyond Portsdown. If you step out 
 through the water-gate, which is now roofless, with little left to 
 show its former splendour, except a single massive column, you will 
 find, at high tide, the water lapping the lowest stones of the 
 towers, just as it did when the Romans built them. Instead of the 
 old galleys, which must have been light in draught, to come up 
 Porchester Creek, there are now lying half a dozen boats, the 
 whole fleet of the little village. On the other side of the water are 
 the wooded islets of Great and Little Horsea, and I suppose they 
 look to-day much as they did a thousand years ago. On this side* 
 you look towards the east ; but if you get to the south side of the- 
 Castle, and walk across a narrow meadow which lies between the- 
 wall and the sea, you have a very different view. For you look 
 straight across the harbour to its very mouth, three miles away ;
 
 PORCHESTER CASTLE, 2$ 
 
 you gaze upon a forest of masts and upon ships of every kind, 
 from the stately man-o'-war to the saucy pink, and, twenty years 
 ago, of every nation — because, in those days, we seemed at war 
 with half the world — from the French-built frigate, the most 
 beautiful ship that floats, to the Mediterranean xebecque, all of 
 them prizes. Here they lie, some ready for sea, some just arrived, 
 some battered by shot, some newly repaired and fresh from the- 
 yard ; some — it seems a cruel fate for ships which have fought the 
 battles of their country — converted into hulks for convicts and for 
 prisoners ; some store-ships — why, there is no end to the number 
 and the kind of the ships lying in the harbour. They could tell, if 
 they could speak, of many a battle and many a storm ; some of 
 them are as old as the days of Admiral Benbow ; one poor old hulk 
 is so old that she was once a man-o'-war in the old Dutch wars of 
 Charles II. and carried on board, it is said, the Duke of York him- 
 self. 
 
 In the dockyard, within the harbour, the wooden walls of 
 England are built ; here they are fitted up ; from this place they 
 go forth to fight the French. Heavens ! how many ships we sent 
 forth every year ! How many were built in the yard ! How many 
 brave fellows were sacrificed year after year before the insatiable 
 rage for war which possessed one man, and through him all Europe 
 could be overcome, and the tyrant confined in his cage, like a wild 
 beast, until he should die ! 
 
 Standing under those walls, I say, we could look straight down 
 the harbour to the forts which guard its entrance ; we could see in 
 the upper part the boats plying backwards and forwards ; we could 
 hear the booming of the salutes ; we could even see the working of 
 the semaphore, by whose mysterious arms news is conveyed to 
 London in half an hour. And the sight of the ships, the movement 
 of the harbour, the distant banging of the guns, made one, even 
 one who lived in so quiet a village as Porchester, feel as if one was 
 taking part in the great events which shook the world. It was a 
 hard time to many, and an anxious time for all ; a time full of 
 lavish expenditure for the country ; a time when bread was dear 
 and work scarce, with trade bad and prospects uncertain. Alas t 
 with what beating of heart did we wait for news, and gather 
 together to listen when a newspaper was brought to the village ! 
 For still it seemed as if, defeat his navies though we might, and 
 though we chaised his cruisers off the seas, and tore down 
 the French flag from his colonies, the Corsican Usurper was 
 marching from one triumph to another, until the whole of Europe,
 
 26 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 save Russia and England, was subjugated and laid prostrate at hig 
 feet. 
 
 As for bad times, we at Porchester — so near to Portsmouth > 
 where all the shopkeepers were making their fortunes, and the 
 ships caused so great a daily expenditure of money — felt them but 
 little, save for the cost of coals, which were, I remember, as much 
 as fifty shillings a ton ; and the lack of French brandy, which we 
 women never wanted to drink, and of Gascony or claret wine, 
 which we replaced, quite to our own satisfaction, with the delicate 
 cowslip or the wholesome ginger, made in our own homes. Think, 
 however, if there were so many men afloat — a hundred and twenty 
 thousand sailors in His Majesty's Navy alone, to say nothing of 
 those aboard the merchant ships, coasters, colliers, and privateers — 
 there were also so many women ashore, and so many hearts torn 
 with anxiety at the news of every engagement. Custom hardens 
 the heart, and no doubt many, even of those who loved their 
 husbands tenderly, rose up in the morning and went to bed at 
 night with no more than a simple prayer for his safety. You shall 
 hear, however, one woman's history, by which you may learn to feel 
 for others. What am I, and what have I done, that, while so many 
 poor creatures were stricken with lifelong grief, my shadow should 
 have given place to sunshine, my sorrow to joy ? 
 
 The outer ward of the Castle was open every Sunday, because 
 the church stands in the south-east corner. It is the old Saxon 
 church altered by the Normans. Formerly it was shaped like a 
 cross ; but one of the arms has long since fallen down. The nave 
 is long and narrow, and rather dark, which pleased Madam Claire, 
 because it reminded her of the churches of Provence, which, it 
 seems, are all kept dark on account of the hot sunshine outside. 
 On one side of the nave is hung up a great wooden picture of the 
 Royal Arms, with the lion and the unicorn, to remind us of our 
 loyalty ; at the end is a gallery where the choir sit on Sundays, and 
 below the gallery an old stone font, ornamented, like the chancel, 
 with round arches curiously interlaced, very pretty, though much 
 worn with age. In the churchyard outside, there is an old yew 
 among the graves. As for tombstones, they are few, because, when 
 a villager dies, the mound which marks his giave is known as long 
 as his memory lasts, which is as long as his children, or at most his 
 grandchildren, survive him. What need of a tombstone when the 
 man, obscure in his life, is clean forgotten ? And how many, even 
 of the great, are remembered longer than these villagers ? 
 
 To this church we came every Sunday ; my father and I sitting
 
 PORCHESTER CASTLE. 27 
 
 in tne pew on the right-hand of the chancel, and, after the prisoners' 
 return, Madam Claire and Raymond with us. The left-hand pew 
 was occupied by Mr. Fhipps, retired purser, and his wife, a haughty 
 lady, daughter of a Portsmouth purveyor to the fleet. In the long 
 nave, never half filled, sat the villagers ; the choir were in the 
 gallery at the end, where we had music of violin, violoncello, and 
 flute ; in the transept were the soldiers of the garrison, near the 
 church door, so that in case of trouble they might troop out 
 quickly. 
 
 There were no gentlefolk in the village, unless we count our- 
 selves. I am well aware that people who sell fruit and vegetables 
 from a market-boat, even though the head of the family be an 
 alderman, cannot be regarded as belonging to the quality. But if 
 a woman is by marriage raised to her husband's rank, it is beyond 
 question that my own position, had everyone her rights, should be 
 among the noblest in the county, even though the boat still goes 
 down the harbour (the profits being very far short of what they 
 were in the war-time), and though some persons, jealous of my 
 connection with the old French nobility, sniff, as I am informed, 
 at the pretensions of a market-gardener. Sniffing cannot extin- 
 guish birth ; and perhaps now that we are in easier circumstances, 
 and have succeeded to my cousin Tom's estate, my son may one 
 day resume the ancient title. 
 
 Outside the gates, the village tavern, now so quiet the week 
 through except on Saturday evenings, was crowded all day long, 
 with soldiers drinking, smoking tobacco, and talking about the war. 
 There was a canteen in the Castle, but the men preferred the 
 tavern, because, I suppose, it was more homelike. In the evening 
 there was a nightly gathering, or club, held in the upper room, 
 where the officers, with a few gentlemen from the village, as- 
 sembled to take their punch. 
 
 The regiments in garrison in the year 1801 were the Royal 
 Dorset Militia and the Denbigh Militia, under the command of 
 Colonel the Hon. George Pitt, afterwards second Lord Rivers, at 
 this time a man of fifty years. 
 
 There were in the Castle at that date no fewer than eight 
 thousand prisoners. It seems an incredible number to be confined 
 in one place ; but in this country altogether thirty-five thousand 
 French prisoners were confined, of whom four thousand were at 
 Forton near Gosport ; nine thousand in the hulks in the harbour, 
 and I know not how many at Waltham, in Essex ; at Norman 
 Cross ; at Plymouth, and up the Med way. These men were not, it
 
 28 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 is true, all French sailors ; but they comprised the very pick and 
 flower of the French Navy. Why, the pretended peace of 1802, 
 for what purpose was it concluded but to get back those sailors 
 whom we fought again at Trafalgar ? As for exchange, 'tis true 
 that France had some ten thousand English prisoners, with a few 
 thousand Hanoverians ; but the advantage was all on their side. 
 
 A great fortress, with eight thousand prisoners and a garrison of 
 two thousand men within a stone's throw of the village, yet their 
 presence disturbed us little. In the day-time those prisoners who 
 were on parole walked out of the Castle, it is true, but they made no 
 disturbance ; the common sort, of course, were not suffered out on 
 parole at all, so that we never saw them unless we went into the 
 Castle. Their provisions were sent up the harbour from Ports- 
 mouth ; it was by the same way that most of the visitors came to 
 see them. Within the Castle, among the prisoners, were farriers, 
 blacksmiths, tailors, shoemakers, and tradesmen of every kind, so 
 that they had no occasion to go outside for anything except for 
 poultry, eggs, and fresh butter, which the farmers' wives brought 
 to the Castle from the country round. As for the fare of the 
 prisoners, it must be owned that it was of the simplest. Yet, how 
 many a poor man in this country would be thankful could he look 
 forward confidently to receive every day a pound and a half of 
 bread and half a pound of beef, with vegetables ! No beer or rum 
 was served out, but those who had money might buy it in the 
 canteen, and that of the best and at a cheap rate. 
 
 All that we heard of the prisoners was the beating of the drums 
 and the blowing of the whistles in the morning and evening. At 
 night there were a hundred sentries posted round the Castle, almost 
 close to each other, and every half-hour the sergeant of the main 
 guard went his round and challenged the sentries. Then those in 
 the village who were awake heard the hoarse answer of the men — 
 ' All's well ' — and the sergeant marched on, and you heard the same 
 words a little farther off, and so on, quite round the Castle, getting 
 fainter as the sergeant reached the water-gate, and becoming gradu- 
 ally louder as he returned to the main guard station outside the 
 Castle gate. Also, at nine o'clock, the Curfew bell was rung, when 
 all lights had to be put out, and the men turned in. Once there 
 was a great scare, for the man whose duty it was to ring the bell, 
 an old man named Clapham, fell asleep just before nine and woke 
 up at midnight ; thinking he had been sleeping only for a minute 
 or two, he seized the rope and rang lustily. Then the garrison was 
 hastily turned out, and the whole country-side, roused by the
 
 PORCHESTER CASTLE. 29 
 
 alarm of the midnight bell, and all the men in the village, and from 
 Cosham Wymering, Widley, Southwick, Fareham, and even Titch- 
 brook, all with one consent came pouring into Porchester armed 
 with whatever they could snatch, thinking it was a rising of the 
 prisoners. At the head of the Porchester squad marched none 
 other than our Sally, armed with a pitchfork and full of valour. 
 
 They were at night confined to their quarters, some in wooden 
 buildings erected in the outer court, some in the four towers of the 
 inner Castle. Of these the largest, the keep, was divided into 
 fourteen rooms, without counting the dungeons. Gloomy rooms 
 they were, being lighted only by narrow loopholes. 
 
 The other towers were smaller ; in one — it was whispered with 
 shuddering — there was a dissecting-room, used by the French 
 surgeons who were prisoners, and by the English regimental 
 surgeon. As for the men's quarters, it may be understood that 
 these were not luxurious. Some of them had hammocks, but when 
 the press grew thicker, straw was thrown upon the floor for those 
 to sleep upon for whom hammock-room could not be found. Hard 
 as was the lot of the Porchester prisoners, however, it was comfort 
 compared with that of the men immured at Forton, where there 
 was hardly room to stand in the exercise ground, and they lay at 
 night as thick as herrings in a barrel ; or with those who were 
 confined on the hulks, which were used as punishment ships, where 
 the refractory and desperate were sent, and where half-rations 
 brought them to reason and obedience. At Porchester the prisoners 
 got at least plenty of fresh air, sunshine, and room to walk about. 
 For the refractory, besides the hulks and half-rations, there was a 
 black hole, and if a man tried to escape, the sentries had orders, 
 after calling upon him to stand, to fire if he did not obey. 
 
 The prisoners, I have said, were mostly French sailors ; but there 
 were a good many soldiers among them, those taken, namely, in the 
 ■conquest of the French colonies. There were also hundreds of 
 privateers' men, as good sailors as any in the Republican Navy. 
 Among them were many Yendeans who had been concerned in the 
 rising; they thought to escape the penalty which overtook so many 
 ■of their comrades by going on board a privateer, but, being taken 
 prisoners, jumped, as one may say, out of the fire into the frying- 
 pan. Among them also, at one time, were a thousand negroes, 
 once slaves, but turned into soldiers by the French, and taken at 
 the Island of St. Yiucent. The cold weather, however, killed most 
 of these poor fellows very quickly. Another company of soldiers 
 were the fellows intended for the invasion of Ireland, and taken
 
 30 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 off the Irish coast ; a. sturdy band of veterans they were. After 
 the battle of Camperdown no fewer than one thousand eight 
 hundred Dutch sailors were brought to the Castle ; but these 
 gallant Hollanders, who had been dragged into the war without 
 any wish on their part to fight for France, mostly volunteered into 
 our service, and became good British sailors. 
 
 The earliest prisoners were zealous Republicans, especially those 
 taken prisoners by Lord Howe after the 'First of June,' in 1794. 
 These men used to show their sentiments by dancing and singing 
 ' Ca Ira ' and ' La Carmagnole ' every night, and flinging their red 
 caps in the air. 
 
 • Le Due de York avait permis 
 
 Que Dunkerque lui serait remis ; 
 
 Mais il a mal conte^ 
 
 Grace a vos canoniers. 
 
 Dansons la Carmagnole ; 
 Vive le son, 
 Vive le son — 
 
 Dansons la Carmagnole- 
 Vive le son 
 Du canon.' 
 
 Such is the ignorance of the British soldier that the men under- 
 stood not one word, and as they only laughed and were amused at 
 these demonstrations, the zeal of these Republicans abated. 
 
 After the defeat of the Spanish fleet by Admiral Jervis off Cape 
 St. Vincent, a great number of Spaniards were brought in, and 
 these proved a very desperate lot indeed. It was a company of 
 these fellows who laid a plot to escape, thinking to take one of the 
 small vessels in the harbour and to get out to sea. They got some 
 horseshoe files, ground them to a fine edge and a point, and fitted 
 them to handles, so as to make excellent daggers. Armed with 
 these they got into the dungeons under the Queen's Tower, and 
 began to dig their way out. They were secured after a desperate 
 fight, and sent on board the hulks. 
 
 Among the officers the most remarkable was a certain General 
 Tate, formerly of the Irish Brigade, who was sent with a legion 
 composed entirely of galley-slaves to invade the coast of Wales — a 
 wild and desperate attempt, resolved upon, one would think, with 
 the view of getting rid of the galley-slaves and effecting a diver- 
 sion of troops to a distant part of the country. The ships were 
 wrecked at a place called Fishguard, and the men mutinied and 
 spread about the country to rob and plunder, until they were 
 caught or shot down. Their commander was a fine old man, tall
 
 PORCHESTER CASTLE. 31 
 
 and erect, with long white hair, an hereditary enemy to Great 
 Britain, but good company and a man of excellent manners. 
 
 There were other notable prisoners. The wretch Tallien, who 
 murdered seven hundred Royalists at Quiberon, was here for a 
 short time. The General Baraguay d'Hilliers was also here. Once 
 there arrived a whole shipload of young ladies, taken on board 
 a ship bound for the Isle of France, whither they were going in 
 search of husbands. They were not detained long, and the ladies 
 and gentry round about made their stay pleasant for them with 
 dances and parties. One of them remained behind to marry an 
 Englishman. There was also a certain black general, whose name 
 I forget, but he had with him four wives ; and there was a young 
 fellow who, after six months in prison, fell ill, and was discovered 
 to be a woman. Strange things happened among them. Thus one 
 day, a certain French captain, who had been morose for a long 
 time, mounted to the roof of the keep and threw himself off, being 
 weary of his life. When they quarrelled, which was often, they 
 fought duels with swords, for want of proper weapons, made out 
 of bits of iron, filed and sharpened and tied to the ends of sticks. 
 And there was one man who was continually escaping. He would 
 climb down the wall at night unseen by the sentries ; then he would 
 seek shelter in the Forest of Bere, and live by depredation among 
 the poultry-yards and farmhouses till he was caught and sent back. 
 Ouce he made his way to London, and called at the house of M. 
 Otto, who was the French Commissioner for the prisoners. 
 
 The daily life of the prisoners was wearisome and monotonous. 
 Some of them had money sent by their friends, with which they 
 would buy drink, tobacco, and clothes ; most had none. They 
 lounged away the hours talking idly ; they gambled all day long, 
 for what stakes I know not, but they were as eager on the games 
 as if there were thousands of pounds depending on the result. 
 They played dominoes, backgammon, and drafts ; they smoked as 
 much tobacco as they could procure ; few of them— I speak of the 
 common sort — knew how to read or write ; their language was full 
 of blasphemy and oaths. The soldiers for the most part had 
 abandoned all religion, but the sailors retained their former faith. 
 The happiest among them were those who had a trade and could 
 work at it. The carpenter, tailor, shoemakers, cooks, and barbers, 
 were always at work, and made considerable earnings. Besides 
 the regular trades, there were arts by which large sums were made. 
 The place in the summer was crowded with visitors, who came 
 from all the country round— from Portsmouth, the Isle of Wight,
 
 32 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 Southampton, Lyinington, Favcrsham ; even from Winchester and 
 Chichester — to gaze upon the prisoners. These people, after 
 .staring at the strange, wild creatures, unkempt and ragged, were 
 •easily persuaded to buy the pretty things which the more ingenious 
 •of them carved, such as toys, tobacco-stoppers, and nicknacks out 
 of wood, the simpler things of soft deal, but the more expensive 
 out of some chance piece of oak or pine-knot ; out of beef -bones 
 they made models of ships, chessmen, draughts, dominoes, and 
 oard counters ; out of dried straws they braided little boxes, 
 dinner-mats, and all kinds of pretty, useless things ; and some of 
 them made thread-lace so beautifully that it was sold at a great 
 price and carried all about the country, and all the lace-makers 
 began to cry out, when the Government stopped that industry. 
 
 Two priests were allowed to go in and out among them, and to 
 -celebrate the papistical mass, which was done every morning in a 
 ruined gallery called the Chapel. It was boarded, glass was put into 
 the window, a door was provided, and an altar. Madam Claire came 
 daily, and many of the Vendean and Breton sailors. The rest 
 stayed away, even on Sundays, and many, if the priest spoke to 
 them of religion, answered with blasphemy and execration. Why 
 should a horrid atheism be joined to Republican principles ? Yet 
 the United States of America and the Swiss States are not 
 atheistical. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FAMILY LUCK. 
 
 The Arnolds — whose name was Arnault, but it has thus been Eng- 
 lished — came to Porchester early in the year 1794. Why they 
 directed their steps to this village, I know not. They were saved, 
 with many more, when the city of Toulon was taken by the French. 
 Raymond, who was then fourteen years of age, has often described 
 to me the terrible night when the French poured shot and shell 
 upon the town, while the English fired the arsenal and destroyed 
 those ships which they could not carry out. With his mother he 
 was taken on board an English ship, being separated by the crowd 
 from his father, who was unhappily left behind. On board the 
 same ship was found his aunt, Madam Claire, called in religion 
 Sister Angelique. How she got there she knew not, nor could she 
 ever remember, her wits being scattered for the time with the 
 terrors of the night, the awful flames, the roar of the cannon, and
 
 THE FAMIL Y L UCK. 35 
 
 the bursting of shells. "When, however, she recovered her senses, 
 it was found that she was still grasping the bag which contained 
 the most precious of all the family treasures, namely, the Goldeii 
 Rose, presented by a certain Pope, who lived I know not how long 
 ago — it was when the Popes were at Avignon, instead of Rome — 
 to one of the ladies of their house, then, and until the Revolution, 
 one of the most illustrious houses in the South of France. With 
 the Rose the Pope gave his blessing, with the promise, it was said 
 — though how mere man, even the Pope of Rome, can presume tc 
 make such a promise one knows not — that so long as the Rose 
 remained with the family, the line should never cease. Certainly 
 the line hath never ceased for five hundred years and more, thougk 
 after the death of Raymond's father he himself, a boy of thirteen, 
 was the sole representative. As for the Rose itself, which is now 
 in my possession and kept locked up, it is a strange thing to look 
 at, being the imitation of a rose-bush about eighteen inches high 
 in pure red gold. No one would guess, without being told, that i<o 
 was intended for a rose-bush, for the trunk and branches are all 
 straight and stiff, as much like a real rose-bush as a tree in & 
 sampler is like a real tree. It is provided with leaves, also of gold, 
 and with flowers and buds, which were set -with all kinds of. 
 precious stones, small in size, but beautiful in colour, such as rubies^ 
 emeralds, sapphires, and many others whose names I know not. I 
 suppose there is no other example in the whole of His Majesty's 
 realms of such a Rose. I have heard that the King of Spain or 
 the Emperor of Austria may possibly have one, but probably the^c 
 is no other Holy Rose in the possession of a private family. 
 
 When they were landed at Portsmouth, these fugitives had 
 nothing ; neither money, nor clothes, nor friends. One of theii: 
 was a lady who knew nothing of the world, having been for the 
 most of her life in a convent ; another was a lady whose anxiety 
 for her husband was quickly driving her mad ; and the third wai 
 only a boy. A more pitiful party was never landed from France, 
 not even counting that boatload of unfortunate emigres which was 
 found in Southampton Water one morning, starving and penniles?, 
 and almost naked. There was nothing by which these ladies could 
 earn their bread, because they could do nothing. Yet they were 
 richer than any of the rest, because they had with them the 
 Golden Rose. 
 
 I know not exactly when they learned the truth about the head 
 of their house thus left to the mercies of the Revolutionists, but 
 it was after they landed at Portsmouth and before they went to 
 
 3
 
 34 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 Porchester. The news was brought to them by an eye-witness. 
 The Republican Army, masters of the city, made the whole of tha 
 remaining inhabitants prisoners. And they shot all those, includ- 
 ing the Comte d'Eyragues, who were of rank and position. Against 
 him, it was said, a certain man, who had been a dependent or 
 humble friend, gave information, so that his fate was at once 
 decided, and he was shot. And when this news arrived, his widow 
 went out of her mind, and, unlike Madam Claire, who had only 
 been scared, she never recovered. 
 
 ' Ladies,' said the Vicar of Porchester, when he was first called 
 to consider their case, ' there is no alternative. You must sell this 
 precious relic' 
 
 He addressed both ladies, but only one heard and understood 
 him. 
 
 'Alas!' cried that one, 'if it were not for Raymond I would 
 rather starve than part with it. And to let it go is to imperil the 
 poor boy's life, since there is none other to continue the family.' 
 
 'You may send it to London,' said the Vicar, 'to be sold to some 
 great nobleman as a wonderful curiosity. Or you may sell it to a 
 merchant for the value of its gold and precious stones. Or, if you 
 prefer, you might sell it little by little. Thus you might keep the 
 Rose itself for a long time by selling the jewels of the flowers. 
 See, some of the stones are large and valuable. Take one out, and 
 let me sell it for your immediate wants. When the money is ex- 
 hausted you can give me another, and so on. Perhaps, long before 
 you come to an end, your fortunes will change ; the Republic will 
 be overthrown, and the emigres returned.' 
 
 'Alas '.'she cried again. 'The jewels are a part of the Holy 
 Rose, and they have been blessed by the Pope himself. Is it not 
 the sin of sacrilege ?' 
 
 ' On the contrary, madam,' the Yicar replied, smiling. ' I suppose 
 that the blessing of the Pope has never before proved of so practi- 
 cal a value.' 
 
 I remember very well the day of their arrival, for the news had 
 s-pread abroad that some French people were going to live in Mr. 
 Phipps's cottage, and I went out to see them come. They were 
 brought up in a boat from Portsmouth, and landed close to the 
 water-gate of the Castle. (There were no prisoners in the Castle 
 as yet.) The Yicar was with them, and led them through the 
 Castle to the village. You may be sure we all stared, never think- 
 ing that we should behold on English ground so strange a creature 
 as a nun. Yet here was one, dressed in a blue cloak and blue frock,
 
 THE FA MIL Y L UCK. 35 
 
 with a -white starched hood or cap. She carried a hag in her 
 hand, and round her neck was a gold chain with a crucifix. On one 
 side of her walked our Vicar, who, I suppose, had persuaded them 
 to seek this asylum ; and on the other a lady richly dressed, though 
 there were the stains of the voyage and rough weather upon her 
 fine clothes. The nun was pale, and walked with her eyes down- 
 cast ; this lady tossed her head and laughed, talking without cessa- 
 tion. She laughed because she was out of her mind, having been 
 driven mad, we learned, by terror and the loss of her husband ; and 
 she talked because she believed that her husband was still living, 
 and that he was always with her day and night. This belief she 
 maintained till her death, and certainly nothing happier could have 
 befallen the poor lad}'. Very soon those who went to the house 
 began to believe that the spirit of her husband was permitted to 
 remain on earth for his wife's protection ; and though one may not 
 be believed, I dare assert that the haunted house had no terrors for 
 me, though a ghost in my own room would have driven me mad 
 with fear. Behind the ladies walked a handsome boy, black-eyed 
 and with black hair. Little did I think how that boy was to 
 become the whole joy of my life. 
 
 There was never, I am certain, a household more frugal than 
 this. The two ladies seemed to live altogether upon bread and 
 6alad, or upon bread dipped in oil ; while Madam Claire rigorously 
 kept all the fasts of her Church (though none of the feasts), ab- 
 staining, on those days, from all food except that which is abso- 
 lutely necessary. They kept fowls, the eggs of which were reserved 
 for Raymond. They lived in a little cottage at three pounds a 
 year. As for their clothes, Madam Claire mended them, washed 
 and ironed them ; though sometimes Raymond was in need of 
 boots and coats, when money must be found. Yet, with all this 
 frugality, the stones of the Holy Rose slowly diminished ; its 
 flowers began to assume a shabby and (so to speak) an autumnal 
 aspect ; for the years went on, and the Republic was not over- 
 thrown, nor were the emigres invited to return to their pro- 
 perty. 
 
 When we became friends, which was very soon, the boy taught 
 me his language, and I taught him mine. "Which was the apter 
 scholar I know not. He was three years older than I, but was 
 never ashamed to play with a girl. When he had no work to do — 
 either lessons for the Vicar, or work in the garden where they 
 grew their salads — he would go with me, either to row down the 
 creek among the men-o'-war in the harbour, or to ramble in the 
 
 3—2
 
 36 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 woods beyond Portsdown Hill. And thus we continued com- 
 panions and friends, after we were grown out of boy and girl and 
 before we became lovers — though I believe we were lovers from 
 the beginning. 
 
 Raymond was not a bookish boy, nor did he take to the learning 
 with which the Vicar would have willingly supplied him in ample 
 quantities had he desired. But though he grew up a gentle young 
 man, as a boy he excelled in all kinds of manly games, and waa 
 ready to wrestle, run, or leap with any of his own age, or to fight 
 with any who called him French Frog, or Johnny Crapaud. Con- 
 sequently he received the respect which is always paid to the 
 possessor of courage. It is strange to note how boys will some- 
 times become enemies and rivals from the very first. This wa3 
 the case with my Cousin Tom and Raymond. Tom was ths 
 stronger, but Raymond the more active. Tom spoke behind 
 Raymond's back of French impudence, French presumption, and 
 French brag ; but I never heard that he allowed himself those 
 liberties before Raymond's face. And I well remember one 26th 
 of July, which is Portsdown Fair, how, in the sports upon the 
 Running Walks at the back of Richardson's Theatre, Raymond 
 laid Tom fair and flat upon his back at wrestling, so that he limped 
 away shaken all over and growling about foul play, though it was 
 as fair a throw as was ever seen. 
 
 Later on it pleased Tom to describe himself as my wooer, which 
 was ridiculous, because I never could have given a thought to Tom, 
 even if Raymond had not been there before him. Who could 
 endure the caresses of a man who was always longing to be where 
 cocks are fought, badgers drawn, prize-fights fought, races run, and 
 drink flowing ; whose clothes smelt of the stable, and whose lan- 
 guage was that of grooms, hostlers, and jockeys ? It pleased him, 
 too, in spite of the lesson taught him at Portsdown Fair, to affect 
 a contempt for Raymond. He laughed scornfully when he spoke 
 of him. ' One Englishman,' he said, ' is worth three Frenchmen. 
 Everybody know3 that. Wait, Molly, till I give him a basting.' 
 Yet the day of that basting did not arrive. And I suppose that 
 this threatening promise was made to none but myself, otherwise 
 Raymond would have been told ; in which case it is certain the 
 thing would have been brought to a head. 
 
 Very likely it made Tom happier to believe that he could ad- 
 minister that basting if he should choose. As you will see presently, 
 the moment actually chosen by him for the purpose was unfortu- 
 nate.
 
 ' THE FAMIL Y L UCK. 37 
 
 It was difficult for the emigres and for their sons to find employ- 
 ment by which to make their livelihood. For though in this 
 country every calling is open to all, so that many, even of our 
 bishops and judges, have been poor boys to begin, yet a young 
 man's choice is generally restricted by the circumstances of his 
 birth and condition. Thus the son of the village carpenter succeeds 
 bis father, and the man who hath a good shop bequeaths it to his 
 son. But if a young man aspires to a profession, he must be able 
 to spend a great deal of money in order to learn its secrets, and to 
 be received by some learned society as a member. Nothing can be 
 done without money or interest. If he would be a farmer, he must 
 be able to lay out money upon stock and implements ; if a trades- 
 man, he must be first apprenticed and afterwards buy and stock 
 his shop ; if he be a clergyman, he must be able to buy a living, 
 unless he find a patron ; if he becomes a soldier, he must buy his 
 commission ; if a sailor, he must bribe some one in place, or remain 
 for ever a midshipman ; if he would find a Government office, even 
 of the humblest kind, he must have interest to procure it for him, 
 or money to buy it. 
 
 Some of them, therefore, became teachers, because teaching is the 
 only kind of work which requires no money, apprenticeship, 
 interest, or bribery. They taught their own language for the most 
 part, or the accomplishments which they were best qualified to 
 undertake, namely, dancing, music, deportment, drawing, and so 
 forth. The more ingenious painted pictures or carved statues ; 
 some composed music ; some carved in wood and ivory ; some 
 became conjurers, ventriloquists, tumblers, or circus riders ; a good 
 many became cooks or barbers ; some, I have heard, became 
 gamblers by profession, and if they belonged to the better sort, 
 played cards at clubs, if to the baser, held their tables at fairs and 
 races. Some turned thieves and rogues, but these were few. A 
 groat many went home again as soon as it was safe, though they 
 did not get back their lands. Some went to America, but I know 
 not what they did there. Whatever they did, it was always con- 
 sidered as a makeshift against the day when they should return 
 and be restored to their own property. 
 
 As for Raymond, it was necessary that he should work for his 
 bread as soon as possible. Fortunately, though he loved not books, 
 he was continually drawing and painting. It is an art by which 
 6omc men live, either by teaching or selling their pictures. 
 
 'Let the boy,' said the Vicar, 'cultivate this gift, so that, perhaps, 
 if the need still exists, it may provide him the means of an honour-
 
 38 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 able livelihood until the day when you shall happily, under Provi- 
 dence, return to your own.' 
 
 In short, Raymond was put under a master at Gosport until the 
 age of nineteen, when he had learned all that could be taught him. 
 Then, because pupils were not to be found at Porchester, he went 
 to Portsmouth, and began to teach to such of the young officers aa 
 wished to learn, the arts of drawing and painting, and making plans 
 and maps, especially plans of fortifications. 
 
 But the time went on, and the successes of the Republican 
 armies did not hold out much hope that the return of the Nobles 
 would soon take place. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN THE OTHER CAMP. 
 
 ( Hczza, Molly !' cried my cousin, his face full of exultation. 
 ' 'Tis now certain that we shall have peace. I have been drinking 
 the health of Boney, whom I shall ever love for calling home all 
 starving Frenchmen.' 
 
 ' Will the emigres go home, too, Tom ?' 
 
 1 Ay, they will all go. What ? Do you think we shall suffer 
 them to stay any longer, the ragged, greedy blood-suckers, when 
 there are honest Britons out of work ? Not so. 'i^hey must 
 pack.' 
 
 ' Will their property be restored to them, then ?' 
 
 'Nay, I know not ! 'Tis thought at the tavern that something 
 will be done for them, but I know not what. Well, Molly, so you 
 will lose your fiue lover.' 
 
 ' Never mind my fine lover, Tom.' 
 
 ' Nay, I mind him not a button !' Here he put one hand in his 
 pocket, and with the other shook his cudgel playfully. 'Molly, 
 he is a lucky lad. Another week and he would have had a basting. 
 Ay, in another week at farthest I must have drubbed him.' 
 
 ' Oh, Tom ! how long has that drubbing been threatened ? Nay, 
 it were a pity, if Raymond must go, for him never to know your 
 truly benevolent intentions. I will tell him this evening.' 
 
 ' As you please, my girl ; as you please,' he replied carelessly, 
 and sauntered away, but returned back after a few steps. ' Molly,' 
 he said, 'I think it would be kindest to let the poor man go in 
 ignorance of what would have befallen him. What ? He cannot
 
 IN THE OTHER CAMP. 39 
 
 help being a Frenchman. Don't let him feel his misfortune more 
 than is necessary.' 
 
 This was thoughtful of Tom. 
 
 • Then, Tom, I will not tell him. But it is for your sake and 
 to spare you, not him, the drubbing. Oh, Tom, he would break 
 every bone in your body ; but if you mean what you say, and are 
 really not afraid of him, why not tell him what you have told 
 me?' 
 
 ' Well, Molly, you can say what you like ; but you are not 
 married yet, my girl. You are not married yet.' 
 
 I did not tell Raymond, because I think it is wicked for a 
 woman to set men a-fighting, though it is commonly done by 
 village girls ; but I had no anxiety on the score of Tom's desire to 
 baste anybody. I might have felt some anxiety had I reflected 
 that the ways of a man when in liquor cannot always be foretold. 
 
 Raymond thought little of Tom at this time. The conditions of 
 the peace left him, with the Royal Family of France and all the 
 emigres, out in the cold ; one cannot deny, though he is now an 
 Englishman by choice, and contented to forget his native country, 
 that he was then much cast down. 
 
 'For ten years,' he said, • our lives have seemed an interruption^ 
 we have been in parenthesis ; whatever we did, it was but as a stop- 
 gap. We have endured hardship patiently, because it would pass. 
 Great Britain was fighting for us ; well, all that is over. The 
 Government has abandoned us ; the Revolution has succeeded ; 
 there will be no more Kings or Nobles in France.' 
 
 Yes, peace was made, and the French Princes, the Royalists, and 
 the French Nobles, who thought we should never lay down our 
 arms until the old state of things was restored, found that they 
 were abandoned. To me, because I now took my ideas from Ray- 
 mond, it seemed shameful, and I blushed for my country. But 
 one can now plainly see, that when an enterprise is found to be 
 impossible, the honour of a country cannot be involved in prose- 
 cuting it any farther. It took twelve years more of war for 
 France to understand the miseries she had brought upon herself by 
 driving away her Princes. As soon as the opportunity arrived, 
 Great Britain led them back again. 
 
 'Twas no great thing of a peace after the expenditure of so 
 much blood and treasure. England, we learned, was to keep 
 certain possessions taken from the Dutch, and to give back those 
 she had taken from the French. But the strength of France was 
 bo enormously improved, Buonnpnrte being master in Spain, Italy,
 
 40 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 Portugal, and I know not what beside, that everyone prophesied 
 the breaking out, before long, of another and a more prolonged 
 war. This, in fact, speedily happened, as everybody knows. 
 
 The general joy, however, was wonderful. So great was it in 
 London, that the people fought and struggled for the honour of 
 taking out the horses from the carriage of the French Ambassador 
 —he was a certain Colonel Lauriston, of English ancestry, and yet 
 a favourite with Buonaparte — and dragging it themselves with 
 shouts and cheers. The City of London and every other town in 
 the country were, we heard, illuminated at night with the lighting 
 of bonfires, the firing of squibs, and the marching of mobs about 
 the streets. At Portsmouth they received the intelligence with 
 more moderate gratitude, because, although it is without doubt a 
 grievous thing to consider the continual loss of so many gallant 
 men, yet it must be remembered that a seaport flourishes in time 
 of war, but languishes in time of peace. In time of war there 
 happen every day arrivals and departures of ships and troops, the 
 advance of prize money, the engagement of dockyard hands, the 
 concourse of people to see the troops and the fleets, the fitting out 
 and victualling of the vessels, all of which keep the worthy folk 
 full of business, so that they quickly make their fortunes, build 
 and buy houses, and retire to the country and a garden. 
 
 At Porchester the landlord of the tavern cursed the peace 'which 
 would take from him all his custom. He, however, was the only 
 man who did not hail the news with pleasure. As for the Castle, 
 not only the prisoners, but the garrison as well — no soldier likes 
 Bteing converted into a prison warder — rejoiced. They made a 
 great bonfire in the outer court — beautiful it was to see the keep 
 and the walls and the church lit up at night by the red blaze of 
 the flames ; soldiers and prisoners, arm-in-arm, danced round the 
 fire, shouting and singing. There were casks of liquor sent in, I 
 know not by whom, and the serving out of the drink greatly 
 increased the general joy. 
 
 After this, and until the prisoners were all gone, it was truly 
 wonderful to see the change. First of all the soldiers with the 
 loaded muskets were removed from the walls, and there were no 
 more sentries, except at the gates. Why should prisoners be 
 watched who would certainly make no attempt to escape, now that 
 the vessels which were to carry them home were preparing for 
 them ? They were no longer enemies, but comrades, and it wag 
 strange to mark the transition from foe to friend. Our journals, 
 we heard, in like manner ceased to abuse the First Consul, and
 
 IN THE OTHER CAMP 41 
 
 began to find much to admire — the first time for nearly ten years 
 — in the character of the French. Yet these prisoners had done 
 nothing to make them our friends, which shows that Providence 
 never designed that men should cut each other's throats, only 
 because they speak different languages. And from this day until 
 their departure the prisoners were allowed freely to go outside the 
 Castle walls, a privilege which hitherto had been granted to few. 
 
 A strange wild crew they were who now trooped out of the 
 Castle gates and swarmed in the village street. Some limped from 
 old wounds, some had lost an arm, a leg, or an eye ; nearly all 
 were ragged and barefoot. They wore their hair hanging long and 
 loose about their shoulders ; some had monstrous great beards, 
 and most wore long moustachios, which impart an air of great 
 ferocity. "Whether they were in rags or not, whatever their con- 
 dition, one and all bore themselves with as much pride, and 
 walked as gallantly, as if they were so many conquering heroes, 
 and at the sight of a woman would toss up their chins, pull their 
 moustachios, stick out their chests, and strut for all the world like 
 a turkey-cock, and as if they were all able and willing to conquer 
 the heart of every woman. They did no harm in the village that 
 I heard of ; they could not buy anything, because they had no 
 money, and they were too proud to beg. One day, however, I saw 
 a little company of them looking over our palings into the garden, 
 where as yet there was but little blossom and the first pushing of 
 the spring leaves. I thought that in their eyes I saw a yearning 
 after certain herbs and roots which every Frenchman loves. It 
 was long since these poor fellows had tasted onions, garlic, or any 
 savoury herbs. I may confess that I called on the men and made 
 them happy with as many strings of onions and other things as 
 they could carry, a gift which, with the addition of a little oil and 
 vinegar, sent them away completely happy. 
 
 They were now eager to get home again, although for many, 
 Pierre told us, the exchange would be for the worse. ' The prison 
 rations,' he said, ' are better than the fare which many of us will 
 enjoy when we get home. In a campaign the soldiers have to fight 
 on much less. Then if there is to be no more fighting, most of 
 the army will be disbanded, aud the men will betake themselves 
 a^ain to the plough or to their trades. But if a man goes for a 
 soldier he forgets his trade, his hand and eye are out ; then he will 
 •get bad wages with long hours, the condition of a slave — I call it 
 nothing else— and none of the glory of war.' Pierre spoke of 
 glory as if every private soldier who took part in a victory was to
 
 42 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 be remembered ever afterwards as an immortal bero. ' Ob ! I 
 deny not that there are some, even some Frenchmen, who love not 
 war. Yet I confess that to them the peace is the most welcome- 
 news in the world. What ! Is every soldier a hero ? Does every 
 man love the hard ground better than a soft bed ? Is the roaring 
 of artillery a pleasing sound for everyone ? Not so ; some men are- 
 by nature intended to drive quills, and weigh out spices, and dress- 
 the ladies' heads. There must be grocers and barbers as well as 
 soldiers.' 
 
 1 And what will you do, Pierre ?' asked Raymond. 
 
 ' I hope to remain in the army. But how long will the peace- 
 continue. ? Think you our great General is one who will be con- 
 tented to remain quiet while a single country remains unconquered? 
 He is another Alexander the Great ; he marches from conquest to- 
 conquest ; he is a Hannibal who knows no Capua. There are still 
 two countries which dare to hold up their heads in defiance of him 
 — Great Britain and Russia. He will humble both.' 
 
 ' What ! You look to overrun the world ?' 
 
 ' Consider,' he said, ' Prussia — Germany — Holland — Italy — these 
 are at his feet. Spain is already in his grasp. Denmark — Norway 
 — Sweden — all are within his reach. What is England — little 
 England — against so mighty a combination ? What is Russia with, 
 all her Cossacks? The peace is concluded in order that we may 
 make more vessels to destroy your trade and take your fleets. 
 When your ships are swept off the ocean, nothing remains except 
 humble submission. Look, therefore, for another war as soon as- 
 we are ready, and prepare for the inevitable supremacy of France. 
 Great Britain reduced, Buonaparte will then lead his victorious 
 troops to Russia, which will offer nothing more than a show of 
 resistance to his great army. When all the countries are his, and 
 all the kings dethroned, there will be seen one vast Republic, with 
 Paris for its capital, and Buonaparte for the First Consul. London, 
 Constantinople, Rome, Vienna, and Moscow will be of no more- 
 importance than Marseilles and Lyons. All will be Paris.' 
 
 ' Yery good indeed,' said Raymond, 'and then your First Consul 
 will, I suppose, sit down and take his rest ?' 
 
 'No. There will remain the United States of America. India 
 will be ours already by right of our conquest of Great Britain, and 
 all the East will be ours because we shall have overrun Spain,. 
 Holland, and Turkey ; also South America and Mexico. The 
 United States will be the last to bow the neck. Buonaparte will 
 fit out three great armaments, one to Canada, one to New York,.
 
 IN THE OTHER CAMP. 43 
 
 and one to Baltimore. The Republicans of America will fight at 
 first for their independence. Then they -will be compelled to yield, 
 and will join in the great confederacy, and from one end to the 
 other the whole world will be part of the great French Republic' 
 
 ' There are still Persia, the Pacific Ocean, and China.' 
 
 ' The Pacific will be ours because there will be no ships afloat 
 but those which fly the French flag. Persia is but a mouthful. To 
 conquer China will be but a military promenade.' 
 
 ' And after this the reign of peace, I suppose ?' 
 
 Pierre sighed. 
 
 1 Yes,' he said, ' when there will be nothing left to fight for, I 
 suppose there will be peace. But by that time I shall perhaps have 
 become a general of division, or very likely I shall be old and no 
 longer fit for war. Oh,' his eyes kindled, ' think of the universal 
 French Republic ! No more Kings, no more priests, all men free and 
 equal ' 
 
 'Why,' Raymond interrupted, 'as for Kings, the peace leaves 
 them every man upon his throne ; and as for priests, Buonaparte's 
 convention with the Pope brings them back to you. In place of 
 your fine Republican principles you have got a military despotism ; 
 it must be a grand thing when every man is free and equal to be 
 drilled and kicked and cuffed into shape, in order to become a 
 soldier.' 
 
 ' Why,' said Pierre, ' I grant you that we did not expect the 
 Concordat. "Well, the women are too strong for us. But the men 
 are emancipated ; they have got no religion left ; while, for your 
 military despotism, how else can we establish our Universal 
 Republic ? And what better use can you make of a man than 
 to drill him and put him into the ranks? But wait till the conquest 
 of the world is complete, and the reign of Universal Liberty 
 begins.' 
 
 ' I stand,' said Raymond, ' on the side of order, which means 
 authority, rank, religion, and a monarchy.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Pierre, ' on the side of Liberty, which means 
 government by the people and the abolition of the privileged class. 
 I am a son of the people, and you, my friend, are an aristo. There- 
 fore we are in opposite camps.' 
 
 ' Your Republic has her hands red with innocent blood, and her 
 pockets full of gold which she has stolen. These are the first-fruits 
 of government by the people.' 
 
 'We have made mistakes ; our men were mad at first. But we 
 are now in our right senses, Raymond ; for every man equal rights
 
 44 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 and an equal chance, and the prizes to the strongest, and no man 
 born without the fold of Universal Brotherhood. What can your 
 old order show to compare with this ?' 
 
 His eyes glowed, and his dark cheek flushed. He would have 
 said more, but refrained, because he would not pain his friend who 
 belonged to the other side. When I think of Pierre I love to recall 
 him as he stood there, brave and handsome. Ah, if all the 
 children of the people were like him, then a Universal Republic 
 might not be so dreadful a misfortune for the human race ! 
 
 'Englishmen, at least, are free,' said Raymond. ' Shake hands, 
 my brother. You shall go out and fight for your cause. Whether 
 you win or whether you lose, you shall win honour and promo- 
 tion. Captain Gavotte — Colonel Gavotte — General Gavotte — Field 
 Marshal Gavotte. I shall sit in peace at home, under the protec- 
 tion of the Union Jack — which may God protect 1' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TOM'S UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE. 
 
 It was the eveniDg after this conversation that my Cousin Tom 
 made so unfortunate a mistake, and received a lesson so rude that 
 it cured him for ever of speaking disrespectfully concerning the 
 strength and courage of Frenchmen. The affair was partly due to 
 me ; I do not say that it was my fault, because I should behave in 
 exactly the same way again were it possible for such a thing to 
 happen now. 
 
 My cousin rode into the village in the afternoon, as was his 
 custom. Finding that there were no wagers being decided, cocks 
 fought, or any other amusement going on at the tavern, he took a 
 glass or two, and walked up the street to call upon me. 
 
 ' Well, Molly,' he began, sitting down as if he intended to spend 
 the afternoon with me, ' when does your Frenchman go ? Ha ! ho 
 is in luck to go so soon.' 
 
 ' Tom,' I said, ' I forbid you ever again to mention the word 
 Frenchman in my presence. Speak respectfully of a man who is 
 your better, or go out of the house.' 
 
 ' Suppose,' he said, ' that I will neither speak respectfully of him 
 nor go out of the house ? What then, Miss Molly ? Respectfully 
 of a beggarly Frenchman who teaches — actually teaches drawing to 
 anybody he can get for a pupil ! Respectfully ! Molly, you make 
 me sick. Give me a glass of your cowslip, cousin.'
 
 TOJrS UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE. 45 
 
 •Well, Tom, I am not strong enough to turn you out; but I can 
 leave you alone in the room.' 
 
 I turned to do so, but be pprang up and stood between me and 
 the door. 
 
 ' Now, Molly, let us understand one another. Send this fellow 
 to the right-about ' — he pronounced it, being a little disguised, rile- 
 abow ; ' send him away, I say, and take a jolly Briton.' 
 
 'Let me pass, Tom.' 
 
 ' No. Why, I always meant to marry you, my girl, and so I will. 
 
 Do you think I will let you go for a sneakin' cowardly ' Here 
 
 he held out his arms. « Come and kiss me, Molly. There's only 
 one that truly loves thee, and that is Tom Wilgress. Come, I say.' 
 
 At this I was frightened, there being no one in the house whom 
 I could call. Fortunately, I thought of Sally, and, running to the 
 window, I opened it and cried out to her to come quickly. 
 
 Tom instantly sank into a chair. 
 
 ' Sally,' I said, ' I do not think I shall want you ; but have you 
 your rope's-end with you ?' 
 
 'Ay, ay, miss,' she replied, shaking that weapon and looking curi- 
 ously at Tom, whom she had never loved. 
 
 'I do not think,' I repeated, ' that we shall want the rope's-end. 
 Are you afraid of my cousin, Sally ?' 
 
 ' Afraid ! I should like to see any man among them all that I am 
 afraid of.' 
 
 1 Then wait at the door, Sally, until I call you or until he goes.' 
 
 'Now, Tom,' I went on, 'I am not without a protector, as you 
 see. You may go. Why, you poor, blustering creature, you are 
 afraid — yes, you are afraid to say the half in Raymond's presence 
 that you have said to me. Fie ! a coward, and try to wile a girl 
 from her lover.' 
 
 « "Well — I cannot fight a woman. You and your rope's-end,' he 
 grumbled. ' Say what you like, Molly.' 
 
 'I will say no more to you. Sally, show him the rope's-end, if 
 you please.' She held it up and nodded. ' Sally is as strong as 
 any man, Tom, and I will ask her to lay that rope across your 
 shoulders if you ever dare to come here again without my leave. 
 Do you understand ?' 
 
 ' I am a coward, am I ? I am afraid to say the half to Raymond, 
 am I ? Molly, suppose I say all this and more — suppose I thrash 
 him and bring him on his knees ?' 
 
 ' Well, Tom, if you can do this you have no need to fear Sally 
 and her rope's-end.'
 
 46 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 He went away, making pretence of going slowly and of his own 
 accord. Sally followed him to the garden gate, and reported that 
 he had returned to the tavern, where I suppose that he spent the 
 rest of the day smoking tobacco and drinking brandy and water or 
 punch, in order to get that courage which we call Dutch. 
 
 In the interval between the signing of the peace and the return 
 of the prisoners, Pierre spent his whole time in the company of 
 Madam Claire and in her service. He was clever and ingenious 
 with his fingers, always making and contriving things, so that the 
 cottage furniture, which was scanty indeed, began to look as if it 
 was all new. 
 
 On this day Tom remained at the tavern until late in the even- 
 ing, and left it at eight o'clock, coming out of it, hat on head and 
 riding-whip in hand, with intent to order his horse and ride home. 
 Now, by bad luck he saw, or thought he saw, no other than his 
 enemy Raymond coming slowly down the road, the night being 
 clear and fine and a moon shining, so that it was well-nigh as 
 bright as day. It was, in fact, Pierre returning to the Castle, but, 
 dressed as he was, in a brown civilian coat, and being at all times 
 like Raymond, it was not wonderful that, at a little distance, Tom 
 should mistake him for Raymond. That he did not discover his 
 mistake on getting to close quarters was due to the drink that was 
 in him. 
 
 ' Oh, Johnny Frenchman ! Johnny Frog !' he cried. ' Stop, I 
 say ; you've got to reckon with me.' 
 
 Pierre stopped. 
 
 ' Don't try to run away,' Tom continued. ' We have met at last, 
 where there are no women to call upon.' Raymond, to be sure, 
 never had asked the assistance of any woman ; but that mattered 
 nothing. • Ha ! would you run ? Would you run ?' 
 
 Pierre was standing still, certainly not attempting to run, and 
 wondering what was the meaning of this angry gentleman dancing 
 about before him in the road, brandishing his riding-whip, and 
 calling him evidently insulting names. 
 
 ' Ha !' said Tom, getting more courage, ' a pretty fool you will 
 look when I have done with you ; a very pretty fool.' 
 
 These words he strengthened in the usual way, and continued to 
 shake his riding-whip. 
 
 Pierre still made no reply. The man was threatening him, 
 that was certain from the use of gestures common to all languages ; 
 but he waited to brandish his riding-whip.
 
 TOM'S UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE. 47 
 
 'French frog — Johnny Crapaud. I will flog you till you go on 
 your knees and swear that you'll never again dare to visit Molly. 
 Ha ! I will teach you to interfere with a true-born Briton I' 
 
 He shook the whip in Pierre's face, and began to use the 
 language customary with those who are, or wish to appear, beyond 
 themselves with rage. It was, however, disconcerting that the 
 Frenchman made no reply, and showed no sign of submission. 
 For Pierre perceived that he had no choice but to fight, unless he 
 would tamely submit to be horsewhipped. Yet for the life of him 
 he could not understand why this man was attacking him. It 
 could not be for his money, because he had none ; nor for any 
 conduct of his which could give the man any pretext, because he 
 had never seen him before. 
 
 The French are not good at boxing, they do not practise fighting 
 with their fists as boys, they have no prize-fights, and in a street 
 quarrel I have heard that the knife is used where our people would 
 strip and fight it out. For this reason it is thought that they are 
 not so brave as the English, and it is sometimes thrown in their 
 teeth that they cannot hit out straight, and know not how to use 
 the left hand in a fight. 
 
 As for their bravery, we are foolish to impugn it, because we 
 have fought the French in many a field and in many a sea battle, 
 and we do ourselves a wrong when we lessen the valour of our 
 foes. Besides, it is very well known to all the world, whatever we 
 may say, that the French are a very brave and gallant nation. 
 Though they cannot box, they can fence ; though they do not 
 fight with fists, they can wrestle as well as any men in England. 
 And in their fights they have a certain trick which requires, I am 
 told, a vast amount of dexterity and agility, but is most effective 
 in astonishing and disconcerting an enemy who does not look for 
 it. Suppose, for instance, that a man went out to box in ignorance 
 of so common a trick as the catching of your adversary's head with 
 the left hand and pummelliug his face with the right. With what 
 surprise and discomfiture would that manoeuvre be followed ! Or, 
 again, imagine the surprise of an untaught man who stood up with 
 a master in wrestling, to receive one of those strokes which sud- 
 denly throw a man upon his back. Pierre, you see, was dexterous 
 in this French trick, of which Tom had never even heard. 
 
 The young Frenchman, therefore, perceiving that this was more 
 than a mere drunken insult and menace, assumed the watchful 
 attitude of one who intends to fight. He had nothing in his hand, 
 not even a walking-stick, and was, moreover, of slighter build and
 
 48 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 less weight than his enemy. But if Tom had been able to under- 
 stand it, his attitude, something like that of a tiger about to spring, 
 his eyes fixed upon his adversary's face, his hands ready, his body 
 as if on springs, might have made him, even at the last moment, 
 hesitate. 
 
 With another oath Tom raised the whip and brought it down 
 upon Pierre's head. Had the whip reached its destination thero 
 would probably have been no need to say more about Pierre. But 
 it did not, because he leaped aside and the blow fell harmless. And 
 then an astonishing thing occurred. 
 
 The Frenchman did not strike his assailant with his fist, nor did 
 he close with him, nor did he try to wrench his whip from him, 
 nor did he curse and swear, nor did he go on his knees and cry for 
 mercy. Any of these things might have been expected. The last 
 thing that could have been expected was what happened. 
 
 The Frenchman, in fact, sprang into the air — Tom afterwards 
 swore that he leaped up twenty feet — and from that commanding 
 position administered upon Tom's right cheek, not a kick, or any- 
 thing like a kick, but so shrewd a box with the flat of the left boot 
 that it fairly knocked him over. He sprang to his feet again, but 
 again this astonishing Frenchman leaped up and gave him a second 
 blow on the left cheek with the flat of his right boot, which again 
 rolled him over. This time he did not try to get up, nor did he 
 make the least resistance when his enemy seized the whip and 
 began to belabour him handsomely with it, in such sort that Tom 
 thought he was going to be murdered. Presently, however, the 
 Frenchman left off, and threw away the whip. Tom, taking heart, 
 sat up with astonishment in his face. His enemy was standing 
 over him with folded arms. 
 
 4 You kicked,' said Tom. ' Yah ! you kicked. You kicked your 
 man in the face. Call that fair fighting ?' 
 
 Pierre answered never a word. 
 
 ' I say,' Tom repeated, ' that you kicked. Call that fair fighting ?' 
 
 Pierre made no reply. Then Tom reached for his hat, which 
 had been knocked off at the beginning, and for his whip, Avhich 
 was beside him on the ground. He put on his hat, and laid the 
 whip across his knees, but he did not get up. 
 
 1 Very well — very well,' he said. ' I shall know what to expect 
 another time. You don't play that trick twice. No matter now. 
 My revenge will come.' 
 
 Still Pierre moved not. 
 
 * Ycu think I care twopence because you bested me with your
 
 TOM'S UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE. 49 
 
 tricks ? Well, I don't, then. Not I. Who would be ashamed of 
 being knocked down by a kick on the head ? Well, all the country 
 shall know about it. What ! Do you think I am afraid of you ? 
 Promise not to kick, and come on.' 
 
 Although he vapoured in this way, he took care not to get up 
 from the ground. 
 
 But Pierre made no reply, and after waiting a few minutes to 
 see if his adversary was satisfied— to be sure he had every reason 
 to express himself fully satisfied— he turned, and went on his way 
 to the Castle gates. 
 
 Then Tom rose slowly, and, without brushing the mud and dirt 
 of the road from his clothes, returned to the tavern, where the 
 officers and gentlemen were sitting with lighted candles. 
 
 'Why, Tom,' said the Colonel, who was among them, 'what is 
 the matter, man ? You have got a black eye.' 
 
 'Hang it,' said another, 'it seems to me that he has got two 
 black eyes, and he has had a roll in the mud. What was it, my 
 gallant Tom ? Did you mistake the handle of the door for your 
 saddle ? or have you been fighting your horse in the stable ?' 
 
 'Landlord, a glass of brandy !' He waited till he had tossed off 
 this restorative, and then sat down and took off his hat. ' Gentle- 
 men,' he said solemnly, looking round him, and showing a face 
 very beautifully coloured already, where the whip had fallen upon 
 him, ' never offer to fight a Frenchman.' 
 
 ' Why,' said the Colonel, ' what have we been doing for ten years 
 and more ?' 
 
 ' With cannons and guns it matters nothing ; or with swords and 
 bayonets— I grant you that. But, gentlemen, never offer to fight a 
 Frenchman with cudgel or fists, unless you know his tricks and are 
 acquainted with his devilries.' 
 
 'As for fighting a Frenchman with your fists, that is impossible, 
 because he cannot use them. And as for tricks and devilries, all 
 war consists of them.' 
 
 ' 'Tis the disappointment,' said Tom, ' the disappointment that 
 sticks.' 
 
 ' It will be a devil of a black eye,' said the Colonel. 
 
 'You have a quarrel with a Frenchman,' Tom went on. 'You 
 offer to fight him. What ! can you bestow upon a Frenchman a 
 greater honour than to let him taste the quality of a British fist ? 
 Instead of accepting your offer with gratitude, what does he do? 
 Gentlemen, what does he do ?' 
 
 He looked around for sympathy. 
 
 4
 
 3P THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 1 What did be do, Tom ?' 
 
 ' First, he pretended to accept. Then we began. I own that he 
 took punishment like a man. Took it gamely, gentlemen. Wouldn't 
 give in. We fought, man to man, for half an hour, or thereabouts, 
 and I should hardly like to say how often he kissed the grass. 
 Still, he wouldn't give in, and, as for me, so great was the pleasure 
 I had in thrashing the Frenchman that I didn't care how long he 
 went on.' 
 
 < Well ?' 
 
 ' Well, gentlemen, the last time I knocked him down I thought 
 lie wasn't coming up to time. But he did. He sprang to his feet, 
 jumped into the air like a wild cat, and kicked me — kicked me on 
 the face with his boot so that I fell like a log. When I recovered 
 he was gone.' 
 
 ' That is very odd,' said one. 'Who was the Frenchman, Tom ?' 
 
 'Raymond Arnold, as he calls himself.' 
 
 1 Gentlemen,' said my father, ' here is something we understand 
 Bot. This young gentleman, almost an Englishman, is thoroughly 
 versed in all manly sports. I cannot understand it. Kicked thee, 
 Tom? Kicked thee on the side of thy head? Besides, what quarrel 
 hadst thou with Raymond ?' 
 
 ' Why, Alderman, we need not discuss the question here, if you 
 do not know.' 
 
 ' I do know ; and I will have you to learn, sirrah ' — my father at 
 such moments as this spoke as becomes one who hath sat upon the 
 judge's bench — 'I will have you to learn, sirrah ' — here he shook 
 his forefinger — 'that I will have no meddling in my house- 
 hold.' 
 
 'Very well,' said Tom ; ' then I will fasten another quarrel upon 
 him. Oh, there are plenty of excuses. Kicked me in the head, he 
 did.' 
 
 ' As for the kicking business,' my father resumed, ' I should like 
 to know what Raymond has to say. For, let me tell you, sir, you 
 «ut a very sorry figure. Your eyes are blacked ; there is a mark 
 across your face which looks like the lash of a whip ; and you have 
 been rolled in the mud. This looks as if there had been hard knocks, 
 eertainly, but not as if Raymond had got the worst of it. Land- 
 lord, go first to Madam Arnold's cottage, and ask if Mr. Raymond 
 is there. If he is, tell him, with the compliments of this company, 
 to step here for a few minutes. If he is not, try him at my house, 
 where he mostly spends his evenings.' 
 
 •Bring him, bring him 1' said Tom. 'Kow you shall see what he
 
 TO APS UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE. 51 
 
 ■will say. Kicked me, lie did, both sides of the head. Bring him, 
 bring him !' 
 
 In two or three minutes Raymond came back with the messenger. 
 "Whatever was the severity of the late contest, he showed no signs 
 of punishment in the face, nor were his hands swollen, as happens 
 after a fight, nor were his clothes in any way rumpled or his hair 
 disordered. 
 
 The contrast between the two combatants was indeed most 
 striking. 
 
 'Raymond,' said my father, ' Tom Wilgress, whose face you seem 
 to have battered, is complaining that you do not fight fair.' 
 ' He kicks,' said Tom. 
 
 4 1 do not fight fair ? When have I shown that I do not fight 
 fair ?' 
 
 ' Why,' said my father, ' what have you been doing to him but 
 now ?' 
 
 'Doing to him? — nothing. I have but just left your house, 
 Alderman, where your messenger found me.' 
 'But you have been fighting with Tom.' 
 
 'Don't deny it, man,' said Tom; 'don't wriggle out of it that 
 way.' 
 
 ' I have not been fighting with Tom or with anyone.' 
 ' This,' said Tom, ' is enough to make a man sick.' 
 ' It is strange, gentlemen,' said my father. ' Do you assure us, 
 Raymond, that you have not fought Tom at all this evening?' 
 'Certainly not.' 
 
 'But look at the condition he is in. Can you deny that there 
 has been fighting ?' 
 
 ' It looks as if something had happened to him,' said Raymond. 
 ' As for fighting, I know nothing of it. As for any quarrel, it has 
 been whispered to me that Tom has uttered threats which I dis- 
 regard. But if he wishes to fight I am at his service, with any 
 weapon he chooses — even with fists if he likes.' 
 
 ' He kicks,' said Tom. 'I scorn to fight with a man who kicks. 
 A foul blow !' 
 
 One of the officers asked permission to look at Raymond's fist. 
 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'Mr. Arnold's statement is proved by the 
 condition of his hand. He has not fought ; therefore, Tom, it 
 seems as if the drink had got into thy head. Go home to bed, and 
 to-morrow forget this foolishness.' 
 
 ' Aj- — ay, foolishness, was it ? Well, after this, one may believe 
 anything. Look here, man ' — he seized a candlestick and stood up. 
 
 4—2
 
 52 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 • Do you deny your own handiwork ? Look at this black eye — and 
 this — your own foul blow.' 
 
 4 You are drunk, Tom,' said Raymond. 
 
 4 1 suppose, then, that I have not got a black eye.' 
 
 4 You have two, Tom.' 
 
 Tom looked about for some backing, but found none, and retired, 
 growling and threatening. 
 
 ' He must have been more drunk than he appeared,' said one of 
 the company. ' To-morrow he will have forgotten everything.' 
 
 But he did not, nor was he ever made to believe that he was not 
 fighting Raymond, though the truth was many times told him. 
 
 Pierre related the history of Tom himself as the thing really 
 occurred. But as Tom continued to tell the tale, the Frenchman's 
 leap into the air grew higher and higher, and the strength of that 
 kick more stupendous, and the victorious character of his own 
 fighting the more astonishing. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. 
 
 I HAVE always been truly grateful that the terrible discovery we 
 made concerning Pierre was in mercy deferred until the evening 
 before his departure. It is not in human nature, as you will shortly 
 discover, to wish that it never had been made at all, because, 
 though the discovery overwhelmed an innocent young man with 
 shame and grief, what would afterwards have become of Raymond 
 had the fact not been found out ? 
 
 I love the memory of this brave young man ; I commiserate his 
 end ; there is no one, I am sure, with a heart so stony as not to 
 grieve that so brave a man should come to such an end. But I am 
 forbidden by every consideration of religion to look upon the 
 events which followed as mere matters of chance, seeing to what 
 important issues the discovery led. 
 
 Consider all the circumstances, and when you read what follows, 
 confess that it was a truly dreadful discovery for all of us. First 
 of all, this young soldier owed his life to the nursing of Madam 
 Claire ; next, he attached himself to us, showing the liveliest 
 gratitude and the most sincere affection, although we — that is, those 
 of the Cottage — belonged to the class he had been brought up to 
 hate and suspect, professing a creed which he had been taught to-
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. 53 
 
 despise. In Madam he found a countrywoman with whom he could 
 talk the language of his childhood, and hear over again the old 
 stories of the Provence peasants. In her house, small though it 
 was, he could escape from the rude companionship of the Castle, 
 where among the prisoners there was nothing but gambling, betting, 
 quarrelling, and drinking all day long. In her society — may I not 
 say in mine also ? — he enjoyed, for the first time in his life, the 
 society of gentlewomen. With Madam, he learned that a woman 
 may be a gentlewoman, and yet not desire to trample on the poor, 
 just as madam learned that a man may be a Republican and yet not 
 be a tiger. 
 
 Perhaps, Lad he stayed longer with us, he would have discovered 
 that the Christian religion he had been taught to deride had some- 
 thing to be said for it. Moreover, in Raymond he found one of his 
 own age whom he loved, although they differed in almost every 
 principle of government and of conduct. It was good for us to 
 h?.ve this young man with us daily ; even the poor distracted 
 woman grew to look for him, and talked with her husband in 
 oracles — so we learned afterwards to consider them — about him. 
 If it was good for us, it was surely good for him. Consider next, 
 that, like most men, he regarded his father with respect ; not, 
 perhaps, the respect with which Raymond remembered his brave 
 and loyal father, but with that respect which belongs to a man of 
 honourable record, though one of the humbler class. 
 
 ' Our orders have come,' he came to tell us. ' To-morrow we 
 embark ; the day after to-morrow we shall be in France again. 
 After throe years — well, there is not much changed, I suppose. 
 The streets will be the same and the barracks the same. I shall 
 find some of my old comrades left, I dare say. Happy fellows 1 
 They have gone up the ladder while I sit still.' 
 
 ' Your turn will come next, Pierre.' 
 
 1 This house, at least, I can never forget, nor the ladies who have 
 shown so much kindness to a prisoner.' 
 
 ' To our compatriot, Pierre,' said Madam. 
 
 ' Send us letters sometimes,' I said. ' Let us follow your promo- 
 tion, Pierre ; let us know when you distinguish yourself.' 
 
 He laughed ; but his eyes flashed. One could understand that 
 he thought continually of getting an opportunity of distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 * Yes,' he said. ' If I get a chance ; if I am so happy as to dc 
 anything worthy to be recorded, I will write to you.' 
 
 ' In two days you will be in France. The country which we are
 
 54 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 always fighting is so near, and yet it seems so far off. Why must 
 we fight with France so continually ?' 
 
 ' How can you ask, Miss Molly? We respect and love each other 
 so much that we do our best to maintain in each country the race 
 of soldiers, without whom either would quickly become a race of 
 slaves, so as to bring out all the virtues — courage, patriotism, en- 
 durance, invention and contrivances, watchfulness, obedience — 
 everything. War turns a country lad into a hero ; it teaches 
 honour, good manners, and self-denial ; it turns men of the same 
 country into brothers, and makes them respect men of another 
 country. Without war, what would become of the arts? Without 
 war we should all be content to sit down, make love, eat and 
 drink.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Pierre,' I said, laughing. 
 
 Then, without thinking anything, I put the questions which led 
 to the fatal discovery. 
 
 ' What shall you do when you land, Pierre ?' 
 1 First,' he said, ' I must make my way to rejoin my regiment, 
 wherever it may be, and report myself. As soon as I have done 
 that I shall ask for leave, and then I shall go to see my father.' 
 
 I suppose it was not a very wonderful thing that we had never 
 yet learned from him where his father lived and what was his 
 calling. In the same way Pierre had not learned from any of us 
 all the history of the family. He knew that Raymond's father 
 was one of those who were shot at Toulon, after the taking of the 
 town, and he knew that these two ladies with Raymond had been 
 rescued from the flames of the burning city. That, I suppose, was 
 all he knew. 
 
 ' Where does he live, your father ?' 
 
 ' My father lives now on his estate. He bought it when it was 
 confiscated as the property of a ci-devant. The house, I believe, 
 was nearly destroyed by the Revolutionists. I have never seen it, 
 because I was at school until, at fifteen, I was drafted into the 
 army. I have often wondered how he got the money to buy the 
 estate, because we were always so poor that sometimes there was 
 not money enough for food.' 
 • What was his calling ?' 
 
 ' I hardly know. He is an ingenious man, who knows every- 
 thing. He is a poet, and used to write songs and sing them himself 
 in the cafe for money. Once he wrote an opera, music and all, 
 which was played at the theatre. Sometimes he taught music, 
 and sometimes dancing ; sometimes he acted. Whatever he did,
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. 55 
 
 we were always just as poor — nothing made any difference. He 
 was a son of the people, and he taught me from the first to hate the 
 aristocrats and the Church.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Madam. ' It is now two generations since that educa- 
 tion was begun. Fatal are its fruits.' 
 
 ' Although he was so good an actor and singer, and could make 
 people laugh, my father was not a happy man. As long as I can 
 remember he was gloomy. Always he seemed to be brooding over 
 things which ha-ve been set right now — the privileges of the 
 nobility and the oppression of the people. When the Revolution 
 came he was the first to rejoice. Ah ! those were wonderful 
 times.' 
 
 ' They were truly wonderful,' said Madam. 
 
 'It was in 1791, the year before I went into the ranks, that he 
 bought the estate. By what means he procured the money I 
 know not. To be sure, they were cheap ; the estates of the 
 ci-devants.' 
 
 ' Where is your father's estate ?' asked Madam. 
 
 * There was a great town-house as well,' Pierre went on. ' Ma 
 foi ! It was not cheerful in that town-house, for the mob had 
 destroyed all the furniture, and we had no money to buy more. 
 The rooms were large, and at night were full of noises— rats, I 
 suppose ; ghosts, perhaps. My father used to wander about the 
 dark rooms, and, naturally, this made him grow more gloomy. All 
 his old friends had gone, I know not where. He seemed left quite 
 alone. Then I was drawn for the army, aud I have not seen my 
 father since.' 
 
 ' Where is the estate, Pierre ?' asked Madam Claire again. 
 
 ' It belonged to a family of tyrants. They had oppressed the 
 country for a thousand years.' 
 
 'I should like to know the name of these tyrants,' said Madam. 
 
 Pierre laughed. 
 
 ' My father always said so. Pardon me, ma mere. I have 
 learned that he used to talk with extravagance ; no doubt they 
 were not tyrants at all. But they were Nobles — oh ! of the noblest. 
 The estate lies on the banks of the river Durance. There was & 
 great Chateau there formerly ; but it is now destroyed.' 
 
 ' On the Durance ?' 
 
 Madam sat upright full of interest. 
 
 1 Yes ; not many leagues from Aix, in Provence. There is a 
 village beside the Chateau called Eyragues.' 
 
 This reply was like a shower of rain from a clear sky.
 
 $6 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 ' Eyragues ! Eyragues !' cried Madam, dropping her work. 
 •There is only one Chateau d'Eyragues.' 
 
 ' They are talking, my dear,' said the poor mad lady to the 
 spirit of her husband, ' of the Chateau — our Chateau of Eyragues. 
 We shall go there again soon, shall we not ? We spent many 
 happy years at Eyragues. Well, my friend, if you wish it, 
 Raymond shall go.' 
 
 ' Young man !' Madam Claire's hands were trembling, her face 
 flushed, and her voice agitated. ' I heard — but that cannot be — it 
 
 cannot be ! Yet I heard Young man, tell me who was your 
 
 father ? Why did he buy the place ?' 
 
 ' My father is what I have said — a man of the people, who hates 
 aristos, Kings and priests. I know not why he bought it. The 
 Chateau Avas destroyed by the people of Aix soon after the taking 
 of Toulon, and the land was sold to the highest bidder.' 
 
 ' Gavotte,' said Madam. ' I know not any Gavotte. Who could 
 he be ? There was no Gavotte in the village.' 
 
 ' It is droll,' said Pierre, laughing. ' His name was not Gavotte 
 at all. It was Leroy — Louis Leroy. They made him change it in 
 the times when they were furiously Republican. Louis Leroy — 
 that could not be endured ; so they called him Scipio, Cato, or 
 some such nonsense — it was their way in those days — and gave him 
 the surname of Gavotte, which he still keeps.' 
 
 ' Oh !' Madam Claire sank back in her chair. ' This is none other 
 than the doing of Heaven itself,' she murmured, gazing upon the 
 young man, who looked astonished, as well he might. 
 
 ' Much more blood, my dear friend ?' It was the voice of the 
 Countess, talking with her dead husband. ' You say that there 
 must be much more blood ? It is terrible. But not again the 
 blood of the innocent.' 
 
 ' This is the hand of God,' said Madam Claire again. 
 
 ' Why, ma mere ' Pierre began. 
 
 1 Truly the hand of God.' 
 
 How can I describe the transformation of this meek, resigned, 
 and patient nun into an inspired prophetess ? Madam Claire sat 
 upright, her eyes gazing before her as if she saw what we could not 
 see. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and with clasped hands she 
 spoke words which, she declared afterwards, were put into her 
 mouth. 
 
 ' Unhappy boy !' she began. ' Oh, you know not — you have 
 never known — what your father did. But the people of Aix 
 knew ; and even the Revolutionists — his friends — fell from him.
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. 57 
 
 There is not a man in the town fallen so low as to sit in his 
 company, or to speak with him. Learn the shameful story, though 
 the knowledge fill your heart with sorrow and even your head with 
 shame. His name is Louis Leroy — named Louis by his father, but 
 Leroy was the name of his mother. His father was the seigneur 
 of that Chateau which is now his own ; and you — you who have 
 been taught to hate your forefathers — you are that seigneur's 
 grandson. I remember your father, he was a boy who refused to 
 work ; they sent him away from the village, and he went to Aix, 
 where he lived upon his wits and upon the money his half-brother 
 would give him. Yes, his half-brother, who was none other than 
 my murdered brother. And who murdered him ? Unhappy man ! 
 it was your father. Oh, woe — woe — woe to Cain ! It was your 
 father who denounced his own brother at Toulon. But for him he 
 might have escaped. Louis Leroy, whom my brother had be- 
 friended, spoke the word that sent him to his death, and now sits, 
 his brother's blood upon his hands, in the place which he has 
 bought for himself. Your father — alas, your father !' 
 
 ' Madam,' I cried, ' for mercy's sake, spare him 1' for the young 
 man's face was terrible to behold. 
 
 She swayed backwards and forwards, and I thought that she would 
 have fallen. 
 
 'The vengeance of Heaven never fails,' she said. 'For many 
 years have I looked for news of this man. Once — twice — I knew 
 not how, he has been struck. A third and more terrible blow will 
 fall upon him — through his son — but I know not how. Yet he has 
 done nothing — this poor boy — he is innocent ; he knows nothing ; 
 and yet— and yet — oh, Molly, I am constrained to speak.' 
 
 ' Ob, Madam [' 
 
 ' Through his son — through his son Oh, unhappy man I 
 
 unhappy son 1' 
 
 'Madam, for mercy's sake, say something to console him.' 
 
 She made no reply, her eyes still gazing upon something which 
 we saw not. 
 
 Then she suddenly became again herself — soft -eyed, gentle — 
 and tears ran down her cheeks. 
 
 ' Pierre !' she said, holding out her hands. But he shrank back. 
 ' My son whom I love ; for whom I have prayed. Oh, Pierre, 
 what is it that you have told us ?' It seemed as if she knew not 
 what she had said. ' Oh, I understand now the resemblance. You 
 are Kaymond's cousin.' 
 
 ' My father,' Pierre said presently. ' My father — a murderer ?'
 
 58 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 ' Alas, it is true !' 
 
 'My father !' 
 
 ' It is true, Pierre. Ask me no more. "What ! Did no one ever 
 tell you of the Arnaults ? Yet you have lived in our house at 
 Aix— the old house, with the pilasters outside, and the carved 
 woodwork within, and everywhere the arms of the Arnaults 
 carved and painted.' 
 
 * Yes ; I know of these ; but I knew not that you — that Ray- 
 mond I never thought that you were so great a family. I 
 
 had no suspicion of my father's birth. I knew nothing. I was 
 told that the Arnaults were tyrants who had committed detest- 
 able crimes. That was the way they talked in those days. All 
 the Nobles had committed detestable crimes.' 
 
 ' Alas ! our crimes — what were they ? Oh, Pierre, I would to 
 Heaven that you had gone away before this dreadful thing had 
 been discovered. I wou'.d to Heaven that you had never found it 
 out at all, and so lived out your life in happy ignorance of this 
 shameful story. There are things which Heaven will not suffer to 
 be concealed. It is through me that you have found out the 
 truth ; forgive me, Pierre. Let us forgive each other and pray ; 
 
 oh, you cannot pray, child of the Revolution ! Pierre ' he was 
 
 so overwhelmed with shame, his cheek flushed, his lip quivering, 
 his head bent, that she was filled with pity. ' Let us console each 
 other. After the town was taken, I think my brother might have 
 been killed, whether any witnesses were forced to speak against 
 him or not. Yes, the evidence mattered little ; he was the Comte 
 d'Eyragues ; he was one of those who brought the British troops 
 into the city ; yes, he must have been condemned.' 
 
 ' But my father denounced him. And here ' he pointed to 
 
 the Countess. 
 
 ' She is the victim of that dreadful night which no one can ever 
 forget who passed through it, and of the suspense when we waited 
 anxiously for news of her husband, but heard none till we 
 landed at Portsmouth and learned the truth.' 
 
 At this moment Raymond opened the door and burst into the 
 room. 
 
 4 Courage, Pierre !' he cried joyously, ' to-morrow you shall leave 
 your prison. I wish thee joy, brother, promotion, and good 
 fortune. When we go back to our own, if ever we do, I promise 
 thee a hearty welcome, if it be only among the ruins of our old 
 house.' 
 
 Pierre made no reply.
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. 59 
 
 1 You will write to me, will you not ? That is agreed. Tell rue 
 now everything is changed, and if it is true that there are no 
 longer any men left to till the fields, but the women must do all 
 the work. If you go to Aix, go and look for our house— everybody 
 knows the Hotel Arnault — tell me if it still stands.' 
 
 Still Pierre made no reply. 
 
 1 Molly, have you nothing to give him, that he may remember 
 you by ? You must find a keepsake for him. Pierre, it is the 
 English custom for friends when they part to drink together. We 
 will conform to the English custom.' 
 
 Thus far he talked without observing how Pierre stood, with 
 hanging head, his eyes dropped, his cheek burning, the very 
 picture and effigy cf shame. Raymond laid a hand upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Come, comrade, let us two crack a bottle as the English 
 use ' 
 
 But Pierre shrank away from him. 
 
 ' Do not touch me,' he cried, ' do not dare to touch me. I am a 
 man accursed.' 
 
 He seized his hat and rushed away. 
 
 ' Why,' asked Raymond, in astonishment, ' what ails Pierre ?' 
 
 ' We spoke,' said Madam Claire quietly, ' of the Revolution io 
 which his father took a part, and we have shamed him.' 
 
 ' They spoke,' echoed the mad woman, ' of the Revolution. He 
 is a child of the Revolution, which devours everything, even her 
 own children.' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE OP THE PRISONERS. 
 
 Twice has it been my lot to witness the general departure of 
 prisoners after the signing of peace between Great Britain and 
 France, namely, in the year 1802 and the year 1814. As for their 
 arrival, it seems now as if they were being brought in every day 
 for nearly two-and-twenty years, so long, with the brief interval 
 of one year, did this contest rage. Besides the general discharge 
 there was a constant exchange of prisoners — chiefly, I believe, 
 those who were sick and disabled, from serving again — by cartel. 
 A general discharge is quite another thing ; for, immediately 
 before such an event, the prison rules are relaxed, the prison 
 becomes transformed into a palace of joy. There is nothing all
 
 60 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 day long, except singing, dancing, and drinking ; one would 
 believe, to witness these extravagant rejoicings of the soldiers and 
 sailors, that they were released for ever from all hardships of toil 
 and service, and that the Reign of Plentj', Leisure, and Peace was 
 immediately to begin. 
 
 ' But Liberty,' said Raymond, ' is the dearest of all man's rights ; 
 and, besides, at home they have their wives and sweethearts. 
 Love, Molly, is not confined to this island of Great Britain.' 
 
 Those who made the greatest show of rejoicing were certainly 
 the French ; the Spaniards, as they took their imprisonment 
 sullenly, received the news of their release without outward 
 emotion. No one, it is certain, can seriously wish to return to a 
 country where they have the Inquisition. The Dutch, of whom 
 many, as I have said, had volunteered for British service, heard 
 the news of the peace with national phlegm ; the poor negroes, 
 most of whom were dead and the rest fallen into a kind of stupid 
 apathy, were unaffected ; the Vendean privateers with terror, 
 thinking that General Hoche was still in their midst, ready to 
 shoot them down. 
 
 The embarkation of so many prisoners was not effected in a 
 single day. Some were sent across to Dunquerque ; some — those 
 from Portsmouth and Porchester — to Dieppe ; those from Ply- 
 mouth — some of whom were taken across in coasters — to Havre. 
 
 In the morning of the embarkation the narrow beach was 
 crowded with those who came, like ourselves, to bid farewell, for 
 we were not the only people who had friends among the prisoners. 
 They came from Fareham, from the country round Southwick, 
 from Cosham, from Titchbrook, and from Portsmouth and Gos- 
 port. There were sea-captains among them, come to see once 
 more the prisoners they had made ; with them were army officers, 
 country squires, and young fellows, the country Jessamys, like my 
 cousin Tom, who had made friends among the French officers at 
 horse-races, over the punchbowl, and at the cockpit. They came 
 riding, brave in Hessian boots and padded shoulders. Among 
 them were many ladies, and I think it is true, as was then alleged, 
 that many a sore heart was left behind when the young French 
 officers were released. But only to see the heartiness of the 
 farewells, the happiness of those who went away, and the con- 
 gratulations of those who sent them away, and how they shook 
 hands, and came back, and then again shook hands, and swore to 
 see each other again — 'twould have moved the stoniest heart ! 
 Who would have thought that yonder handsome officer, gallant in
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF THE PRISONERS. 61 
 
 cocked hat, blue coat, and -white pantaloons, amid the group of 
 English ladies, to ■whom he was bidding farewell, -was their 
 hereditary enemy? Or who would believe that yonder gray- 
 headed veteran, clasping the hand of a jovial Hampshire squire, 
 had fought all his life against Great Britain? Or, again, could 
 that little company, who had so often met at the cockpit, or at the 
 bull-baiting, and who now were drinking together before they 
 separated (my cousin Tom was one), become again deadly enemies ? 
 Alas! why should men fight when, if they would but be just to others 
 and to themselves, there would be no need of any wars at all ? 
 Lastly, there were the rank and file, the privates and sailors, 
 drinking about in friendship with our honest militiamen, as if the 
 Reign of Peace was already come, instead of a short respite only. 
 
 I suppose there was never seen so various a collection of 
 uniforms on this beach. Among them were the sailors of France, 
 Holland, and Spain, alike with differences. Dress them exactly 
 alike, if you will, but surely no one would ever take a Frenchman 
 for a Hollander, or a Spaniard for a Frenchman. I know not what 
 are the various uniforms of the Republican army, but here were 
 grenadier hats of bearskin, round beavers, hats with the red cock- 
 ade, cocked hats with gold lace, caps with a peak and high feather, 
 the old three-corner hats, the common round hat with a red plume, 
 the brass helmet, the red Republican cap, the blue thread cap, and 
 a dozen others. And as for the coats and facings, they were of 
 all colours, but mostly they seemed blue with drab facings. The 
 French naval officers, in their blue jackets, red waistcoats, and 
 blue pantaloons, looked more like soldiers than sailors. Some of 
 the officers had been prisoners for five or six years, so that their 
 uniform coats were worn threadbare, or even ragged, their 
 epaulettes and gold lace tarnished, and their crimson seams faded. 
 Yet they made a gallant show, and but for the absence of their 
 swords looked as if they were dressed for a review. The common 
 sort were barefoot — which was common in the Republican armies 
 — and is no hardship to sailors. Some of them, having quite worn 
 out their own clothes, wore the yellow suit provided by the 
 British Government for the foreign prisoners. 
 
 Among the prisoners were their two priests. They, at least, 
 were well pleased that the Reign of Atheism was over, and religion 
 was once more established according to the will of the Pope. 
 
 Now, as we passed through the throng, the men all parted right 
 and left, Madam saying a last word now to one and now to another 
 of her friends, while even those who scoffed the loudest at religion,
 
 (a THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 paid the lady the respect due to her virtues. She was an aristo, 
 and they were citizens, equal, and of common brotherhood — at 
 least, they said so : she a Christian and they atheists ; she a 
 Royalist, and they Republicans ; yet not one among them but 
 regarded her with gratitude. 
 
 She spoke to a young fellow in the dress of a common sailor, 
 ■who looked as if he belonged to a better class, saying a few words 
 of good wishes. 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied bitterly, ' I go home. "When last I saw the 
 house it was in flames, when last I saw my father he was being 
 dragged away to be shot ; my mother and sisters were guillotined 
 in the Terror, and I escaped by going on board a privateer. What 
 shall I find in the new France of which they speak so much ? 
 They have left off murdering us ; I suppose they will even suffer 
 me to carry a musket in the ranks.' 
 
 Apart from the groups of those who drank, and those who ex- 
 changed farewells, we found Pierre standing alone with gloomy 
 looks. 
 
 ' My son,' said Madam, ' we have come to bid you farewell.' 
 
 He raised his eyes heavily, but dropped them again. The sight 
 of Madam was like the stroke of a whip. 
 
 ' It is not so bad for you to look upon me as for me to hear your 
 voice,' he said. 
 
 ' Pierre, my son ' — she held out her hand, but he refused to take 
 it, not rudely, but as one who is unworthy — ' Pierre, be patient. 
 As for what has happened, I was constrained to tell you. Oh, I 
 could not choose but tell you. Yet it was no sin or fault of yours, 
 poor boy ! If any disaster befall you by act of God, accept it with 
 resignation. It is for the sin of another. Count it as an atone- 
 ment—for him. So if sufferings come to you — what do I say ? 
 Alas ! I must be a prophetess, my son, because I know — yes, I 
 know — that disaster will fall upon you, but I know not of what 
 kind. Yet be assured that there is nothing ordered by Providence 
 which can hurt your soul.' 
 
 'My soul !' cried Pierre impetuously. 'My soul! What is it, 
 my soul ?' He laughed in his Republican infidelity. ' What is it, 
 and where is it ? It is my life that is ruined, do you understand ? 
 You have taken away my honour — my pride — and my ambition. 
 You have taken all that I had, and you bid me think of my soul.' 
 
 ' When you go to the South — to Aix — you will see your father, 
 Pierre. Fail not, I charge you, fail not to tell him that we have 
 forgiven — yes, three of us have forgiven— the dead man, and tho
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF THE PRISONERS. 63 
 
 mad woman, and the religicuse — and the fourth — the son — does 
 not know. Say that we all forgive him, and, for the sake of his 
 son, we pray for him.' 
 
 Then Pierre, in the presence of the whole multitude — no British 
 soldier would have done such a thing — fell upon his knees and 
 kissed Madam's hands. When he rose his eyes were full of tears. 
 
 'Pierre,' I said, 'remember you have promised to send us a 
 letter. Write to me, Pierre, if not to Raymond, will you not ?' 
 
 He shook his head sadly. 
 
 'If,' he said, ' there should happen anything worth telling you, 
 anything by which you could think of me with pity as well as for- 
 giveness, I would write.' 
 
 As you will hear presently, he kept this promise in the end. 
 
 Truly it was sorrowful to see the young man, so full of shame, 
 who, but the day before, had been so full of joy and pride. Happy 
 indeed is he whose father has lived an honourable life ! It is 
 better to be the son of a good man than the son of a rich man. 
 
 ' I have no right,' he said, ' to ask of you the least thing.' 
 
 ' Ask what you please, Pierre.' 
 
 ' Then, if it be possible, let not Raymond know. We have been 
 friends, we have talked and laughed together, I have accepted from 
 him a thousand gifts ; let him not know, if it can be avoided, that 
 the man who — who now lives at Chateau d'Eyragues is my father.' 
 
 ' We will not tell him. Raymond fhall learn nothing from us 
 that will trouble his friendship for you, Pierre.' 
 
 We kept our promise, but, had we broken it, how much misery 
 we should have spared Raymond ! how different would have been 
 the lot of Pierre ! 
 
 ' We will never tell him,' I repeated. ' Oh, Pierre ! We are so 
 sorry— so sorry. Forget yesterday evening, and remember only 
 the happy days you have spent with Raymond and with me.' 
 
 But then his turn came. The great ships' launches were drawn 
 up, each rowed by a dozen sailors, and commanded by a midship- 
 man, who steered. The last time these launches came up the 
 harbour, in each boat stood a dozen marines, stationed in the bow 
 and stern, armed with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets, while 
 every sailor had his cutlass, and the boat was crammed with 
 prisoners gloom}' and downcast. Now the only arms on board con- 
 sisted of the midshipman's dirk ; there were no marines, the sailors 
 had no cutlasses, and they hailed the prisoners with cheers. 
 
 Pierre pressed my hand, and once more kissed Madam's finders. 
 Then he took his place. The rest of the boatload showed every
 
 64 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 outward sign of rejoicing ; Pierre alone sat in his place with hanging 
 head. 
 
 1 They are gone,' said my cousin Tom. He had heen drinking, 
 and his face was red. ' They are gone. Well, there were good 
 men and true among them. "Would that the rest of their nation 
 would follow ! especially all — I say — who kick when they fight. 
 Well — every man gets his turn.' 
 
 The launches kept coming and going day after day until the last 
 prisoner was taken off the beach. Then the garrison was left in the 
 Castle by itself. 
 
 When the militia regiments were presently disbanded and sent 
 home, the Castle was quite empty. Then they sent boats from the 
 Dockyard with men, who carried away the hammocks and the 
 furniture, such as it was ; took down the wooden buildings, and 
 carried away the timber ; pulled down the canteen, the blacksmiths' 
 and carpenters' shops, burned the rubbish left behind by the 
 prisoners, and left the Castle empty and deserted. We might 
 climb the stairs of the keep to the top, passing all the silent 
 chambers, where so many of them had slept ; the cbapel was 
 stripped of its altar ; the stoves were taken out of the kitchens ; and 
 the grass began to grow again in the court, which had been their 
 place of resort and exercise. There were no traces left of the 
 French occupants, except the names that they had carved on the 
 stones, the half-finished carvings in wood and bone which they left 
 behind, and the rude tools which they had used. Once I found 
 lying rusted in a dark chamber one of the daggers which they made 
 for themselves with a file, sharpened and pointed, stuck in a piece 
 of wood. Strange it was at first to wander in those empty courts, 
 and to think of the monotonous time which the cruel war imposed 
 upon those poor fellows. 
 
 ' They are gone,' said Raymond. ' Well, let us hope that every 
 man will find his mistress waiting faithfully for him. As for 
 Pierre, who certainly had a bee in his bonnet, his only mistress is 
 Madame la Guerre. Ho loved no other. She is horribly old ; 
 covered with scars, hacked about with sword and spear, and riddled 
 with shot. Yet he loves her. She is dressed in regimental flags, 
 she gives her lovers crowns of laurel, which cost her nothing, titles 
 which she invents, and a promise of immortality which she means 
 to break. Poor Pierre ! We shall never see him again, but wo 
 may hear of him.'
 
 HE CANNOT CHOOSE BUT GO. 65 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IIE CANNOT CnOOSE BUT GO. 
 
 Thus began the peace, which it was hoped would be lasting, but which 
 came to an end after a short twelve months. Porchester became 
 once more the village out of the way, standing in no high-road, 
 without travellers or stage-coaches. In its quiet streets there were 
 no longer heard the voices of the soldiers at the tavern, or those of 
 the prisoners on parole, or the nightly watch. There is never a 
 hearty welcome to peace from those who prosper by war. I confess 
 that when the boat came back with half its contents unsold, one 
 was tempted to lament, with Sally, that war could not go on for 
 ever. As for the towns of Portsmouth, Portsea, and Gosport, their 
 condition threatened to become deplorable, because the dockyard 
 was reduced, the militia sent home, and many thousands of sailors 
 paid off. It has been said, by those who know Portsmouth well, 
 that the petition, every Sunday morning, for peace in our time, 
 meets with a response which is cold and without heart. 
 
 Now, however, all the talk was concerning France open to 
 travellers after the years of Republican government. Not only did 
 the prisoners go back, but the emigres themselves, thinking that, 
 although their estates were gone and their rank had no longer any 
 value, it was better to live in one's native land than on a strange 
 soil, began to flock back in great numbers. Great Britain had 
 abandoned their cause; why should they any more stand apart from, 
 their own people ? They went back trembling, lest they should 
 find the guillotine erected to greet their return. But times had 
 changed. The people had found out that even though there wei». 
 neither kings nor nobles, their lives were not a whit easier an.-, 
 their work just as tedious. But the France to which they returned, 
 was very different from the France in which they had grown up, 
 and the old order was clean gone with the old ideas. 
 
 Not only did the emigres return, but crowds of English travellers 
 flocked across the Channel to see Paris, which had been closed to 
 them for ten years. They met, we are told, a most gracious 
 welcome from the innkeepers, tradesmen, and all those with whom 
 they spent their money. 
 
 Is it, then, wonderful that Raymond should grow restless, thus 
 hearing continually of the country which, however much wo 
 might pretend to call him an Englishman, was really his native 
 land? 
 
 5
 
 £6 THE IIOL Y ROSE. 
 
 1 Molly,' he said, ' I am drawn and dragged as if by strong ropes 
 towards the country. I feel that I must go across the Channel, 
 even if I have to row myself over in an open boat and walk bare- 
 foot all the way to Paris. I must see Paris. I must see this brave 
 army which hath overrun Europe.' 
 
 ' But, Raymond, it would cost a great sum of money. 1 
 
 'Yes, Molly,' — his face fell — 'more money than we possess; 
 therefore, I fear I must renounce the idea. Molly,' there were 
 times when Raymond flashed into fire, and showed that a gentle 
 exterior might cover a sleeping volcano, 'Molly, this village suits 
 thy tender and gentle heart, but it is a poor life, only to endure the 
 days that follow. The lot of Pierre, though the end may be a 
 corpse with a bullet through the heart, seems sometimes better 
 than this.' 
 
 This was no passing fancy or whim, but the desire grew upon 
 him daily to see his native country, insomuch that he began to take 
 little interest in anything else, and would be always reading or 
 talking about Prance. It has been wisely observed of all £migr£s 
 that in secret they rejoiced at the wonderful triumphs of the 
 Prench arms under Buonaparte — successes far surpassing any other 
 In history, even under the great Tureune himself. 
 
 In a word, nothing would serve but that Raymond must go. Ha 
 had but little money, and it was necessary that he should have 
 enough for his expenses, though he was to travel cheaply. There- 
 fore, the usual expedient was resorted to, and the rest of the small 
 jewels taken from the Holy Rose. 
 
 He left us. 
 
 * There is no danger,' I said to Madam Claire. ' The country is 
 peaceful, and he will be as safe as with us at home.' 
 
 ' I know not, child,' she replied. ' When I think of France, I see 
 nothing but maddened mobs rushing about the streets, bearing on 
 their pikes the heads of innocent women and loyal men. Yes — yes 
 — I know. All that is over. Yet I remember it.' 
 
 ' The First Consul has turned all these mobs into soldiers.' 
 
 'And there is the man Gavotte. Suppose Raymond should fall 
 into his hands.' 
 
 ' "Why, Prance is large. It is not likely that they will meet. And 
 the man could not harm Raymond if he wished.' 
 
 ' My dear,' she said, pointing to the Holy Rose, stripped and 
 bare, ' all the jewels are now gone. There is nothing left but the 
 trunk and the dead branches.' 
 
 He travelled with a passport which described him as Raymond
 
 RA YMOND'S JO URNE Y. 67 
 
 Arnold, British subject, and artist by profession. Had we carefully 
 devised beforehand the method which would be most likely to lead 
 to his destruction, we could not have hit upon a better plan. For, 
 while France was most suspicious of British subjects, the passport 
 described him as one, it concealed his nationality, altered his name, 
 and gave him the profession which would most readily lend colour 
 to suspicion, and support to the most groundless charges. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Raymond's journey. 
 
 So Raymond left us, and for my own part I had no fears, none at 
 all. Why should there be dangers in France more than in England ? 
 In both countries there are thieves, murderers, and footpads. In 
 both there are honest men. Those who consort with honest men 
 do not generally encounter rogues. Raymond was not one of those 
 who put themselves willingly in company where rogues are mostly 
 found. "We had letters from him. First a letter from Paris. He 
 had seen the First Consul at a review of troops. ' He was, after 
 all, only a little man,' Raymond wrote ; 'but he wore in his face the 
 air of one accustomed to command.' At this time he was little 
 more than thirty years of age, yet the foremost man in all Europe. 
 'Molly,' Raymond said, 'I confess that my heart glowed with 
 admiration at the sight of this great commander and that of the 
 brave troops whom he hath led to so many victories. They are 
 not tall men, as you already know from the sight of the prisoners ; 
 but they are full of spirit, and their marching is quicker than that 
 of our own — the British troops. I forget not that here I am an 
 Englishman travelling as a subject of His Majesty King George. I 
 am staying at an hotel in the Rue St. Honore, one of the principal 
 streets in the town. The place is full of English visitors, and we 
 all go about with our mouths wide open, looking at the wonders of 
 Paris. I shall have plenty to tell you, dear, in the winter evenings. 
 I have seen the place where the Bastille stood, and the great 
 cathedrals of Notre Bame and St. Denis, and the palaces of the 
 Louvre and Yersailles ; above all, I have seen the piison of the 
 Queen. The people are very lively and fond of spectacles and 
 theatres, fairs and noise. I find that my French is antiquated, and 
 there are many words and idioms used which are strange to me. 
 But th6 Parisians talk a language of their own, which changes 
 
 5—2
 
 68 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 from day to day, and is always full of little terms and illusions-, 
 which no stranger or provincial can understand. Last night I went 
 to the Theatre des Varietes to hear a Vaudeville which contained a 
 hundred good things, all of which I lost from not understanding 
 the talk of the day. The ingenious author of the piece was this 
 morning shown to me at a cafe. This happy man, who can make a 
 whole theatre full of people laugh and forget their troubles, is 
 himself one who is always laughing and singing.' 
 
 If I refrain from copying more of Raymond's letters, you must 
 not suppose that they were short, or that they contained nothing 
 but his adventures and observations. They were long letters, 
 delightful to read, only there were some passages which in reading 
 them aloud I was compelled to pass on in silence, because they 
 were meant for no ear but mine. The things which a lover 
 whispers to his sweetheart must not be told to anyone, though, 
 indeed, T suppose all men say much the same things, since our 
 language contains no more than a dozen words of endearment, so 
 that they have no choice. Now, after Raymond had been in Paris 
 about three weeks, he thought that he must begin his journey 
 south. 
 
 He travelled by the stage-coach, which in France is called a dili- 
 gence ; it is much slower than our flying coaches, while the road3 
 are much worse than ours, being not only narrow, but also rendered 
 dangerous by the deep ruts made by the heavy waggons. Before 
 the Revolution they were kept in repair by forced labour. Tho 
 roads being so bad, it is not wonderful that people travel no more 
 than they are obliged. The diligence is, however, cheap, and as its 
 progress is slow, one can see a good deal on the way. Thus Ray- 
 mond saw the Palace of Fontainebleau, formerly inhabited by tho 
 Kings of France ; he visited also the old city of Dijon, once the 
 capital of Burgundy ; the city of Lyons, which was destroyed by 
 the Revolutionary army a little before they took Toulon, and many 
 other places, all of which are set down in the map of France, which 
 we now keep to show the children how great a traveller their father 
 has been. He also made many drawings on the way, some of the 
 women in their white caps, some of the peasants, some of churches 
 and castles, but all these drawings were lost by an unexpected 
 event, which I have presently to tell you. 
 
 At Lyons he left the stage-coach and took passage on one of the 
 boats which go down the Rhone, and are called water coaches. 
 They are crowded with people, and one sleeps on board, but the 
 cabins are close, and there is not room for all to lie. Raymond
 
 RA YMOND'S JO URNE Y. 69 
 
 found, however, that this mode of travel was vastly more pleasant 
 than the coach with the dust and the noise. This journey ter- 
 minated at a place called Aries, from which he wrote to me. 
 
 'I am at last,' he said, 'in my own country, among the people 
 who use the language of my childhood. It is strange to hear them 
 all talkirjg as we love to talk in our cottage at Porchester. One 
 Beems back in England again. The people think it strange that an 
 Englishman should know their tongue. I told them that I knew 
 an English girl who knows the language and can speak it as well 
 as myself. They are friendly to me, though they have the reputa- 
 tion of being quick-tempered and ready to strike. We stayed an 
 hour or two at Avignon, where is an old broken bridge over the 
 river, and in the town there are many remains of antiquity, with 
 stone walls, and a great building once the palace of the Pope. At 
 the town of Aries, where I write, there are Roman buildings ; a 
 vast circus all of stone, where they used to have fights of gladiators, 
 and where the people used to throng in order to witness the torture 
 of Christian martyrs. . . . My dear, I am now within two days' 
 journey of my birthplace. The nearer I draw, the more dearly do 
 I remember it. The Chateau d'Eyragues stands upon a low cliff 
 rising above the river Durance, which is wide and shallow, and 
 subject to sudden floods. It is a large white house, with an ancient 
 square tower at one end. The windows, which are small and high, 
 are provided with green jalousies to keep out the sun. There is a 
 broad veranda in front of the house ; on one side is a garden, and 
 on the other side a farmyard, with turkeys, and fowls, and geese ; 
 here are also the dogs and the stables, and here is a great pigeon- 
 house, with hundreds of pigeons flying about. It is the privilege 
 of the Seigneur to keep pigeons, which eat up the corn of the 
 farmers. Overhead is a sky always blue ; the hills are bare and 
 treeless ; there are groves of gray olives, and the fields, which for 
 the greater part of the year are dry and bare, are protected from 
 the cold mistral wind by a kind of screen made of reeds. There 
 are vines in the fields, and there are groves of mulberry-trees 
 planted for the sake of the silkworms. It is, I confess, a country 
 which few love save those who are born in it. The people are 
 passionate, jealous, and headstrong ; they do nothing in cold blood ; 
 they hat* and love with equal ardour. My Molly, you love one of 
 them. Will you be warned in time ? 
 
 4 To-morrow I leave for the Rhone, and make for Aix, whence it 
 is but a short journey to the village of Eyragues. How well I 
 remember the last time I went to Aix ! We travelled in our great
 
 70 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 gilt coach, hnng upon springs, from the Chateau to our house. It 
 must have been early in the year 1793. My father was already 
 melancholy and a prey to gloomy forebodings. But he was the 
 Count d'Eyragues, and a grand Seigneur, and now his son is plain 
 Mr. Arnold, and a humble English traveller, who cannot afford 
 post-horses, but journeys in the panier with the common folk. 
 Adieu, my well-beloved ; I will write to thee again from Aix.' 
 
 A week later there came another endearing, delightful letter. 
 
 'I am at Aix,' he said. ' I am at last, and after a tedious journey 
 of three days, at Aix. The distance, which is not quite fifty miles r 
 or thereabouts, from Aries, would be covered on an English high- 
 road in a single day. Here, however, the roads are bad, the car- 
 riages heavy, and the horses weak and in poor condition. All the 
 best horses, I am told, have been taken for the cavalry. The road 
 is not, moreover, what you would call a high-road, but a cross- 
 country road, passing over a level plain through villages ; and the 
 coach, which is little better than a great clumsy basket, was filled 
 with farmers and small proprietors, talking of bad times and the 
 war. There was also a commis-voyageur, that is, a travelling clerk, 
 or rider, going, he told me, from Aries to Aix, and thence to 
 Toulon. He wanted to talk French to me, and was continually 
 expressing his astonishment to find that an Englishman should 
 wish to visit this part of the country at all ; and, secondly, that an 
 Englishman should be able to speak the Provencal language. I 
 told him I was often surprised myself, because, with the exception 
 of a single young lady of my acquaintance, there was probably no 
 one in England, apart from the emigre's, who could speak it like 
 myself. 
 
 '"Monsieur," said my commis-voyageur, "has the air of a Pro- 
 vencal. Oh ! quite the air of a Provencal. I have seen English- 
 men. There are English prisoners at Marseilles ; and I have seen 
 English sailors at Bordeaux. Never did I see an Englishman who 
 resembled Monsieur." This gentleman is right, and he, for his 
 part, has the air of one who suspects me. Let him, however, sus- 
 pect what he pleases. I have my passport. I am not a political 
 agent, and I am engaged in nothing that I wish to conceal. I 
 conversed freely with the people. Alas ! they are no longer Royal- 
 ists. The events of the last ten years have turned their heads. 
 Though the wars have made them no richer, but have killed their 
 young men and laid the most terrible burdens upon the country — 
 it is certain that France has suffered far more than England — the 
 splendid successes of the French arms have turned their heads.
 
 RA YMOXD 'S JO URNE Y. 7 I 
 
 Nevertheless, everybody is afraid that war may break out again at 
 any moment — in Paris they speak openly of speedily sweeping U3 
 from the seas — and prays that the peace may be lasting. 
 
 ' I asked them about many things : the condition of the country, 
 the change from the old order — I understand now that it can never 
 return — the army, the state of religion the cultivation of the fields 
 — everything that one wants to know when returning to his native 
 land after a long absence. 
 
 '" Decided^," said my friend, the commis-voyageur, "Monsieur 
 is curious. Monsieur probably proposes to write a book of travels." 
 
 1 The road is lined for the greater part of the way with plane- 
 trees, all bent over in the same direction and at the same height, 
 by the mistral wind, just as on the King's bastion at Portsmouth 
 the trees are all bent down by the wind from the sea. At this 
 season Provence looks green and beautiful ; the planes are coming 
 into leaf, the Arbre Judas, which grows in the gardens, is in full 
 flower ; there is whitethorn in plenty ; the mulberries have not 
 begun to lose their leaves ; while the cypresses, of which my people 
 are so fond, and their gray olives, and even the long lines of reeds 
 with which they shelter their fields from the mistral, look well be- 
 hind the green maize. In two months the white road will be a 
 foot deep in dust, the leaves by the roadside will be white with 
 dust, and the mulberry-trees will be stripped of their foliage for 
 the silkworms. As for flowers, there are few here compared with 
 those in the English fields ; but there are some, especially when 
 a canal for irrigation runs beside the road, crossed here and there 
 by its passerelle — the little foot-bridge. There are few wajfarers 
 along the road, and in the fields the workers are chiefly women. 
 
 ' Our journey took three days, the sleeping accommodation in the 
 villages being poor, but better than that in the boats. Here, at 
 Aix, everything is good and comfortable. 
 
 ' I have been sketching in the town ; I have made a drawing of 
 our town hous^, which is an old house in a dark and narrow street. 
 It stands round three sides of a court, in which are lilacs and fig- 
 trees, and a fountain. I did not ask to whom the house now 
 belongs, but I begged permission of the concierge to sketch it. 
 There being no one at home, I was allowed to sit in the court and 
 make my drawing. I have also sketched the cathedral and the 
 church of St. John, where my ancestors lie buried. Happily, theii 
 tombs were not defaced by the Revolutionists. 
 
 ' My dearest Molly, there remains to be seen only the old Chateau, 
 and the place where my father died. Some day, perhaps, we may
 
 72 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 be able to erect a monument to him as well, though his body lies 
 ■we know not where. 
 
 •To-morrow I walk to Eyragues, which is not more than ten 
 miles from Aix. Sball I find the Chateau as we left it? But my 
 father, who used to walk upon the terrace before the house, will be 
 there no longer. I hope to write from Toulon. Farewell, my love, 
 farewell !' 
 
 The letter reached us at the end of April. We waited patiently 
 at first for the promised successor. None came the next week, and 
 none the week after. Then I, for my part, began to grow im- 
 patient. Day by day I went out to meet the postboy from Fare- 
 ham. Sometimes he turned at the road which leads to the Castle, 
 and blew his horn at the Yicarage. But none for me. And the 
 weeks passed by and nothing more was heard. 
 
 Now, by our calculations, the time for a letter to reach Porchester 
 from Aix being eighteen days, if Raymond had arrived at Toulon 
 about the middle of April, supposing that his business kept him 
 there no more than two or three days, he would proceed to 
 Marseilles, and thence make his way as rapidly as he could across 
 France, and so home, and should arrive by the middle of May. 
 That is the reason, I said, trying to assure myself, though I spent 
 the nights in tears and prayers, why he has not written another 
 letter, because he is posting homewards as speedily as he can travel, 
 and comes as fast as any letter. He will be with us, therefore, 
 about the middle of May. 
 
 The middle of May passed and he did not return, nor was there 
 any letter from him. 
 
 Now, on the 18th of May in that year, a very grave step was 
 taken by His Majesty the King. He declared war against France. 
 Those who were in State secrets have since assured the world that 
 this step was not taken without due consideration, and a full know- 
 ledge of its importance ; and, further, that in declaring war, the 
 King only anticipated the intentions of Buonaparte, whose only 
 reason for deferring his declaration was that he might find time to 
 Build more ships. 
 
 Well, even though war was declared, Raymond was a man of 
 peace who would be suffered to return. It was not likely that a 
 War, which would not greatly move the hearts of the people, the 
 causes for which lay ih f political reasons which they could not 
 understand, would exasperate the French against a simple English 
 traveller. 
 
 Letters, it is certain, sometimes miscarry ; from the South of
 
 RA YMOND 'S JO URNE Y. 73 
 
 France to Hampshire is, indeed, a terrible distance. Our traveller 
 would come home before his letter, war or no war. 
 
 Thus passed seven weeks, and then we heard that Buonaparte, 
 by an exercise of authority which was vrholly without parallel in 
 the history of nations, had ordered that all Englishmen travelling 
 in France, even peaceful merchants and clergymen, should be 
 detained. Among them, no doubt, was Raymond. 
 
 But other detenus, as they were called, wrote letters home, 
 which were duly forwarded and received. Why did not Raymond 
 write ? 
 
 It was through me — oh, through me, and none other — that he 
 went away. I encouraged him to talk about his old home ; I fed 
 the flame of desire to see it again. Had it not been for me he 
 would have stayed at home, and now we should have been all happy 
 together— safe and happy. But now — where was he ? In a French 
 prison, in rags, like our French prisoners, with no money. How 
 could we get to him ? How help him ? How know even where 
 he was ? 
 
 'My child,' said Madam Claire, • we are in the hands of Heaven. 
 Do not reproach yourself. Raymond was filled with longing to see 
 his native land again. Nay, what can have happened to him but 
 detention with the other English travellers?' 
 
 "While I wept and wrung my hands, and Madam Claire consoled 
 me, and we sought to fiud reasons for this long silence, it was 
 strange to listen to the poor mad woman, laughing, and singing, 
 and talking to her dead husband, chiefly about Raymond. 
 
 ' The boy has grown tall, my friend,' she would say. • The time 
 comes when we must find a wife for him ; then, in our old age, we 
 shall have our grandchildren round us. When he comes home he 
 shall marry ; he will come now very soon.' 
 
 It seemed as if in some imperfect way she understood that her 
 son was gone somewhere. Perhaps it was to comfort us that she 
 kept repeating the words, ' He will come home soon ; he will come 
 home soon.' 
 
 Alas ! the time soon arrived when those words were a mockery ! 
 
 It was at the beginning of the tenth week that we received one 
 more letter in that dear handwriting. But what a letter ! Oh, 
 what a letter ! for it left us without one gleam of hope or comfort 
 
 ' I should meet my love in Heaven,' said Madam. Alas ! 
 Heaven at nineteen seems so far away ; and to one whose heart is 
 wholly given to an earthly passion, Heaven seems a joyless place. 
 Sure I am that if when one is young the choice was offered of a
 
 74 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 continuance of earthly joys, which we know, with youth and! 
 health and plenty, or of the unknown heavenly joys, though wear© 
 plainly told that mind cannot conceive, and tongue cannot tell their 
 raptures, we should, for the most part, prefer the former. 
 
 1 Oh, this letter ! Can I, now, think of it without a sinking of 
 the heart, and a wonder that the letter did not kill me on the spot ? 
 The postman stopped at our garden-gate ; 'twas a morning in June ; 
 the lilacs and laburnums were still out ; all the roses were in 
 blossom, and the sun was so warm that one was able already to sit 
 in the open air. At sight of the man my heart leaped up. He 
 had a letter for me, which he held up and laughed — for he knew 
 my impatience and anxiety — and I rushed to the gate and took it. 
 Yes, it was in my Raymond's handwriting. I left the postman to 
 get his money f ro:n Sally, and ran as fast as I could to the cottage, 
 my letter in my band. 
 
 ' A letter !' I cried. ' A letter from Raymond ! Oh, at last, at 
 last ; now we shall know !' 
 
 Then I tore open the seal and read it aloud. 
 
 ' My dearest Molly, 
 
 ' This is the last letter you will ever receive from your 
 lover ' 
 
 His last letter ? 
 
 'Quick!' cried Madam ; 'read it quickly.' 
 
 ' I am in prison at Toulon. I have but a few minutes given to 
 me for this letter, in which I should have said so much had I time. 
 My dear — my dear — I am about to die. Farewell. Try to forget 
 me, my poor heart. Oh, think of me as one who lived in thy heart 
 for a little and was then called away. I am to be guillotined for 
 an English spy in the very place where, ten years ago, they shot 
 my father. It is strange that my death should be like his, and in 
 the same way. I am not a spy, as you know ; but I have failed to 
 convince my judges. I was tried this very day, and I am to die to- 
 morrow morning amidst the execrations of the people. Is not this 
 a strange destiny for father and son ? Kiss my mother for me. 
 By the time this letter reaches you she will be already conversing 
 with the spirit of her son as well as that of her husband ; for, my 
 dear, where could my spirit rest if not near thee ! And if my 
 father's soul hath obtained this privilege, why not mine ? My 
 spirit can have no terrors for thee. I had much to tell ; but now 
 you will never hear what has happened to me, and why. I am 
 promised that this letter shall be sent to thee. To-morrow I am
 
 IN THE TOWER. 75 
 
 to die. Farewell— farewell— farewell. Oh, Molly, mysweet girl, I 
 kiss the place where I write thy name. Farewell, my dear. 
 Farewell ' 
 
 I know not how I was able to read this letter aloud, for every 
 word was like a dagger plunged into my heart. Oh ! a thousand 
 daggers would have been better than this letter, so full of love and 
 pity, and yet so terrible with its message. 
 
 Pass over this day. Thiuk, if you can, how Madam fell upon her 
 knees and prayed— not for herself, but for me ; think how I sat 
 with dry eyes speechless ; think how my father came and wept ; 
 think how all the time the poor mad lady laughed and sang as 
 happy as the blackbird in the orchard, and repeated, like a parrot 
 in a cage : 
 
 1 He will come home soon ; he will come home soon.' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN TIIE TOWER. 
 
 It was not until six months later, and under circumstances which 
 will be related in their place, that we heard what happened after 
 Raymond left Aix. 
 
 The village of Eyragues is about ten or twelve miles from Aix, 
 along a dusty, white road, with plane-trees on either side or avenues 
 of the spreading poplar, or when a village or a farmhouse is passed, 
 cypresses and chestnuts. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when he arrived at the place. 
 
 A low hill rises, steep on the south side, and on the west with a 
 gentle slope. The village stands upon the slope, and on the top of 
 the hill, where the cliff looks over the valley of the Durance, stood 
 the Chateau. Here the valley is broad and the steam shallow, 
 running over its gravel bed with a melodious ripple, as if it was 
 the most innocent brook in the world, though no river is more 
 dangerous, by reason of its sudden inundations. In the cliff over- 
 looking the river there are caves, partly natural, partly artificial ; 
 these are used as dwelling-houses by the poorer peasants and the 
 shepherds, the entrances being closed with wood. The village 
 itself consists of one sloping street, in the middle of which is the 
 church, and beside it the presbytere, or vicarage ; opposite to the 
 church, the village inn, with three shrubs in great green casks 
 before the door, and the bunch of dry briar hanging over the door.
 
 76 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 As Raymond drew nearer, approaching the village from the 
 •west, he remarked two or three things which seemed strange. 
 There were no cattle in the meadows. Why, the meadows were 
 formerly full of cattle. The bed of the river seemed to have 
 grown broader than he remembered. "When one revisits places, 
 seen last in childhood, they generally look smaller. The buildings 
 in the valley were roofless; the caves showed no sign of inhabi- 
 tants. 
 
 He entered the street. There had been quite recently a dreadful 
 fire, and most of the houses were destroyed wholly or in part. 
 Those which had escaped were shut up. The village auberge had 
 its bush above the door, and its three shrubs in green tubs in 
 front ; but the door was closed, and the shrubs were dead. 
 
 And then he heard footsteps. At last then ! There was some- 
 one in the village. An old woman came out of a cottage beside 
 the inn. She came hobbling upon two sticks, looking curiously at 
 the stranger. She was bent with years, wrinkled, and decrepit. 
 She advanced slowly. Suddenly she burst into a cackling kind of 
 laugh not pleasant to hear. 
 
 ' Ho, ho !' she cried. ' You are come at last. Oh ! I knew you 
 would come some day. I told him that you would come.' 
 
 ' Who am I, then ?' 
 
 4 I knew very well that you would come. But I knew that you 
 would not come before the proper time. Oh, everything in its 
 place. First the inundation ; that carried away his cattle and 
 destroyed his meadows. Next the burning ; that took away his 
 village. What has he left to take ? There is only himself, or hia 
 son. Are you come for him, or shall you take his son ?' 
 
 Raymond remembered her now. But she was old when he had 
 last seen her, ten years before — already an old woman, living with 
 her grandchildren. 
 
 4 I know you, Mother Vidal,' he said. ' Why, what, in Heaven's 
 name, has happened ?' 
 
 'You are young again, M. le Comte. Those who come back 
 from the dead do well to resume their youth. In heaven we shall 
 all be young and beautiful. Hush ! He is horribly afraid. At 
 sight of you I think he will drop down dead.' 
 
 « Who ?' 
 
 ' Louis Leroy. Who else ?' 
 
 4 Where are the people, then ?' 
 
 4 They are gone. The war took some ; the inundation took some ; 
 the burning sent the rest away. The village is deserted. The
 
 IN THE TOWER. 77 
 
 people would stay no longer in a place accursed, lest something 
 worse should befall them. But, as for me, I am old. Nothing 
 can hurt me now.' 
 
 ' Why is the place accursed ?' 
 
 'Is it for you, M. le Comte, to ask such a question ? The cure* 
 told him, when he went away, that the wrath of the bon Dieu was 
 kindled against him. Go up the hill ; you will find him at the 
 Chateau.' 
 
 An empty and deserted village ; the houses mostly burned down ; 
 nobody in the place. Here was a prospect of a pleasant night. 
 
 Raymond went on up the hill, and before long came to the top, 
 on which the Chateau stood. Alas ! the modern part of the house 
 was destroyed, only the shell remaining, and beside it the ancient 
 tower. The gardens were grown over ; the farm buildings were in 
 ruins ; the great dovecot was empty. There were no signs of 
 life about the place at all. 
 
 There was yet about half an honr of daylight, and Raymond sat 
 down to make the most of it. He would have time to sketch the 
 ruins, and he would then retrace his steps, and put up for the 
 night at some auberge on the way to Aix. 
 
 The tower, however, was not uninhabited. Presently a man 
 came forth from the great doorway. 
 
 He was dressed rather better than the peasants, but looked 
 neglected, his chin unshaven, his hair without powder, his coat old 
 and worn. When Raymond, who had taken off his hat and was 
 working bareheaded, saw the man at the door he rose to salute him. 
 To his amazement the proprietor of the tower, if the man was the 
 proprietor, shrieked aloud and staggered. 
 
 Raymond ran to his assistance. 
 
 'Are you ill ?' he asked. 
 
 The man made no reply, but his lips trembled. Raymond saw 
 before him a man of forty-five, or perhaps fifty. His face was 
 wolfish— the face of a man who lives alone and thinks continually 
 of wickedness — yet the features might once have been fine. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Raymond, ' that in this lonely place I have 
 startled you. I am, however, only a harmless traveller, and I have 
 taken the liberty of sketching this ruin, in which I have an interest.' 
 
 The man recovered a little. 
 
 ' I am subject,' he said, biting his nails, ' to sudden fits of pain. 
 You were saying, sir, that you are a traveller.' 
 
 'I am a traveller and an artist. It is my practice to make 
 drawings of all the places which I visit.'
 
 78 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 1 An artist ! It is strange. What is your name, sir T 
 
 1 My name is Arnold. Would you like to see my passport Y 
 
 ' Not at all, sir. Arnold ! What is your Christian name ?' 
 
 1 It is Raymond.' 
 
 ■ Then, sir,' said the man, speaking slowly, ' unless I am mistaken, 
 your father's name was also Raymond. His full name was Raymond 
 Arnault, Conite d'Eyragues. He was killed, I believe, at Toulon, 
 after the capture of the city by the Revolutionary army.' 
 
 ' All this, sir, is quite true, though I understand not how you 
 know it.' 
 
 ' I know it from the likeness you bear to your father, coupled 
 with the fact that you bear his name ' 
 
 ' Were you a friend of my father's ?' 
 
 1 Young man, your father was a great man. I was one of the 
 canaille. He had no friendship for such as I.' 
 
 'An old woman in the village mentioned the name of Louis 
 Leroy ' 
 
 ' There is no Louis Leroy in this place. There has not been 
 anyone of that name for many years,' he replied quickly. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said Raymond, ' I am Raymond Arnault. But I am 
 now an Englishman, and have only come here in order to see the 
 place where I was born. That is natural, is it not ?' 
 
 ' Quite natural. I am the proprietor of the estates, such as they 
 have become. A valuable possession, truly ! The river has washed 
 away my cattle and my meadows ; a fire has destroyed my village 
 the people have gone ; the house is in ruins. A valuable possession 
 truly !' 
 
 ' Is the old house in Aix also yours ?' 
 
 'That is also mine. But I cannot let it, for they say that it is 
 haunted. Then you do not know who bought this estate ?' 
 
 ' I have never learned.' 
 
 ' Well, it matters nothing. Louis Leroy — I knew him well — has 
 been dead, I think, for a long time. You were not in search of 
 him ? No ? You do not know that it was he who denounced your 
 father ? Some sons might have sought revenge. You do not ? 
 That is well. Revenge is a foolish thing to desire. Better let him 
 alone, even if he be still living.' 
 
 ' The man shall never be sought by me. If I were to find him 
 — if I had my fingers en his throat — I do not say.' 
 
 ' Ah, your blood is Provencal — your hands would be at his 
 throat ! Yes, I think I see you. You bave the Arnault face, and 
 it is fierce when roused. Yes, you would make short work of Louis
 
 IN THE TOWER. 79 
 
 "Leroy if you had the chance. Ha, ha ! he will do well to keep out 
 •of your way. That is quite certain — quite certain. Ha, ha !' 
 
 The man chuckled and rubbed his hands. The thought of Louis 
 Leroy being throttled pleased him. He showed his teeth when he 
 laughed, which made him look more like a wolf. 
 
 ' Come,' he said ; ' one of your family must not be sent away from 
 this place. Share my dinner, aud take what I can give you for a 
 bed. Oh, it is not much— a poor meal and a simple pallet ! But 
 .such as they are I offer them to you.' 
 
 Raymond accepted willingly. The man was not prepossessing 
 to look at, but one must not judge by first impressions. Therefore, 
 he followed his host, thinking himself lucky to get the chance of a 
 supper and a bed. 
 
 His host led the way into the tower. The room into which the 
 door — a great, massive door, set with big nails and provided with 
 a solid lock — opened was a room with stone floor, stone walls, and 
 a vaulted stone roof. A second door in the side opened upon spiral 
 stairs leading to upper rooms. The room was furnished with two 
 chairs and a table. There was a stove in it, and the smell of some 
 cookery. His host lifted a saucepan from a fire of wood ashes. 
 
 'You are ready for your dinner ? Good ; then sit down.' 
 
 He poured out the contents of the saucepan into a dish, and set 
 it on the table with a long loaf of bread, the salt, and a bottle of 
 wine. 
 
 ' It is a stew,' he said, ' of rabbits, rice, onions, and beans. Eat, 
 Monsieur le Comte.' 
 
 Raymond was hungry, tired, and thirsty. He made accordingly 
 ^n excellent meal, drinking freely of the black and strong Provence 
 wine. His host ate and drank but little. When the first bottle 
 was finished he brought out another, and encouraged his guest to 
 talk, asking him a hundred questions, and appearing deeply 
 interested in his replies ; so that the young man freely spoke of 
 himself — of his circumstances, and the conditions of his people ; 
 how his mother had lost her reason, and his father's sister had 
 miraculously preserved the Holy Rose, on which they had subsisted 
 until now ; but that the jewels being by this time all sold, he was 
 to become the support of the family. 
 
 ' I understand,' said his host ; ' they have now nothing left, so 
 that if you were not to return they would starve.' 
 
 Raymond was also easily induced to show the drawings which 
 he had made. 
 
 'Young man,' said his entertainer, biting his nails, 'you are
 
 80 THE HOL V HOSE. 
 
 going to Toulon, yon say ? I can show you all the best spots for 
 an artist. Do not forget to bring your portfolio of sketches with 
 you. And upon my word ' — he looked Raymond full in the face — 
 ' upon my word, young man, I feel as if your business was already 
 completed, and you were standing where your father stood. It 
 will be deeply interesting.' 
 
 It was then about ten o'clock. Raymond asked permission to 
 go to bed. 
 
 ' This way,' said his host, taking the candle and mounting the 
 stairs. ' You will find nothing but a mattress and a blanket. 
 Behold !' 
 
 There were two rooms on this floor, divided by a partition wall. 
 The one into which Raymond was shown was lighted by a single 
 narrow window, barred with iron and without glass. A mattress 
 lay in a corner ; there was no other furniture in it. 
 
 ' You remember the place, without doubt ; formerly it was a 
 store-room ; the accommodation is simple.' 
 
 1 Thank you,' said Raymond ; ' it will serve me very well.' 
 
 4 1 sleep in the next room. There is no other occupant of the 
 tower. It is silent here at night when one is alone. There are 
 ghosts, I am told, especially of your father. But I never see him. 
 He was denounced, you know, by Louis Leroy, who was his half- 
 brother. Ha ! if you had your fingers upon his throat 1 Good 
 night and good repose, Monsieur le Cornte.' 
 
 Raymond quickly undressed, and threw himself upon the 
 mattress. In a few minutes he was asleep. 
 
 In the middle of the night he had a dream. He dreamed that 
 he woke up suddenly ; the moon was shining through the bars of 
 the window so as to send some light to the room. Then he saw, 
 lying quite still and having no desire to move, the door between 
 the two rooms slowly open. He was not in the least afraid, being 
 in a dream, but he wondered what was going to happen. Then he 
 saw his host standing at the open door. He had taken off boot3 
 and coat. For a few moments be stood as if uncertain. Then ho 
 began to move slowly and cautiously toward the mattress. Ray- 
 mond saw that he had a knife in his hand. But he was not in the 
 least afraid, because he was in a dream ; the man proposed to 
 murder him, perhaps. That was interesting and curious. How 
 would he be prevented ? 
 
 Suddenly the murderer sprang back, throwing up his arms, and 
 with a moan of terror rushed from the room. And in the middle 
 of the room, just where the moonlight fell, Raymond saw, in this
 
 THE KISS OF JUDAS. 81 
 
 etrange dream, the figure of his father. This did not surprise bim 
 either. But he was glad that the murderer had been stayed in his 
 purpose, and he wondered what he would say about it in the 
 morning. 
 
 "When Raymond woke up the sun was already high ; he rose 
 quickly and dressed. His host was up before him. Strange to 
 say, he had quite forgotten his curious dream. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE KISS OF JUDA3. 
 
 Raymond forgot, I say, his dream of the man with a knife. Had 
 he remembered it, he would have been ashamed of it, so friendly 
 was his entertainer. He led him about the place, showed him how 
 the greatest inundation ever known in the history of the Durance 
 River had destroyed his cattle, overthrown his farmhouses, and 
 covered his meadows with stones and gravel. ' But this,' he said, 
 always biting his nails, ' might have happened to anyone. If your 
 father were living, it would have happened just the same.' 
 
 ' I suppose it would,' said Raymond. 
 
 Then the man led his guest through the village. 
 
 ' Yv hen you were a child,' he said, ' the village was full of people. 
 There were five hundred souls in this place. Here was the tavern 
 where they drank ; here was the church where thay went to mass ; 
 under these trees the lads played at bowls on Sunday morning ; 
 many a time have I seen your parents watchiog the villagers on 
 their way home after mass ; in the evening they danced here.' 
 
 ' You know the place, then ? You are a native of the 
 village ?' 
 
 ' I have been here on business. They plundered your house at 
 Aix ; then they came on here and sacked the Chateau. The books 
 and pictures they burned and trampled under foot, the furniture 
 they broke up, but the plate they carried off. However, the 
 estate remained, and the village ; now there is nothing. Then 
 came the inundation ; then these young men had to go to war ; 
 when the village was burned down there were not fifty people left. 
 And now they are gone, and there is nobody except myself and an 
 old woman who is mad. But all this would have happened 
 whether your father was shot or no — would it not ?' 
 
 '1 suppose it would,' said Raymond. ' Oue cannot think that 
 
 6
 
 8a THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 the wrath of Heaven for my father's murder would fall upon 
 innocent folk.' 
 
 ' No — no. It would fall on the head of Louis Leroy. Ah ! if 
 your fingers were once about his throat ! However, the man is 
 dead.' 
 
 The man was very friendly, and yet Raymond was ill at ease 
 with him, and he had a trick of glancing suspiciously about him as 
 if he was afraid of something, which made Raymond uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 He was so friendly that he accompanied Raymond back to Aix, 
 and from Aix to Toulon, where he said that he had business. He 
 was so very friendly that he followed the young man about every- 
 where, and seemed unwilling to suffer him out of his sight. 
 
 At Toulon he acted as guide, and led Raymond to the spot where 
 his father suffered death. 
 
 1 Here, beneath these trees,' he said, ' sat the Commissioners, 
 Freron, young Robespierre, and the others. Eh ! they are all dead 
 now. They sat in chairs ; the prisoners were brought here to be 
 tried. Oh, they were all aristocrats, and they had no chance. 
 Among them were a few poor devils who were servants. They 
 were shot, to deter others from serving Royalists. Some of them 
 were ladies — oh, I assure you, beautiful ladies, but all pale and 
 trembling with terror. Well, they had not long to wait. Some 
 of them were mere children, some old men, some were young 
 men, like your father. Some of them wept and lamented, especially 
 the servants, when they saw that there would be no favour shown 
 to any, but every man and woman must be taken impartially and 
 placed in front of the soldiers ; but most bore themselves proudly, 
 like your father. Young man, there never was anyone prouder than 
 your father. I, who was standing by, remember the contempt with 
 which he regarded his judges.' 
 
 S What did he say to the witness, his half-brother ?' 
 
 'He said— nothing,' the man replied with hesitation; 'what 
 could he say ?' 
 
 'Did he curse him V 
 
 ' He did not.' 
 
 4 What has the lot of that man been since that day ?' 
 
 ' He had nothing to lose ; therefore, if he is a poor man now, ha 
 is no worse off than he was before.' 
 
 ' But he is dead, you say ?' 
 
 4 Louis Leroy has been dead for a long time.' 
 
 • Had he children of his own ?'
 
 THE KISS OF JUDAS. 83 
 
 ' lie had one son only.' 
 
 * Perhaps, then,' said Raymond, ' Heaven will strike him in the 
 person of his son.' 
 
 ' Here,' the man continued, ' each man stood to take bis trial. 
 On this spot stood the witnesses, when there were any. In your 
 father's case there was one only ; but he was enough. Here stood 
 the prisoner when his turn came to be shot ; here stood the file of 
 soldiers. Oh, it was a day of vengeance for the Revolution.' 
 
 Raymond took off his hat reverently before the spot where hig 
 father had perished. 
 
 'Very likely,' continued his guide, 'your father might have 
 escaped but for the man Leroy, who first caused him to be arrested 
 — perhaps you did not know that — and then gave evidence against 
 him. There were several thousands left in Toulon when the 
 English went away. There were not more than eight or nine 
 hundred shot. Very likely he would have escaped. As for that 
 man Leroy,' he went on, ' you would like to have your fingers on 
 his throat, would you not ?' 
 
 'If I had,' said Raymond hoarsely, 'I would kill him here— 
 where my father died.' 
 
 ' Ah ! he is dead now. That is fortunate for him. He lived in 
 great fear, because misfortune always fell upon him — just as it has 
 upon me. But the thing he never thought upon, the danger he 
 least expected, was the return of the Count's son. What should 
 he do if he were living now ?' There never could be eyes more 
 full of meaning and suspicion than this man's. ' What should he 
 do? 
 
 ' I care not ; what does it matter ?' 
 
 ' He would protect himself, would he not ?' 
 
 * I suppose so. Now leave me, if you please. I wish to be 
 alone.' 
 
 The guide obeyed ; that is to say, he withdrew a little. But he 
 watched. Meanwhile Raymond tried to people the scene, now a 
 peaceful market-place, full of stalls and market women, with the 
 prisoners, soldiers, and commissioners of that day of massacre. 
 Then he took out his sketch-book and made a drawing of the 
 Place. 
 
 When he had finished his drawing he remembered the Quai, 
 where he had stood with his mother all through that fearful night, 
 the shells hissing and bursting in the air, the flames of the arsenal 
 making it as light as day. It was easy to find the place. Fiom 
 the Place d'Armes a street leads straight to the spot. The s:gbl 
 
 6-2
 
 S4 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 was very different now. The harbour was full of men-of-war, 
 frigates, and all kinds of war vessels, a sight which might have 
 filled an English sailor's heart with joy, giving rich promise of 
 prizes. The Quai itself was covered with all kinds of ship's gear. 
 There was the sound of hammering and the running to and fro of 
 men. For an outbreak of war with England was again imminent, 
 and the work of the dockyards was carried on night and day. 
 
 Raymond looked about him, trying to remember, which was in 
 vain, where they had been standing. 
 
 Then he took out his sketch-book again, and began to sketch. 
 Behind him at a little distance a gend'arme watched him. Beside 
 the gend'arme stood Raymond's host and friend whispering 
 furtively. 
 
 When he had completed this little drawing he rose, and began 
 to wander about the town, glad to be alone. His work was done. 
 He had seen his ancestral home, shattered and ruined ; he had 
 visited the old church at Aix where the bones of his forefathers 
 were buried ; he had seen the great house which had been their 
 town residence ; he had stood upon the spot where his father was 
 shot, and upon the Quai, whence he was dragged with his mother 
 by the English sailors ; now there remained nothing more but to 
 go home. 
 
 He wandered about the town, thinking of these things, and of 
 his journey home, and of his sweetheart. Presently, he found 
 himself at the fortifications. "Without any thought of danger he 
 sat down before a gate and began to sketch it. There was nothing 
 especially interesting about the building, yet he made a drawing 
 of it. 
 
 He did not observe that the gend'arme who had watched him 
 making his sketch on the Quai had followed him, and was still 
 watching him at a distance. When he had drawn the gateway, he 
 walked out of the town, having no object but to wander about 
 aimlessly until the evening. On the following day he would begiu 
 his homeward journey. 
 
 Outside the town, half-way up the hill on the western side, there 
 stands an outpost or fort, which, when the British troops held the 
 town, was also held by them, and called Gibraltar, because it was 
 considered impregnable. It commands the town, and from its 
 bastions a fine view is obtained of the harbour, the arsenals, the 
 town, and the fortifications. This fort was taken by Buonaparte. 
 It was the first act by which he distinguished himself ; and, once 
 taken, the capture of the town was rendered easy.
 
 THE KISS OF JUDAS. 85 
 
 Raymond, following a winding path, presently found himself 
 within the bastion. He looked over the rampart and found that 
 it commanded a beautiful view of Toulon Harbour, which, with 
 the dockyard, the walls, and the town, lay stretched out at his 
 feet. Again he drew forth his book and began to s-ketch the view 
 before him. Presently he heard footsteps approaching, but he 
 thought nothing of them, and went on with his work. 
 
 'I arrest you in the name of the Republic' 
 
 A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. Raymond sprang to 
 his feet. It was a gend'arme ; behind the gend'arme were a dozen 
 soldiers. 
 
 ' Why do you arrest me ?' 
 
 ' I arrest you as an English spy, detected in the act of making a 
 plan of the fortifications.' 
 
 Raymond laughed. The man pointed to his sketch, on which 
 some parts of the walls were already drawn. 
 
 ' Come with me,' he said. 
 
 Raymond obeyed. Resistance, indeed, would have been im- 
 possible. The man took from him his sketch-book, and laid his 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 The soldiers followed. When they were within the town a 
 crowd began to gather, and presently ominous cries were uttered : 
 ' English spy ! English spy ! Death to spies !' 
 
 Then the crowd pressed closer, and cried the louder. Fists were 
 shaken in Raymond's face ; voices were raised crying for imme- 
 diate justice. ' A la lanterne !' The crowd grew larger, and the 
 cries louder and more threatening. 
 
 There is no rage more unreasonable, swifter, and more uncon- 
 trollable than the rage of a mob. Raymond would have been torn 
 to pieces but for the soldiers who had accompanied his capture, and 
 now surrounded the prisoner, and acted as a guard. 
 
 At last he was within the prison walls and in safety for the 
 moment. Outside, the mob raged and shouted ; it was a warlike 
 mob, composed chiefly of sailors and soldiers, whom the very word 
 1 spy ' maddens. They would have liked nothing better than to 
 have the English spy thrown out to them. 
 
 When Raymond found himself stripped of everything, and 
 thrust roughly into a cell, he consoled himself by thinking that a 
 charge so absurd could not be maintained. He should be released 
 the next day. 
 
 He was mistaken. 
 
 In the morning he was taken before a magistrate.
 
 Id THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 On the table were laid the sketches taken from his portfolio, his 
 drawing pencils, his passport, his pocket-book, and his purse. 
 
 The prisoner, asked to give an account of himself, stated that 
 V3 was an English subject named Raymond Arnold ; that he was 
 an artist by profession ; and that he was travelling for his 
 pleasure in France. 
 
 On further examination he confessed that his name was Raymond 
 Arnault, and that he was a French subject by birth, and the son of 
 the ci-devant Comte d'Eyragues, condemned to death for treason. 
 He also confessed that he taught the young officers of the British 
 navy the art of drawing plans of fortifications ; he declared that he 
 had no other motive in visiting this part of France but the natural 
 curiosity of seeing once more his birthplace, and the place where 
 his father died ; also that he was actuated in making these sketches 
 by no other motive than the desire of preserving alive his recollec- 
 tions of these scenes. 
 
 His preliminary examination was short ; now it was completed, 
 he was taken back to prison. 
 
 Two days afterwards he was again taken before the magistrate, 
 who asked him a great number of questions as to the object of his 
 journey, and the various places he had visited. His note-book was 
 produced, and he was asked why certain facts had been set down, 
 and for what reason he had shown so great a curiosity as to the 
 condition of the country. Raymond replied as well as he could, 
 explaining that these notes were nothing but the simple observa- 
 tions of a traveller. His answers were taken down without 
 eomment. He then requested permission to send a letter to tho 
 British Ambassador at Paris. This request was at once refused, 
 en the ground that he was not a British subject. 
 
 On the third examination, the magistrate, who was not hostile 
 or unnecessarily harsh, pointed out to the prisoner that his case 
 was one in which the penalty, should he be found guilty, was 
 nothing short of death ; that the aspect of the case was most 
 serious ; that the relations between France and England were 
 already strained ; and that should war unhappily break out before 
 his trial, it would probably go hard with him. Therefore, he ex- 
 horted him to confess everything, including the secret instructions 
 given him by the British Government, and the nature of the in- 
 formation he had collected. 
 
 Finding that the prisoner remained obdurate, the magistrate 
 ordered him to be taken back to prison. 
 
 He was forbidden to write any letters, or to communicate with
 
 THE TRIAL. 87 
 
 the outer world at all. An ordinary criminal may get this indul- 
 gence, but not a spy. More than this, he was treated by the 
 gaolers with every indignity they had the power to inflict upon 
 him, the men letting him understand daily that they would enjoy 
 nothing so much as to murder a British spy. 
 
 1 1 could not understand,' he told us afterwards, ' I could never 
 understand all that time, how such a suspicion could possibly fall 
 upon me. Nor was it till I heard the speech of the advocate for 
 the prosecution, and the evidence, that I was able to see the weight 
 of the suspicions against me.' 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 If the time had been tranquil, I suppose that Raymond would 
 have been immediately released. But the air was filled with 
 rumours and suspicions ; the dockyard of Toulon was active ; 
 ships were being fitted out ; there was talk of nothing but war. 
 Therefore the most innocent action, such as the drawing of a 
 gateway, or a sketch of the Quai, was liable to be exaggerated 
 into the action of an English spy. Added to this was the fact, 
 now known to all, that the prisoner was not a British, but a French 
 subject ; that he was travelling under an assumed name ; and that 
 he was the son of one who had been instrumental in bringing the 
 British troops into Toulon. 
 
 He was brought to trial three weeks after his arrest, having been 
 kept all this time in close confinement, except for his examination 
 by the magistrate. In accordance with French custom, he was in 
 ignorance of the evidence, if any, on which the charge against him 
 was to be supported ; but he knew that he was accused of being a 
 spy in the service of the British Government. 
 
 I suppose that, innocent or guilty, there cannot be a more terrible 
 thing for a man than to stand a trial on a capital charge, and more 
 especially on such a charge as this, where a hostile feeling against 
 the prisoner is sure to exist. 
 
 When Raymond found himself in the great Hall of Justice, 
 placed in the prisoners' box, he was at first confused and in a 
 manner overwhelmed. The tribunal, as it is called, was occupied 
 by three judges. On the right of the tribunal sat the jury, on the 
 left was the prisoner, guarded on both sides by gendarmes. The
 
 88 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 advocate for the prisoner stood immediately before his client, s© 
 that he could communicate, and the counsel for the prosecution 
 was on tbe opposite side. A large table below the tribunal was 
 occupied by clerks, and the great body of the hall was crowded with 
 spectators. The windows were so placed that their full light fell 
 upon the features of the prisoner, so that no change of countenance 
 could escape the eyes of judge or jury. 
 
 The clerk first read the indictment. 
 
 It was to the effect that Eaymond Arnault, born at the Chateau 
 d'Eyragues, only son of the late Raymond Arnault, commonly 
 called Comte d'Eyragues, who was shot for treason to the Republic, 
 was a spy, engaged by the British Government to collect informa- 
 tion as to the condition of the country, make plans of fortresses, 
 learn the state of the arsenals, the number, armaments, etc.. of 
 ships fitted out or building, with all other facts and information 
 which might be useful to the British Government and prejudicial 
 to the Republic. 
 
 The indictment read, the President began the trial by putting 
 questions to the prisoner. These were nothing more than those 
 already put by the magistrate in his examinations. They made the 
 prisoner give his name, his age, and occupation ; they inquired 
 into the reasons which made him undertake the journey, and why 
 he travelled under a false name ; why he made sketches ; why he 
 made certain entries in his note-book ; why he asked questions 
 everywhere. 
 
 ' You travelled from Lyons to Aries in a water-coach,' said the 
 President, 'and from Aries to Aix by diligence. On the way you 
 conversed with the other passengers.' 
 
 1 1 did. I was pleased, after ten years, to talk w'th Frenchmen 
 again.' 
 
 ' You asked questions of everybody.' 
 
 ' If I did it was out of pure curiosity. The questions were such 
 as to call for no information that might not be published to all the 
 world.' 
 
 'What? You inquired into the condition of the army; you 
 asked if the country was not drained of fighting men ; you asked 
 if the women were obliged to do all the work in the fields ; you in- 
 quired whether the people were good Republicans, or whether they 
 wanted the Bourbons back again ; you call these questions such as 
 might be published ?' 
 
 ' I repeat,' said Raymond, ' that the questions I asked were solely 
 out of curiosity.'
 
 THE TRIAL. 89 
 
 It appears that in France the judges examine and cross-examine 
 a prisoner before the witnesses are called, and that they have thus 
 the power to make him criminate himself, which is contrary to our 
 custom. 
 
 When the question was finished, Raymond having to repeat a 
 dozen times his solemn denial that he was engaged and paid by the 
 British Government, the witnesses were called. 
 
 ' I was curious,' said Raymond, ' to see who these witnesses might 
 be, and you may judge of my astonishment when the first witness 
 was no other than my host of Eyragues, and that he was none 
 other than the man Louis Leroy himself ; and then I under- 
 stood all.' 
 
 Yes, the man who had received and entertained him, who had 
 given him advice, and accompanied him to Toulon, was no other 
 than the man Louis Leroy. 
 
 ' My name,' he said in answer to the President, 'is now Scipio 
 Gavotte ; before the Revolution it was Louis Leroy. I am a pro- 
 prietor. On the 20th of April last I observed the prisoner walking 
 about the ruins of Eyragues, a village which has been burned and 
 is now abandoned. lie was making sketches. I accosted him, and 
 inquired his name and business. I gave him dinner and a bed in 
 my own house. He began by saying that he was an Englishman, 
 but on my discovering that he spoke Provencal, and had the air 
 of a native of this country, he confessed that he was by birth a 
 Provencal, and that he was travelling under an assumed name 
 under protection of a British passport. I began, therefore, to 
 suspect something, and accompanied him to Aix, where I found 
 him making sketches of the walls, and to Toulon, where he began, 
 trusting to his passport, to make plans of the Quaiand harbour and 
 drawings of the ships. I gave him no warning, but communicated 
 the facts to a gend'arme, who watched him and arrested him. The 
 prisoner seemed to me a man of great intelligence, and showed him- 
 self most curious in respect of everything connected with the con- 
 dition of the country.' 
 
 He had nothing more to say, but the counsel for the defence 
 asked him two or three questions. 
 
 Are you,' he asked, ' the same Louis Leroy on whose evidence 
 the prisoner's father was shot on December 19th, 1793 ?' 
 
 ' I am the same man.' 
 
 'You gave that evidence knowing that it would cause hia 
 death ?' 
 
 ' Certainly.'
 
 90 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 'You were his half-brother, I think?' 
 « I was.' 
 
 ' And you purchased his confiscated estate V 
 1 1 did.' 
 
 • Did you reveal these facts to the prisoner ?' 
 
 • I did not.' 
 
 ' Did you give the information which led to his arrest in the hop© 
 of getting him out of the way ?' 
 
 ' I gave the information for the good of the Republic' 
 
 The next witness was the comiuis-voyageur who had travelled 
 with the prisoner in the diligence between Aries and Aix. This 
 person deposed that his suspicions were aroused by observing the 
 prisoner, who professed to be an Englishman, conversing with the 
 country people in their own language ; whereas the ignorance of 
 Englishmen, even in French — a language known and universally 
 spoken by every other civilized nation — was notorious. He further 
 stated that, on listening to the conversation, he found that the 
 young man was asking the people questions concerning tbeir 
 political opinions, their views as to the Republic, the state of their 
 industries, and the drain of young men by the recent wars. Finally, 
 he declared that he had seen the prisoner from time to time making 
 notes and drawings in a little book which he carried. He identi- 
 fied the book, which was handed to him for the purpose, and 
 pointed out — partly with indignation and partly as a proof of the 
 truth of his statement — that among the drawings was one repre- 
 senting himself in an attitude grossly insulting. In fact, Raymond 
 had drawn a picture of this man eating his breakfast like a hog. 
 
 The counsel for the defence refused to ask any questions of this 
 witness, and desired to confirm his testimony. All that he had 
 stated was true. 
 
 The next witness called was the gend'arme who had followed 
 and watched Raymond. He swore that he saw him sitting on the 
 Quai drawing the ships ; that he followed him and watched him 
 while he made a sketch of the Porte de Marseilles ; that he again 
 followed him, and found him in the act of making a plan of tha 
 fortifications. 
 
 Counsel for the defence asked this witness whether the prisoner 
 had made any attempt at concealment. Witness replied that he 
 had not. 
 
 ' Did he not openly seat himself on the Quai and make the 
 drawings before the eyes of all present V 
 
 1 He did.'
 
 THE TRIAL. 91 
 
 'Did ho show any embarrassment or terror when you arrested 
 him?' 
 
 1 He did not. He laughed.' 
 
 There were no other witnesses except the note-book and the 
 sketch-book. 
 
 Then the prisoner's counsel rose to make his speech. 
 
 He began by relating, from the prisoner's point of view, the 
 history of his life. He was born in this part of France, and was 
 fourteen years of age when he was taken from Toulon by the 
 British fleet, on the capture of the city ; that he was carried, with 
 his mother and aunt, to Portsmouth, where they were landed ; 
 and that he had lived in a small village near to that town, and that, 
 finding it necessary to adopt some profession in order to make a 
 livelihood, he had become a teacher of drawing and painting. To 
 this he added the art of fortification and drawing plans, and his 
 pupils were chiefly young officers of the navy. 
 
 ' Gentlemen of the jury,' he went on, 'consider, if you please, 
 that this humble and obscure person was absolutely unknown to 
 anybody connected with the British Government. lie has never 
 spoken to an official person ; he is ignorant of politics. But it is 
 not difficult to understand one feeling which survived in his breast, 
 after ten years of exile, namely, love of France and the desire to 
 see again his native country. It was to gratify this desire, and 
 with no other object whatever, that he made this journey. Why, 
 then, did he assume the name and procure the passport of a British 
 subject ? It was in order to escape questioning about his origin 
 and family. Like all emigres, he was uncertain of the reception 
 he would meet, as the son of an aristocrat, and of one sentenced 
 to death and executed for treason towards the Republic. But, 
 gentlemen, it was not an assumed name ; it was the name by which 
 he was commonly known in England — the Anglicized form of hi3 
 own name. As for the questions which he asked of everybody, I 
 confess that I see nothing in them but such as would be prompted 
 by the natural curiosity of one returning to his country after ten 
 years — and those ten years the most momentous and the most 
 glorious in the whole history of the country. Gentlemen, there ig 
 his note-book ; read it, I beg of you, with unprejudiced eyes. 
 There is nothing in the notes, I submit, which would be of the 
 least advantage for a foreign country to know. Then there remain 
 the sketches. Gentlemen of the jury, examine these for yourselves. 
 There are the ruined ChSteau where the prisoner was born ; the 
 house in Aix which belonged to his ancestors ; here is the Place
 
 92 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 d'Armes of this town ; here is a sketch of the busy and crowded 
 Quai, with the ships and harbour ; here is a drawing of tha 
 Porte de Marseilles ; and here is tbe unfinished drawing which 
 caused his arrest. Gentlemen, the gend'arme who arrested bim 
 states that it was a plan of the fortifications. I submit that it is 
 nothing of the kind. It would have been, when finished, a drawing 
 of the view from the bastion on which he stood, showing the town, 
 with the harbour, arsenal, and the walls. I can find in these 
 drawings nothing that can disprove the prisoner's own statements. 
 Add to this that there was not found upon him a single document 
 of a suspicious character, unless the pencil portrait of a young 
 lady is suspicious ; that the prisoner was but poorly supplied with 
 money ; that his movements were open for all to see ; and that 
 every statement of his which could be proved has been tested and 
 found true. There is one other point, gentlemen, that I would 
 press upon you. The British held this town for several month-!. 
 Do you think it possible that they should have gone away without 
 taking a plan of the fortifications with them ? Do you think it 
 likely that they should have sent this young man on an errand so 
 useless and so dangerous ? Would anyone be so foolish as to 
 accept such a mission ?' 
 
 With these words the counsel sat down. So clear and reasonable 
 was the defence that Raymond would probably have been ac- 
 quitted, but for a most untoward accident. There was heard from 
 the street outside a great shouting and rearing of men, and an 
 usher brought a note to the President, who read it, and after 
 handing it to his brother judges, gave it to the counsel for the 
 prosecution ; evidently something had happened of importance, 
 for he sprang to his feet, and began a speech of the most furious 
 kind. 
 
 ' I rise,' he said, ' to demand justice upon a traitor to the Re- 
 public — the son of a traitor. Was he ignorant when he left 
 England that the King of Great Britain had already resolved on 
 war ? Was he ignorant that war was to be declared immediately ? 
 Yes, gentlemen of the jury, immediately. War has been declared. 
 The news has just reached this town. The huzzas of the crowd 
 which you have just heard demonstrate the spirit with which we 
 have received this news. Already the fleets which are to humble 
 the pride of our enemies are preparing in our harbours ; already 
 our brave sailors are exulting in the approaching downfall of the 
 enemy of freedom and justice. 
 
 1 Gentlemen, let us not be revengeful, but let us be just. Con«
 
 THE TRIAL. 93 
 
 eider the circumstances. It is' natural that the enemy should wish 
 to learn everything possible concerning our armaments and the 
 state of the country. Since, then, it is natural to expect that 
 English spies are among us in disguise as innocent travellers, what 
 sort of person would Pitt select for a spy in this country? First, 
 it is absolutely necessary for him to know the language. But in 
 Provence our common people do not speak French, but the Langue 
 d'Oc. Probably tbere is not one living Briton who knows that 
 language. Some there may be who have read tbe Troubadours, 
 and know the tongue spoken in the Middle Ages, but for the 
 common talk of the peasantry, the patois, there needs a man who 
 was born and brought up among them. Such a man he found in 
 the prisoner. He is an emigre. His father was shot for treason- 
 able correspondence with the British. The title and the estates 
 which might have been his are lost to him. It is the Revolution 
 which has ruined him. Therefore, he hates the Revolution, and 
 regards the success of our arms with envy and disgust. He had 
 lived so long in his native country before his exile, that he can 
 never forget the language of its people — in fact, he was already 
 fourteen when he was taken away by a British ship. On the other 
 hand, he has been so long in England that he can now speak Eng- 
 lish perfectly, and pass himself off for an Englishman. While in 
 this country, in appearance and in language he can appear, if he 
 please, as an honest Provencal. 
 
 1 There is, again, another circumstance in favour of the selection 
 of this young man. He is an artist. That is to say, he can draw, 
 paint, and plan — especially plan. In England, his residence, when 
 not employed in service of this kind, is Portsmouth, which is to 
 Great Britain what Toulon is to France. There he enjoys the 
 society of the British officers, to whom he teaches the art of 
 making plans and drawings — of what ? Of fortifications. So that 
 we have in this young man all that combine to form the perfect 
 spy. Given the conditions of his birth and his education, and we 
 might predict beforehand what would be his work. Poor, like all 
 emigres ; filled with hatred to the Revolution ; eager for revenge 
 on account of his lost wealth and rank ; an Englishman one day, 
 a Provencal the next ; intelligent, well educated, a draughtsman, 
 and, perhaps — it is in the blood of Provence — brave. Behold the 
 spy of Pitt ! Behold the tool of the British Government ! Yet a 
 willing instrument, and. therefore, one which must be rendered 
 useless for any future work, as an example and a discouragement.' 
 
 4 All this time/ Raymond tells me, ' while the advocate thun-
 
 94 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 dered, and even I myself began to feel that after all I must be a 
 secret messenger of the British Government, I was filled with that 
 strange feeling that the issue of the trial concerned some other 
 man. Until the moment when I wrote the letter to you, which I 
 thought would be my last, I was callous to an extent which I can- 
 not now understand. For certainly no man ever had an escape 
 such as mine.' 
 
 The jury, without hesitation, gave their verdict — the prisoner 
 was guilty. Then the President sentenced Raymond to death, and 
 he was taken away. 
 
 Outside the court there was such a crowd as had never been seen 
 before, yelling death to the English spy, and demanding that he 
 should be given up to them. 
 
 Amid a storm of execrations he was taken back to his cell in 
 safety. 
 
 ' Even then,' said Raymond, ' in the midst of the savage faces, 
 and with the certain prospect of death, I was insensible. It was 
 as if I was playing a part, and that the principal part, of a play.' 
 
 What it was that supported him through this time of trouble, I 
 know not ; but, remembering Raymond's dream at the Chateau 
 and the strange events which followed, and his mother's constant 
 companionship with her dead husband, and the assurance which she 
 received as to her son's safety, I have formed a judgment which 
 nothing can shake. 
 
 At last the prisoner was safely lodged in his cell, the key turned 
 and the mob dispersed, hungering for the moment when he should 
 be brought forth to be beheaded in their sight. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 It was in the second week of June, when Raymond, as we judged, 
 had been already dead for three weeks, that we received his last 
 letter. Indeed, I cannot bear to think even now or to speak of 
 that terrible time, in which nothing could bring consolation, not 
 even weeping. Raymond was dead. Then was all the sun taken 
 from the heavens, and the warmth from the air, and the joy from 
 my life. There were others who mourned for Raymond besides 
 myself ; but we women who lo e our lovers are selfish, and w© 
 think not of any others.
 
 A T HOME. 95 
 
 It is good for those who mourn and refuse to be comforted, that 
 they should be forced by necessity into thinking of other things. 
 It was about the end of October that I was compelled to turn 
 away my thoughts from my own sorrows. I have said that with 
 the arrival of peace and the paving off of the ships, the profits of 
 our boat greatly diminished. This decrease grew worse as ship 
 after ship was paid off and none were put into commission except 
 to relieve the regular West India and Mediterranean Fleets. Many 
 days during the summer of that year the boat returned with half 
 her cargo unsold. If this was the case in the summer, when we 
 looked to make our chief harvest, what was to be expected from 
 the winter? Day after day passed, and not enough business done 
 to pay even the wages of Sally and her father. More than this ; 
 there was no longer any demand for our dried sloe leaves, and 
 Portsmouth herbalists bought no more of our drugs. 
 
 I regarded this change at first without the least concern. Was it 
 likely that the daughter of a substantial merchant should be ren- 
 dered anxious by so small a matter ? Besides, this was the most 
 delightful season in my life, being in the first six months of my 
 engagement, and, naturally, I thought all day long of Raymond. 
 
 In winter, we have little to sell except potatoes, onions, and 
 cabbages. This winter it appeared that no one wanted to buy our 
 things at all, because there were so many who sold and so few to 
 buy. Thus it is with a seaport town. A long war gives rise to 
 many new trades. Where there was one shop there are seen, after 
 a few brisk years, ten ; where there was one market-garden there 
 are ten. Then Raymond went away. Was it likely that I should 
 concern myself about the boat when I had to prepare for his 
 departure ? Whose hands but mine prepared his linen and packed 
 his trunk ? 
 
 In the spring a great misfortune fell upon us. I mean, a mis- 
 fortune apart from the dreadful letter of Raymond's. War was 
 declared, and we thought to recover our losses, the dockyards bein^ 
 busy day and night, the harbour full of vessels in commission and 
 Spithead and the Solent crowded with ships waiting for convoy. 
 The promise of April was beautiful. Never were trees thicker 
 with blossom. Then there came a hard frost one night which did 
 dreadful damage, and after this a cold east wind which destroyed 
 whatever escaped the frost. After the east wind, the weather 
 grew suddenly hot, and then came swarms of caterpillars, the like 
 of which I have never seen before or since. They stripped the 
 currant, gooseberry and raspberry bushes of leaf and fruit ; they
 
 <i 6 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 left not a single strawberry ; they ate up our asparagus, our 
 young peas, our beans, and our lettuces. They left us nothing. 
 It was like the plague of locusts which fell upon the land of 
 Egypt, and ate up every herb of the land and all the fruit of the 
 trees. 
 
 And now there was no use for the boat to go down the harbour, 
 because there was nothing to put into her. 
 
 Yery soon, naturally, the day came when I had no more money to 
 pay even the wages, and none for the housekeeping. Note that, 
 like all the world, in the prosperous times we had kept a good table, 
 and my father had taken his punch nightly, as if the fat times were 
 going to last. I declare that I had no suspicion at all of the truth. 
 My poor father had always spoken of himself as a substantial 
 merchant. It was thus that he qualified himself. Everybody re- 
 garded him as a merchant, who had retired with what is considered 
 a substantial fortune. To be sure, I had never seen any evidence 
 of that fortune ; but there was no need to draw upon it, seeing 
 that the garden provided amply for the needs of the house, and, 
 besides, is a daughter to suspect her father of exaggeration ? 
 However, there was now nothing to be done but to inform my 
 father of the circumstances, namely, that we had nothing hardly to 
 sell and no money for wages. For a garden must be kept up. If 
 labourers are not continually employed upon it, how is anything to 
 be made out of it ? 
 
 Nothing ever surprised me more than the effect of my communi- 
 cation, for my father first turned pale and then red. He then rose, 
 and softly shut the door. 
 
 'My child,' he said, and there his voice stuck. 'M3' child,' he 
 began again, and a second time he was fain to stop and gasp. 
 ' Molly ' — this time he made an effort and succeeded — ' I feared that 
 this was coming, but I would not worry you. What are we to do ? 
 "What in the wide world shall we do ?' 
 
 ' Why, sir,' I said, ' if you will find the money to tide us over 
 this bad season, I doubt not that we shall do very well, seeing that 
 the war has begun again and times are brisk.' 
 
 ' Find the money, child ? I find the money ? Molly,' he 
 whispered, ' listen, child : I have no money. Yes, you all think 
 me a man of substance, but I am not. Molly, your father is a man 
 of straw — a man of straw, child. He is worth nothing.' 
 
 He rose from his chair, and walked about the room, beating his 
 hands together. All his consequence vanished, and he now seemed 
 to become suddenly thin,
 
 AT HOME. 97 
 
 1 1 have no money, Molly.* 
 
 1 But I thought ■ 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I know. Why did I retire from the City, the only 
 place where a man can find true happiness ? Why did I come to 
 this miserable village? Child, because I had no choice — because I 
 was a bankrupt, and my creditors, after they had taken all I had, 
 suffered me to withdraw unmolested. So I came here, and — Molly 
 — 'tis hard for a man who has been Alderman and Warden of his 
 Company, and lived respected, to go among other men and own 
 that he is bankrupt — bankrupt.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir !' I cried, ' forgive me for ignorantly opening up the past. 
 I could not know ' 
 
 ' Say no more, Molly, say no more. Let us consider. There is 
 a little purse ; let us hope it may be enough. Perhaps our friends 
 may not learn the truth, if this will serve till next year.' He 
 opened his desk and took out a purse containing fifty sovereigns. 
 1 If this will serve, Molly. It is not my money, but your own, 
 saved by me.' 
 
 You now understand how I was dragged out of my trouble by 
 necessity. We had fifty pounds for all our stock ; we had to make 
 it serve for six months and more, supposing that we did no trade 
 for that time. But the potatoes and the cauliflowers turned out 
 well, and in the end we pulled through, though with desperate 
 shifts at home, so that no one suspected of the Alderman that 
 he was not, as he always pretended, a substantial merchant. 
 
 I then discovered, having my eyes opened again, as I said, by 
 necessity, that the two ladies at the Cottage were threatened with 
 straits as dreadful as our own, or more, because, with a grea.r 
 garden and no rent to pay, it goes hard if one cannot live ; bv: 
 these two ladies had nothing at all, except the mere hollow trun S 
 of thin gold, from which the jewels of the Rose had all been taken 
 And now they must sell even that. 
 
 'My dear,' said Madam, 'since it hath pleased Heaven to call 
 away our boy, for whom we broke up this Holy Relic, the posses- 
 sion of which, we were taught to believe, secured the continuation 
 of our house, I see no reason why the gold should not follow the 
 jewels, and all be sold. When we have spent the money there will 
 be nothing. But we are in hands which never fail.' 
 
 ' Oh, Madam !' I cried, ' you and the Countess shall come and live 
 with us. We will all live together, and talk about Raymond every 
 day.' 
 
 7
 
 98 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 They did come to live [with us, but, as you shall see, under 
 happier conditions than we looked for. 
 
 The Vicar took away the Rose, and brought them money for it. 
 Never was any man more taken with a work of art than the Vicar 
 with the Rose. He loved to look upon it ; he would make it the 
 text for a discourse upon the Popes of Avignon ; upon the early 
 Protestants of Provence ; upon the arts of the Middle Age?, and 
 upon a thousand things. Yet, when he took it away, wrapped in 
 flannel, he showed no sign of grief, but rather of satisfaction, a 
 thing difficult to understand. 
 
 When it was gone, one felt as if the blessing of the Pope had 
 departed from the place ; strange that we, who are Protestants, 
 and should not value the Pope's blessing a farthing, should believe 
 in a superstition which associated the extinction of the house with 
 the loss of the Rose. Yet Raymond was dead, and the Holy Rose 
 was gone. That could not be denied, and Raymond was the last of 
 the Arnaults. 
 
 There are many strange and surprising things in this story. It 
 is wonderful to remember how, in the wisdom of Providence, the 
 son of the man Leroy, ignorant of his father's crime, should have 
 been brought to the village where his father's victims lived ; it is 
 wonderful to think that his life was saved by none other than 
 the sister of the man whom his father had murdered ; that he 
 should become a friend of that man's son ; and that he should dis- 
 cover the truth in so sudden and unexpected a manner, on the very 
 eve of his departure. 
 
 Remember next how Pierre prayed that we would not tell Ray- 
 mond, and how, through that very ignorance, Raymond was 
 brought mysteriously to the house of his father's murderer, and 
 received his hospitality ; how he was lured on by him in apparent 
 security to encounter the most dreadful risk ; and how the same 
 man who denounced the father also bore false witness against the 
 son. Who that considers can doubt the Providential guidance of 
 these things ? 
 
 For my own part, I remember also the dream which Raymond 
 had in the tower of the Chateau ; and I see in all these things 
 together, and in those which followed, the vengeance of God. 
 
 The world is, however, full of those who scoff at such interpreta- 
 tions, and foolishly boast that they believe no more than they can 
 see. Well, for my own part, I believe not only in what I see, but 
 also in the things which even a woman's mind may gather and con- 
 clude, from the things seen, concerning things unseen.
 
 A T HOME. 99 
 
 For instance, was it for nothing that all this time the poor mad- 
 woman talked and laughed, always happy, always with smiles and 
 songs, with her dead husband ? She knew in a dim and uncertain 
 way that Raymond was gone away. She even knew that he was 
 gone to Aix, to Eyragues, and to Toulon. She talked about him 
 at those places, wondering what he was doing, and so forth. From 
 her husband's replies she learned that all was well with her son — 
 which we knew, alas ! was not true ; but one may surely deceive a 
 mother on this point — and that he would return home safe and 
 well. How could he return home who was lying dead somewhere 
 among the graves of the criminals ? Well, I am now going to tell 
 you exactly what did come to pass, and show what little faith we 
 possessed, who knew that the dead Count was always with his wife 
 day and night, yet could not be brought to believe his most solemn 
 and repeated assurances. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE RELEASE. 
 
 Raymond sat in his cell, saved from the yelling mob, which wanted 
 to have him debvered into their hands. Why, he thought, had his 
 guards been overpowered it would have been all over, and quickly. 
 Now, those execrations and those furious yells would have to be 
 faced again. 
 
 It was six o'clock when they brought him back. The Governor 
 of the prison followed him into his cell. 
 
 ' I have to inform you,' he said coldly, ' that your sentence is to 
 be carried into effect without delay. You will be executed to- 
 morrow morning, at daybreak. Expect no commutation of the 
 sentence.' 
 
 Raymond bowed. 
 
 ' If there is any request you have to make, you can do so now.' 
 
 ' I should like to send a letter of farewell to — to a certain English 
 girl whom I was to have married.' 
 
 1 You can write the letter. Confine yourself solely to the facts, 
 and to a brief farewell. It will be read, and, if it contains nothing 
 treasonable, it will be forwarded. Have you any other request to 
 make ?' 
 
 ' I should hke,' said Raymond, ' if this request can be granted, 
 my sketch of the Chateau d'Eyragues to be enclosed in the letter.' 
 
 7-2
 
 ioo THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 ' If it is not a drawing of a place of arms, and conveys no infor- 
 mation, it shall be enclosed in your letter.' 
 
 1 1 thank you, M. le Directeur. There is no other request that I 
 have to make.' 
 
 ' Will you see a priest ? — no ? It is sometimes the case that a 
 condemned criminal likes to make a confession or statement. You 
 shall have a candle to enable you to do so, if you wish.' 
 
 'I have nothing more to add,' said Raymond, ' to the statement 
 I made in Court.' 
 
 The Governor left him, and they presently sent the writing 
 "materials ; the turnkey standing over Raymond while he wrote the 
 letter, which you have already seen. The letter must have been 
 despatched that very evening, otherwise, as you will discover im- 
 mediately, it would not have been sent at all. 
 
 His dinner, or supper, was brought to him at seven o'clock. It 
 was a sumptuous meal for a prison, consisting of soup, a roast 
 chicken, and a bottle of good wine. But it was to be his last, and 
 people are naturally kind to a man who is about to die. 
 
 His last ! Astonishing to relate, he devoured it with great 
 appetite and heartiness, as if it was to be succeeded by thousands. 
 When he had finished it, he endeavoured to compose his mind to 
 the meditation and prayer in which he intended to pass the night. 
 
 'Either,' he says now, 'I am naturally insensible to religion, 
 which I am loth to believe — indeed, I am sure I am not so cold a 
 wretch — or I was sustained by some inward assurance, because, 
 though my end was so imminent that every minute seemed to 
 bring me closer to the axe, I could not so clearly face the situation 
 as to question my conscience and confess my sins before Heaven ; 
 but continually my thoughts turned towards you, my dear, aud my 
 mother, and this quiet village. Nay, though I knew that my dinner 
 would be the last I should ever take, I devoured it with appetite, 
 and only wished there had been twice as much. In vain I said to 
 myself that in twelve hours or so I should be in the presence of 
 my Judge, and my body would be lying a senseless, headless log ; 
 my thoughts were turned earthwards, and wholly directed to thee,, 
 my sweetheart.' 
 
 I do not blame him in this ; nor do I think that he was insensible 
 to religion ; because I am well assured that, as he was sustained at 
 the trial, and as he heard the execrations of the people without 
 alarm, so he was now miraculously kept from the despair which 
 would otherwise have laid hold upon his soul. 
 
 Surely, a mors solemn time there can never be in a man's life
 
 THE RELEASE. 101 
 
 than the last night of it ; especially if he knows that he is to die 
 the next day, and if he be in such a condition of mental strength 
 as to understand it. There are so many wretched criminals hanged 
 every year that we think nothing of the anguish, the terror, the 
 remorse of their last night upon the earth. Of some, I know, it is 
 reported that they drink away their terrors, and go to the fatal 
 tree stupid with liquor ; and of others, that they sleep through the 
 whole night, apparently careless of their coming end. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock that Raymond was interrupted by foot- 
 steps outside his door, and the turning of the key in the lock. 
 
 He started to his feet. Was he — the thought made his heart 
 Etand still — to be taken out in the night and thrown to the 
 mob? 
 
 4 1 thank you, M. le Directeur ' — Raymond started because he 
 thought he knew the voice — ' and I will not trouble you to wait. 
 My orders are to put certain questions to the prisoner alone. 
 Leave one of your men outside the cell, and he can conduct me to 
 the door. Good-night, M. le Directeur.' 
 
 The door was thrown open and an officer entered wearing a 
 military cloak thrown over his shoulders, and covering half his face. 
 He shut the door carefully, put the lamp he had taken from the 
 turnkey upon the table, and threw back the cloak. 
 
 ' Heavens, it is Pierre !' 
 
 'Hush !' It was none other than Pierre Gavotte, but no longer 
 in rags. Pierre Gavotte, Lieutenant of the Forty-ninth, in uniform. 
 ' Hush ! There is no time to spare.' 
 
 ' My friend, you are come to say farewell. I did not expect to 
 6ee a friendly face again before I died.' 
 
 ' I come with an order from the General-Commandant to put 
 certain questions to the English spy. Well, here I am.' 
 
 He threw out his arms, and laughed as if he had kept an appoint- 
 ment to an evening's amusement. 
 
 1 And your questions ?' 
 
 ' My first question ' he hesitated. ' Raymond, do you know 
 
 —have they told you — who I am ?' 
 
 ' Why, you are my old friend and enemy, Pierre Gavotte. Who 
 else should you be ?' 
 
 The name had escaped him at the trial ; in the discovery that 
 Leroy and the witness were the same, Raymond paid no attention 
 to his assumed name. This was a happy accident, if anything can 
 be called an accident in the course of this history, so manifestly 
 Providential.
 
 lo« THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 He held out his hand. Pierre hesitated a moment. Then he 
 took it. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said. • Yes, we can shake hands now.' 
 
 ' It has been impossible,' he explained, ' for me to have access to 
 you until now. I discovered a week ago the name of the so-called 
 English spy, and I knew that it must be no other than you. Oh !, 
 my friend, you a spy ? I have been considering and devising. 
 Now I have completed my plan.' 
 
 ' Your plan ?' 
 
 ' Certainly ; my plan. "Why not ? What is the good of having 
 friends if they do nothing for you ? You are to escape, Ray- 
 mond.' 
 
 'Escape ? Why, Pierre, who is to take me through these stone 
 walls ? There is no time, either. I am to die at daybreak.' 
 
 'Everything is arranged if you will do exactly what I order. 
 Will you promise that ? I give you freedom, Raymond, if you will 
 act by my orders. It is for Molly's sake,' he added. 
 
 ' I promise.' 
 
 ' Then change your clothes with me. Quick ; time presses.' 
 
 ' Change with you ? Why, what will you do ? Pierre, I under- 
 stand you now. You think that we are so much alike that I have 
 only to walk out in your uniform, and I shall pass for you.' 
 
 ' That is, my friend, exactly my plan. That is, you have guessed 
 a part of it. But as you would infallibly be found out if you went 
 on parade, that is not all my plan.' 
 
 ' And what about yourself ?' 
 
 Pierre laughed. 
 
 ' I had to make two plans ; one for you, and one for me. What 
 do I do, when you are gone ? My man outside — whom I have 
 bribed — returns for me, and lets me out by the Governor's private 
 entrance when he is asleep. I go home to my barracks quietly. No 
 one will ever suspect me, and presently I get a letter from you tell- 
 ing me that you have arrived in safety.' 
 
 All this was pure fiction. 
 
 'Are you quite sure, Pierre, that you are safe?' 
 
 'My dear friend,' he replied earnestly, 'I am as sure of my 
 future as I am of your escape, if you will do exactly as I order you. 
 There can be no doubt whatever of my future.' 
 
 Again he laughed, and looked so careless and light-hearted that 
 one could not choose but believe him, 
 
 'A Field-Marshal's baton — or ' 
 
 ' That, or the other fate common to soldiers,' said Pier/e.
 
 THE RELEASE. 103 
 
 'QnicK, now ; undress and change. Think of Molly, not of my 
 future.' 
 
 'You are now complete/ he said, five minutes afterwards. 'Upon 
 my word, Raymond, you make a pretty lieutenant. But stand up- 
 right ; swing your shoulders. You civilians never understand a 
 military walk ; clank your heels, rattle your sword, look at the 
 turnkeys at the gate as an officer looks at his men, without fear and 
 with authority ; but keep your face in shade. When you leave 
 the cell, follow the turnkey without a word. Do you understand 
 so far ?' 
 
 1 Yes ; so far.' 
 
 ' Very well. Outside the prison is a sentry who will call for the 
 word. It is " Espion Anglais." Turn to the right, and walk 
 straight along the street until you come to a little wine-shop with 
 the sign of the " Bleating Lamb." Enter this shop, and without 
 saying a word walk through it and up the stairs to the room above. 
 Do you understand all this ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly. Shall I wait there for you ?' 
 
 'No. You will there find a young lady. You will obey her. 
 Now, my friend, farewell.' 
 
 4 We shall meet again.' 
 
 ' Perhaps. I do not know. Farewell. If — say rather, when 
 you get home in safety, give this note to Miss Molly, and ' — he 
 pulled off the gold lace knot that hung from the sword-handle — 
 'give her this as well. Tell her it is the badge of my honour that 
 I give her. She will explain what that means. Now, farewell, 
 Raymond.' 
 
 ' Farewell, Pierre.' They clasped hands for the last time, and 
 looked each into the other's face. At the last moment a doubt 
 crossed Raymond's mind. ' You are quite sure — perfectly sure, 
 Pierre, that you are in no danger whatever ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly sure,' he replied ; ' I know perfectly well where I 
 shall be to-morrow morning. There is a thing concerning myself 
 that Molly knows, and Madam Claire. When you get home, ask 
 them to tell you. I shall not mind your knowing it then. Forgive 
 me, friend ; it is the only secret that I have kept from you, and 
 even this I only discovered the day before I came away from 
 Porchester. Go now.' 
 
 He kissed him, French fashion, on both cheeks. 
 
 It all happened exactly as Pierre had arranged. The turnkeys 
 glanced a moment at the officer, and let him out. The sentry 
 demanded the word and suffered him to pass. He was a free man
 
 ioj THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 once more. In the Place d'Armes, through which his way led, 
 stood the guillotine, tall aud slender, which was set up to take of! 
 his head ; the workmen were still engaged upon the scaffold. 
 Presently he came to the wine-shop with the sign of the ' Bleating 
 Lamb,' its doors open. Raymond walked through it unchallenged 
 and up the stairs, all this exactly in accordance with his instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 When I received Pierre's letter he had been dead for nearly six 
 months, so long did it take Raymond to effect his escape from the 
 country. ' I promised,' he said, ' to write to you if ever I had the 
 chance of doing something worthy. The chance has come, but not 
 in the way you thought and I hoped. I have set Raymond free. 
 The guilt of my father is atoned, and the life of your lover is saved 
 for you. "What more could I desire or expect ? Let Madam 
 Claire know that I was not ungrateful or forgetful. If, as she 
 thinks, there is another life beyond the grave — my grave will be 
 among the criminals and the outcasts— perhaps the sin of my 
 lather will not follow me there. Farewell, and be happy.' 
 
 'So, Monsieur' — this was the young lady who was to meet 
 Raymond — ' I have expected you for two hours. Dieu ! you are 
 exactly like Pierre Gavotte. Are you brothers, by accident ? 
 Strange accidents happen off the stage as well as upon it. Well, I 
 promised that I would ask no questions, but you must do exactly 
 what I order you. Very well, then. Oh, I know who you are, 
 because I was in the Court to-day and saw the trial ! What ? You 
 are no more a spy than I am, and you would have been acquitted 
 but for the news of the war, which turned their heads. You played 
 with great dignity the part of hero in the last act but one. Believe 
 me, sir, it is only gentlemen who preserve their dignity at such 
 moments. I understand good playing. You looked as if you were 
 so strong in your innocence that you would not show any anxiety 
 or irritation, even when the procureur was thundering for justice.' 
 She rattled on without pause or stop, being a pretty little black- 
 eyed girl, well formed but slender. ' Understand, then, Monsieur, 
 that I am an actress. We trust our lives to each other — I to you, 
 because this is a job which the First Consul would regard with 
 severe displeasure. But you are innocent : first, because you look 
 so ; next, because you say so ; and, lastly, because Pierre Gavotte 
 — who is the soul of honour — says so. Therefore, I am pleased to 
 protect innocence. On the stage I am frequently innocent myself,
 
 THE RELEASE. 105 
 
 mnd therefore I know what it is to want protection. Now, listen 
 and obey. In the next room yon will find the dress of a laquais. 
 Go and put it on. First, however ' — she took a pair of scissors and 
 cut off his hair, which was tied behind, and cropped the rest so as 
 to hang over his ear, as is the way with the common folk — 'There 
 — now change your dress. You area Provencal ; you speak French 
 badly ; with me you talk in your own language ; you are a little 
 lame — let me see you walk — no, this is the way that lame men walk. 
 You are also a little deaf, and you put up your hand to your ear, 
 like this — turn your head a little, and open your mouth, and say 
 * Hcin !' So ; you are an apt pupil. Remember to be respectful 
 to your mistress, who will sometimes scold you ; above all, study 
 the manners of servants. We are to start to-morrow for Marseilles ; 
 you will, perhaps, be able to pass over to Spain, but you must not 
 run risks. After Marseilles, I am going north to Burgundy, where 
 we shall be near the frontier, and you may get across in safety.' 
 
 ' I understand everything.' 
 
 4 As for your papers, I have them. They will be found perfectly 
 regular. All this, Monsieur, I do for you at the request of 
 Lieutenant Gavotte, who is, it seems, your friend. I hope that no 
 suspicion will fall upon him.' 
 
 ' He declares that he is in no danger whatever,' said Ray- 
 mond. 
 
 ' He is not my lover. Do not think that. All other men make 
 love to me if they can ; but Pierre does better. He has protected 
 me from those who delight to insult an actress. If we were found 
 out, Monsieur my servant who is lame and deaf, remember we 
 should all three have an opportunity of looking into the basket 
 which Madame la Guillotine keeps for her friends.' 
 
 ' I assure you, Mademoiselle, that when I left Pierre he was 
 laughing at the danger.' 
 
 ' That is bad,' she said, shaking her head. ' Men must not laugh 
 when they go into danger. It brings bad luck.' 
 
 The occupant of the condemned cell remained undisturbed ; nor 
 did the turnkey come to let him out by the Governor's private 
 entrance. He was left there all night long. 
 
 Very early in the morning, before daybreak, he was aroused by 
 two of the gaolers. They brought candles, and informed him that 
 in two hours he would be executed ; the time being fixed early to 
 avoid a conflict with the crowd, who would certainly attempt to 
 tear him in pieces.
 
 io5 THE HOLY ROSE. 
 
 They asked him if he wanted anything ; he might have coffee if 
 he chose, or brandy, or tobac.o. 
 
 The prisoner wanted nothing except a cup of coffee, which they 
 brought him. Shortly before six o'clock they came again, and led 
 him to the room where criminals are prepared for the scaffold,, 
 their hands tied behind them, and their hair cut. 
 
 Then a very unexpected thing happened. The prisoner remarked,, 
 when they began to tie his hands : 
 
 ' Monsieur le Directeur, these ceremonies are useless. The exe- 
 cution will not take place this morning.' 
 
 The Governor made no reply, and they went on with the 
 toilette. 
 
 ' The execution, I repeat. Monsieur le Directeur, cannot take 
 place.' 
 
 4 Why not ?' 
 
 1 Because the prisoner has escaped !' 
 
 ' Escaped ? The prisoner has escaped ? Then who are you ?' 
 
 ' The prisoner has escaped, I repeat. lie is now, if he is prudent, 
 concealed so securely that you will not be able to find him, though 
 you search every house in France. As for me, you would observe, 
 if the light was stronger, that I am not the prisoner, though I am 
 said to resemble him. I am, on the other hand, an officer of the 
 Forty-ninth Regiment of the Line.' 
 
 'Is it possible?' cried the Governor. 'An officer? "What 
 does this mean ?' 
 
 ' If you doubt my word, lead me to the guillotine. But if you 
 desire to prove the truth of my words, call in any man of that 
 regiment and ask him who I am.' 
 
 ' But you brought me a letter from the Commandant.' 
 
 * It was a forgery. I forged the signature.' 
 
 ' But — how did the prisoner escape ?' 
 
 1 He went out of the prison dressed in my uniform. I gave 
 him, besides, the password.' 
 
 ' Where is he now, then ?' asked the Governor stupidly. 
 
 ' Why, if he is a wise man he will, certainly, keep that a 
 secret.' 
 
 ' If the thing be as you say,' said the Governor, ' you have 
 yourself, Monsieur, committed a most serious crime. What ! you, 
 an officer in the army, to release an English spy ?' 
 
 1 That is true. I have committed a very serious crime, indeed. 
 It is so serious that I might just as well have suffered the execu- 
 tion to go on. Meanwhile, I must ask you to take me back to the
 
 THE RELEASE. 107 
 
 cell, and to acquaint my Colonel immediately with what has 
 happened.' 
 
 There was a great crowd upon the Place d'Armes, where the 
 guillotine was standing on a scaffold ready to embrace her victim. 
 A military guard was stationed round the scaffold to keep off the 
 crowd. Early as it was, the square was crowded with people, 
 chiefly soldiers and sailors, who were in great spirits at the 
 prospect of seeing the head taken off an English spy — an agent of 
 perfidious Albion. They sang songs, and played rough jokes upon 
 each other. Among them were the country people, who had 
 brought in their fruit and vegetables for the market, and a few 
 servants who were out thus early to see the execution as well as to 
 do the day's marketing. 
 
 The criminal was late. The time crept along. Decidedly it 
 was very late. Had anything happened? Were they going to 
 pardon him at the last moment ? Had he confessed his guilt and 
 revealed the whole of the English plots ? Would it not be well to 
 storm the prison as the Bastille had been stormed, and to seize 
 the spy whether he had confessed or not ? 
 
 Presently, men came and began to take down the scaffold, and 
 it was understood that there would be no execution that day, 
 because the prisoner had escaped. 
 
 The town was searched ; house by house, room by room. At 
 the gates no one in the least corresponding to him had passed. 
 The prisoner must be somewhere in the town. Good. When 
 found he should be torn to pieces by the people. But he was not 
 found. 
 
 Three days afterwards, however, there was a most exciting 
 spectacle in the Place d'Armes ; a sight such as had not been wit- 
 nessed since December, 1793 — a military execution. 
 
 Everybody now knew that Lieutenant Gavotte, of the Forty- 
 ninth Regiment, had effected the escape of the English spy. It 
 was whispered by those who know everything that a great plot 
 had been discovered in which many of the French officers them ■ 
 selves were implicated. None, however, except the Colonel, kne» ' 
 for certain why he had done this thing. In his trial he simply 
 said that the so-called English spy was an innocent man whose 
 story was true ; that he had been kind to himself when a prisoner 
 in England ; and that, therefore, he had assisted him to escape. 
 
 His Colonel went, at the prisoner's request, to see him. I know 
 not what passed between them, but on his return the Colonel was
 
 108 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 •greatly agitated, and openly declared that no braver officer ever 
 existed than Lieutenant Gavotte, and no better man. 
 
 They brought him out to die between six and seven in the 
 morning. First they tore away his epaulettes, then his cuffs, and 
 then his facings. He was no longer an officer ; he was no longer a 
 soldier. But his face showed no sense of shame or fear. 
 
 Among the spectators was a man who, to see the show, had been 
 sitting under the tiers all night long. He was a restless man, who 
 moved and fidgeted continually, and bit his nails ; his eyes were 
 red ; he spoke to no one. 
 
 T/hen they led out the young man he nodded his head. 
 
 ' Good,' he said. ' First the flood, then the fire. The property 
 is first destroyed, and then the son.' 
 
 When they set Pierre in his place this man nodded his head 
 again. 
 
 ' Good,' he said. ' On that spot died the Count.' 
 
 They offered to tie a handkerchief round the prisoner's eyes, but 
 he refused, and stood with folded arms. 
 
 ' Good,' said the spectator again. ' Thus the Count refused to be 
 bound.' 
 
 Then at the word they fired, and Pierre Gavotte fell dead. 
 
 * Thus fell the Count,' said the spectator. He walked slowly 
 from his place and stood beside the dead body. ' This is mine,' he 
 6aid ; ' I am his father.' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 There is one more chapter to write, and my story, which I am 
 never tired of telling, will be finished. In the years to come it 
 will be told by my children, and by my children's children — nay, 
 among my descendants, so sure I am that my story will never be 
 forgotten, so wonderful it is and strange. 
 
 Raymond was dead ; he had been guillotined : his letter told us 
 this : only the poor mad woman assured us (speaking through the 
 spirit of her husband) that he was safe, and this we would not 
 believe. 
 
 Raymond was not dead ; you have heard by what a miracle he 
 was saved ; hear now how he came home to us. 
 
 It was on Christmas Eve. First, there was a great surprise for
 
 CONCLUSION. 109. 
 
 us, unexpected and astonishing. But not the greatest surprise 
 of all. 
 
 A sad Christmas Eve. The time was between six and seven. I 
 was sitting beside Madam Claire, on a stool before the fire. 
 There was no candle, because these poor ladies could only afford 
 candles when Madam Claire was working. And to-night she was 
 doing nothing. 
 
 To Frenchwomen the feast of Christmas is not so great an 
 occasion for festivity as that of the New Year, when they exchange 
 presents and make merry. But Madam Claire had lived ten years 
 with us and understood our Christmas rejoicing. Alas ! there was 
 little joy for us this year, we thought, and there would be little in 
 the years to come. 
 
 As we sat there, in silence, my head in Madam's lap, the waits 
 came to sing before our door, the lusty cobbler leading. They 
 sang ' When shepherds watched their flocks by night,' and 'Let 
 nothing you dismay,' with fiddle and harp to accompany. I believe 
 the cobbler sang his loudest and lustiest, out of pure sympathy,, 
 because he knew that we were in trouble. 
 
 1 Last Christmas ' I began, but could say no more. 
 
 'Patience, child, patience!' said Madam. 'The Lord knows 
 what is best, even for two humble women. Though Raymond 
 will never come to us, we shall go to him.' 
 
 ' My friend ' — it was the poor, mad lady, talking to her dead 
 husband — 'it is time for Raymond to come home. I thought I 
 
 heard his footsteps ; we have missed our boy ' 
 
 She looked about the room, as if expecting to see him sitting 
 among us. 
 
 ' Claire, my sister, when Raymond comes we will make a feast 
 for him. There shall be a dance and a supper for the villagers. 
 Raymond will come home to-day. My husband ! Thou art always 
 ready to make us happy. To-day, Claire ; to-day.' She laughed 
 with a gentle satisfaction. ' We cannot keep the boy always at 
 home, can we ? That is impossible. But he has not forgotten 
 his mother. He is coming home to-day — to-day !' 
 
 One should have been accustomed to such words as these, but 
 they went to our hearts ; so great was the mockery between our 
 grief and the poor creature's happiness. 
 
 Then there came a single footstep along the road. I knew it 
 for the Vicar's, and it stopped at the cottage door. 
 
 He came in, bearing in his arms something most carefully 
 swathed and wrapped.
 
 1 10 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 ' Ladies,' he bowed to all of us together, ' at this time of the 
 year it is the custom in England, as you doubtless know, to ex- 
 change with each other those good wishes of Christian folk one to 
 other, which are based upon the Event which the Church will to- 
 morrow commemorate. I wish for this household a merry ' 
 
 ' Nay, sir,' I said, ' can we have merry hearts, this Christmas or 
 any Christmas ?' 
 
 ' A merry Christmas,' he said stoutly, ' and a happy New Year. 
 Ay, the merriest Christmas and the happiest New Year that 
 Heaven can bestow ' 
 
 Was his Reverence in his right mind ? 
 
 'It is alto,' he went on, 'the godly custom among us to make 
 presents one to the other, at this season, in token of our mutual 
 affection, and in gratitude to the Giver of all good things. There- 
 fore, Madam, I have ventured to bring with me my offering. It 
 is this.' 
 
 He placed the parcel upon the table, and began to unroll the 
 coverings. 
 
 'What !' he looked at me with a kind of fierceness quite unusual 
 in his character — ' what ! do you think that I could look on un- 
 moved at the afflictions of this innocent family ?' (I declare that 
 I never thought anything of the kind.) 'You think that I could 
 suffer them to break up and destroy, for the sake of a few miser- 
 able guineas, so priceless a relic as the Golden Rose, given to this 
 family five hundred years ago ? Never ! Learn, Madam ' — he 
 bowed again to Madam Claire — ' that I have been the holder, not 
 the buyer or the seller, of the jewels belonging to this precious 
 monument of ancient (though mistaken and corrupt) religion. I 
 have now replaced every stone in its proper setting — you will not 
 find one missing — and I give you back complete, just as when it was 
 hallowed by the Pope at Avignon, your Holy Rose.' 
 
 He threw off the coverings, and behold it — the gems sparkling 
 and the gold branches glowing in the lirelight ; every jewel re- 
 placed, and the Rose as complete as ever ; and most beautiful it 
 looked, with its flowers all of precious stones. 
 
 ' Pardon me,' he said, ' the deception which I have practised. I 
 was determined to save the Rose, and without my little falsehood 
 (which may Heaven forgive !) you would not have taken the 
 money.' 
 
 'We must bring out the Holy Rose because Raymond comes 
 home to-day,' said the mad lady. 
 
 ' Sir 1' cried Madam Claire. ' Oh, sir, this is too much V
 
 CONCLUSION. in 
 
 She burst into sobbing and weeping and fell upon her knees at 
 the table, throwing her arms round the Rose. I never knew before 
 how much she loved it. 
 
 'It is one thing to restore to you the Rose,' said the Vicar ; ' it is 
 another to give you back the dead. Heaven alone can do that. Yet 
 there was a legend, a tradition, a superstitious belief concerning this 
 Rose, was there not ? The House should never want heirs so long 
 as the Rose remained in its possession. Why, it has never left your 
 hands except to be, as we may say, repaired.' 
 
 'Alas !' said Madam, ' the tradition has proved false. It was, I 
 fear, a human and earthly tradition, not warranted by the blessing 
 of the Pope, which must have been intended for some other than 
 the lady to whom he made the gift.' 
 
 ' Perhaps. Yet sometimes — nay. I know net ' 
 
 Here he hesitated, and looked from Madam to me, and from me 
 to Madam, as one who has something to communicate, but doubts 
 how to say it or what he should say. What could he have to say ? 
 
 ' Poor Molly !' he said at length, laying his hand upon my head. 
 * Poor child 1 thou hast had a grievous time of trial. Hast thou 
 faith enough to believe that there may still be happiness in store 
 for thee ?' 
 
 I shook my head. There was no more happiness possible for 
 me. 
 
 'Strange!' he said, still with that hesitation. ' 'Twas an old 
 legend, it seems a foolish legend. How can the blessing of a mere 
 man have such merit ? We may not believe it. Yet Some- 
 times we are deceived, and idle words prove true. It hath happened 
 that things which seemed impossible have happened. Wherefore, 
 Molly, let us hope— let us hope. But why connect such things as 
 may happen with the Pope ?' 
 
 I think we ought to have guessed something at these words. 
 But Raymond was dead. We cannot expect the dead to be raised 
 to life. And, besides, I was thinking of Madam, who was weeping 
 and praying and praising God upon her knees ; being carried quite 
 out of herself, as I had never seen her before, except when she 
 spoke like a prophetess to Pierre. 
 
 ' Molly,' said the Vicar, ' the ways of Providence are wonderful ; 
 we cannot try to fathom them. If sorrow falls upon us, we must 
 learn to be resigned ; if joy comes, we must be grateful. My dear, 
 how shall I tell thee what has happened ?' 
 
 ' Is it some new misfortune ?' I asked. ' Has my father ' 
 
 1 Nay, it is no misfortune. And yet thou must bummon up all
 
 1 1 2 THE HOL Y ROSE. 
 
 thy courage to hear the news which came to me this afternoon. 
 Listen, then ; and if I do not tell thee all at once, it is because I 
 fear for thy reason. Thy father, child, knows the news, and he is 
 already — but I anticipate. Sally knows, and she comes with him 
 in a few minutes. But I must speak slowly. Her father knows, 
 because he brought him in the boat. But I am going too quickly.' 
 
 1 Who has come in the boat — my father ?' 
 
 1 No, Molly, no ; not thy father. I fear, child, that I have 
 broken the news too abruptly — let me begin again. If, I say, 
 resignation is the duty of the sorrowful, a grateful heart, which is 
 also the duty of the joyful, must be shown in a spirit that is tran- 
 quil and self-contained. Be tranquil and self-contained ; and now, 
 my dear, I have this day received a letter — this afternoon only — 
 followed by the boat from the harbour with — with — the potatoes 
 and onions and — and — the woman whom they call Porchester 
 Sal ' 
 
 Was the Vicar going off his head ? What could he mean ? 
 
 He was not, however, permitted to prepare my mind any more, 
 for at that moment a man came running down the road, and the 
 door burst open. 
 
 It was my cousin Tom. 
 
 ' I hear the footstep of my boy,' said the Countess. 
 
 'Molly!' he cried. 'A Ghost! A Ghost! I have seen a 
 Ghost !' 
 
 His wild eyes and pale cheeks showed at least that he was 
 horribly frightened. His hat had fallen off, and the whip which 
 he generally carried had been dropped somewhere in the road. 
 
 ' Molly ! A real Ghost ! When I saw him I said : " Who's 
 afraid of a Ghost ?" That's what I said. " Who's afraid of a 
 Ghost ? You'd like to kick me again, would you ?" And with 
 that I gave him one with my whip. Would you believe it ? My 
 whip was knocked out of my hand, and I got a one-two with his 
 
 fists Well, any man may be afraid of a Ghost, and I ran. 
 
 away.' 
 
 ' A Ghost, Tom ?' 
 
 ' Molly, you remember that story about the fight and the kick in 
 the face, don't you ? I used to say that I had him down and was 
 laying on with a will. That wasn't true, Molly. I dare say I 
 should have had him down in another round — no — no — he will, 
 haunt me — it wasn't true at all. I never had him down, and he 
 would never have gone down, because he began it ; but he did- 
 kick me,'
 
 CONCLUSION. 113 
 
 'Tom, that was Pierre Gavotte, not Raymond at all.' 
 
 ' Ah ! all of a tale ; stick to it. Oh ! Lord— here he is again !' 
 
 Sally rushed in before him. 
 
 ' Miss Molly ! Miss Molly ! I brought him up the harbour in the 
 laoat. "We picked him up at Point. Here he is ! Here he is ! Not 
 a bit of a Frenchman, though he is dressed in a blue sack and a 
 cloth cap. Oh ! here he is !' 
 
 Oh! Heavens; can I ever forget that moment? 'Twas Ray- 
 mond himself I Raymond, strong and well, his arms stretched out 
 for me. When he let me go, I saw that the Vicar and my father 
 were shaking hands, and the tears were in their eyes. But Madam 
 Claire was still on her knees, her head in her hands. And so we 
 sto< d in silence until she rose and solemnly kissed her nephew. 
 
 ' My friend,' said Raymond's mother to her dead husband, 'I knew 
 thit your words come always true. You said that Raymond would 
 come home to-day. We will have a feast to welcome the boy's 
 return. And the villagers shall dance.' 
 
 1 It is,' said Madam Claire, ' the Blessing of the Holy Rose.'
 
 THE LAST MASS 
 
 Exactly a Tear before the Coming of the Spanish Armada (which 
 they blasphemously call'd the Invincible) there happen'd in a remote 
 Country Tillage an Event which can hardly be accounted as other 
 than a Miracle. It is very well known that the Purpose of Mira- 
 cles was to Establish the Kingdom of Christ ; and that Accomplisht, 
 it is thought by some (but not by Papists) that no more were per- 
 mitted. Tet (which we cannot but acknowledge) when we pray 
 for Grace and Succour, we ask for the continual Miraculous Inter- 
 position of the Providential Hand. And when the Mouth of an 
 old Woman is open'd, and she is permitted to Foretell Things 
 about to Happen, before ever they are Suspected (save perhaps by 
 those deep in the Counsels of Sovereigns), what can we call it but 
 Miraculous, unless we attribute it to the Pow'r of Witchcraft ? 
 No one, for certain, ever thought the Lady Katharine to be a 
 Witch, seeing that she was not only a Black Nun, but also formerly 
 Abbess of her Convent, and always Faithful and Obedient to her 
 Order. We are now taught that all Orders of Monks and Nun» 
 are Fond and Superstitious Inventions, but we are not taught that 
 Nuns are Witches. 
 
 Ton shall hear exactly what Lady Katharine Predicted, and in. 
 what Words. For what Purpose the Future was Reveal'd to her 
 I know not, nor shall I inquire into Things too deep for a Woman 
 — or even for the most Learned of Divines — to find out. If it be 
 Objected that it was the Bounden Duty of those who heard the 
 Prophecy Straightway to Inform the Sheriff of the County, so 
 that the Matter might be brought before the Queen's Most Excel- 
 lent Highness, I have to reply that although the Coming of the 
 Spanish Armada was indeed foretold to us in Clear Language^ 
 Plain to Understand, the Prophecy was like unto those Oracles re-
 
 THE LAST MASS. 1 1 $ 
 
 corded in History, inasmuch as its Full Interpretation only became 
 Yisil/.o after its Fulfilment. This is, methiaks, the Custom ob- 
 served even by the Sacred Prophets : they Proclaim the Coming 
 Woes, but never Name the Day or Hour, else would the Guilty 
 (being warn'd) take Care to Get out of the Way, and so the 
 Thunder-Bolts would Fall Harmless, and thus the Prophecy re- 
 main UnfulfuTd. What, indeed, could the Maidens of Jerusalem 
 do, after the Prophet had gone about the City announcing its 
 Overthrow, except pray that the Hand of the Lord might be 
 Stay'd, so that they at least and their Children might be Spared ? 
 
 Nay, just as sometimes happen'd to the Delphic Priestess, our 
 Prophetess, as you shall see, prov'd to have been Herself in part 
 Deceiv'd. Though she knew Something, she did not know All. 
 Though she could see Beforehand the Coining Battle, she prov'd to 
 bo mistaken as to the Victors. Praise be to GOD, the Victors were 
 not the Queen's Enemies, but her own Brave Soldiers ! 
 
 The Miracle cannot be in any way Explain'd. No one knew or 
 suspected so early, in our Part of the Country, the Designs of the 
 Spanish King. No one in our Parts could possibly know them. 
 Why, I have been credibly inform'd that it was not until November 
 of that Year that the First News of the Armada reach'd the Queen 
 Herself. I do not say that we are more than commonly cut oil 
 from News, but that no News of the Kind could have reach'd the 
 Lady Katharine. As regards the Hearing of News in General, 
 indeed, I think that we are as commodiously situated as in any 
 Part of the Country, except London. Our Ships bring Intelligence 
 from every Part : from Northumberland, for instance, and from 
 Durham, whither they sail for Coal ; from the Low Countries 
 whither they go with Wool and come back with Cloth ; from 
 France and Spain, whence they return Laden with Wines of all 
 Kinds, aa Malmsey, Sack, Sherris, Mountain, and good Bordeaux ; 
 from Norway, whither they go for Timber ; and from the Baltic 
 Sea and Muscovy, whence come Amber and Peltry of all Kinds, 
 such as Sable, Ermine, and Miniver. Some there are who have 
 sail'd from Lynn to the Mediterranean Sea and the Levant, escap- 
 ing the Pirates of the Moorish Coast. Our Ships also bring us 
 News from London, whither they go as to the Market of the 
 World, seeing that there is Nothing which is not to be had as 
 abundantly at that great Port as in Rome of old or in Venice of 
 later Times. So that when News is stirring we presently hear it, 
 and you will see that it was not many Weeks after the Court 
 learned the Preparations of the Spaniard before our People also 
 
 S— 2
 
 ?i6 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 heard and were talking of them. But to learn News quickly, after 
 others, is different from learning it before all others, by way of 
 Prophecy. And this is what we learn'd. 
 
 Yv f e live in the Village of Burnham St. Clement, which, as every 
 body knows, is close to the ancient Port of Wells-by-the-Sea, on 
 the Coast of Norfolk. Wells is not so rich and thriving a Place as 
 Great Yarmouth or as Lynn, but there are many Tall Yessels 
 which sail up and down its Winding Creek and Anchor alongside 
 the Quay. And in the Town there are many Fair Houses belong- 
 ing to the Merchants and Adventurers, and in them many strange 
 things may be seen, brought from Foreign Parts, and one can see 
 and converse with the Captains and Mates of the Ships, and hear 
 Stories of Foreign Folk and their Ways, and of the dangers which 
 those must dare who make their Livelihood upon the Ocean. 
 
 Burnham Hall is but half a mile from the Port of Wells : from 
 the Roof one can even see the Masts of the Ships as well as the 
 Tower of the Church. The House is of Stone and very Stately. 
 It was built by my Grandfather in the Time of Heni'y the Eighth, 
 In Place of a House of Timber and Plaster which formerly stood 
 there : by Permission of the King it is Embattled, and hath a 
 Moat, but I doubt how long the House could stand a Siege against 
 Artillery. 
 
 The Time was Eight o' the Clock in the Evening of the 20th of 
 July, in the Year of Grace 1587, and the Sun nigh unto his Setting. 
 At this Time of Day there is often a Hush or Stillness in the Air, 
 us if most Things were resting. Yet from the Orchard was heard 
 the Note of a Thrush : the Pigeons cooed in the Dove-Cot : from 
 the Farm-Yard came the Satisfied Clucking of the Hens : the 
 Honey-Bees Dron'd as they flew Home heavily : the Peacocks 
 dragg'd their long Tails across the Grass : the Hounds lay sleeping 
 in the Sun : over the low Hedge we could see the Gentle Deer 
 lying under the Oaks in the Park : all the Summer Flowers were 
 blooming, the Honeysuckle in the Hedge, the Roses on their long 
 Stems, the Sweet-Peas, the Mignonette, the great Red Lily, the 
 Jasmin, the Stocks and Pinks and Sweet-Williams, so that there 
 was hardly a single Foot of Ground in the Flower Beds but had its 
 Blossoms. Our Winter in Norfolk is cold, and in Spring the 
 Winds blow long from the East and the Icy North : but in no Part 
 of the Kingdom is the Summer sweeter than in Norfolk. 
 
 Two Young Men, in their Doublets, and Bareheaded, were play- 
 ing Be wis upon the Grass : these were Will Hayes and my brother 
 Roger Beneath the great Walnut-Tree sat my Father Sir Francis,
 
 THE LAST MASS. 117 
 
 and Sir Anthony, Parson of the Parish. Between them was a Bi.^b. 
 of Strawberries. They were both well stricken in Years and Gray- 
 Beards. As for Sir Anthony, he was a Learned Divine able to read 
 Greek and Hebrew, and a Maintainer of the Protestant Faith — 
 such as few could be found in Country Places, where so many 
 Changed by Order of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth from 
 Protestant to Catholick and Back again to save their Benefice. My 
 Father, as everybody knows, was a Justice of the Peace much 
 feared by llogues, Deer-slayers, Vagabonds, Witches, and other 
 Evil doers. They talk'd gravely, and of things too high for the 
 Understanding of Women. It was truly a Time full of Danger, 
 with Traitors at Home and Enemies abroad. Queen Mary was 
 Executed in this Year : and many there were who Rag'd furiously 
 about that Dread Deed. It was known that Frenchman and 
 Spaniard alike, with the Pope behind, deeir'd Nothing so much as 
 to set Loose the Dogs of War in this Kingdom, while even in the 
 Universities there were Many who long'd for the Restoration of 
 the Ancient Faith. What do I say ? Are there not still Traitors 
 at Home and Enemies Abroad ? Yea ; and always will be. Where- 
 fore let us still be Beady, and send forth our Lads to singe the 
 Spaniard's Beard, and to snatch from him at the Cannon's Mouth 
 and from his Ports on the Caribbean Sea his great Galeasses and 
 his Carracks full of Treasure. 
 
 There stood leaning over the Sun-Dial on the Terrace two 
 Gilds, of whom I was one, and Alice Hayes the other. Like the 
 two Young Men, we were nearly of the same age, and if Roger 
 was betroth'd to Alice, then was I for my Part Promis'd to her 
 Brother Will. We stood beside the Sun-Dial, I say, and watch'd 
 our Lovers at their Game. Oh, Happy Time, when a Maiden hath 
 given up all her Heart, and is her Lover's Slave, though still he 
 Choose to call her Queen and Mistress ! A Modest Maiden may, I 
 hope, take Delight in the Comeliness of her Lover without Blame. 
 Two more Comely Lads than Will and Roger could nowhere else 
 be seen. Alas ! that one of them should be no more ! He dyed 
 for Queen and Religion : therefore we ought not to mourn : yet 
 he was taken from the Girl he loved : therefore she goeth still in 
 Sadness. 
 
 It was for Coolness' sake that the Young Men play'd in their 
 Doublets, and their Cloaks and Caps lay upon the Grass. Will 
 always had plain Camlet for his Doublet and green Taffeta for his 
 Cloak, but Roger, like a Loudon Gallant, went more Brave in 
 Violet Silk, his Cloak Garnished with Velvet Guards and Bugles.
 
 1 1 8 THE LAST MA SS. 
 
 A Young Man must needs go Fine if only to do Honour unto his 
 Mistress — yet not to put his whole Estate upon his Back. Who 
 would love one who neglects to set off his Face and Figure with 
 puch Attire as becomes his Rank and Station ? For my own part 
 I desire to see a Young Man Fine with French Hosen, Starched 
 Ruff, Feathered Cap of Yelvet, Shirt of Lawn, Doublet Slashed 
 and Laced, Cloak Lined and Laced and Hung with Tassels of Gold 
 and Silver. Let him show to the World by his Brave Attire the 
 Stout Heart that Beats Beneath. What ? Doth the Gallant 
 King of the Farm-Yard hide his Splendid Flumes ? Not so ; the 
 Braver he is, the more he Displays his Purple Feathers to the 
 Sun. 
 
 While we looked on, and the Lads laugh'd and made Bets upon 
 the Game, we became aware that Lady Katharine was walking on 
 the Terrace. She came forth every Day to take the Air in the 
 Garden. It was nothing Unusual to Meet her ; but this Evening 
 I shiver'd when I saw her, and caught Alice by the Hand. She 
 went slowly, looking toward us, but as one who saw no one ; and 
 she was follow'd at due Distance by her Three Nuns. 
 
 No one, I am sure— not even, speaking with all Respect, the 
 Queen herself — could move with more Dignity than Lady Katha- 
 rine. She was call'd the Abbess ; but as there are no longer any 
 Convents, I give the name by which she was Christen'd and the 
 Style to which she was born. She was tall and erect, though now 
 near Eighty Years of Age ; her Nose was hooked like the Beak of 
 an Eagle ; her Chin was Long ; her Lips were Firm ; her Eyes 
 under Thick Red Eyebrows were as Keen as any Hawk's, but they 
 were full of Wrath. I have never (but once) seen Lady Katharine 
 when her Eyes were not full of Wrath. They were Gray in 
 Colour, I believe, but I am not sure, because no one Dared to look 
 her Steadily in the Eyes. Such, however, was the Effect of her 
 Red eyebrows and her Wrathful Look that they seem'd Bloodshot. 
 She was Wrathful because she had been Deprived of her Convent 
 and her Spiritual Rank ; for Fifty Years she Nourish'd Rage 
 therefor, and daily Prophecy'd to her Nuns the Woes and Punish- 
 ments which should Fall upon the Land. It is a Terrible Thing 
 for a Woman to Nurse this Passion of Wrath : a Man may Fight 
 his Enemy, and so an End ; here there was no Enemj', but a Thing 
 done Fifty Years before. And a private Gentlewoman can do 
 nothing but sit with Clinched Hands and Flaming Eyes, and 
 sometimes fly out into Fiery Speech. It is only a Queen who can 
 Punish her Enemies. Wherefore it especially Behooves a Woman
 
 THE LAST MASS. I 19 
 
 to Forgive all who wrong her lest she spend her Life (and Lose 
 her Soul) in Longing for Revenge. 
 
 Some there are vho Praise the Past, and would Praise it even if 
 it were the Past before the Flood, or the Past before the Coming of 
 Joshua, or the Past of King Herod. These Men speak of the 
 Godly Monks and the Meek Nuns, now Dispersed. Here was not 
 only a Nun but an Abbess. But as for the Grace of Meekness or 
 Humility, one might look in vain for it. My Father was blam'd 
 by some for suffering her to remain in his House, but she was his 
 Mother's Sister, and it is well known that those who were driven 
 forth when tbe Houses were dissolved were permitted to remain 
 with their Friends, even though it was notorious that they pray'd 
 daily for the Restoration of the Old Religion. She wore the 
 Habit Proper to an Abbess of her Order ; and was the last who 
 wore that Habit in this Country. Therefore I describe it particu- 
 larly. It consisted of a black Tunic or Gown reaching to the Feet 
 with a Border of Ermine : the Sleeves were tight and long, and at 
 the Wrists there was a white Edge. Over the black Gown was a 
 white Surplice reaching to the Ermine : over that a short black 
 Surplice. For Head Dress she wore a white linen Hood, very full, 
 and tied under the Chin. It was low over the Forehead, and hid 
 the Hair. Over all she wore a black Mantle with gray Fur. 
 Round her "Waist was a Cord with the triple knot of Charity, 
 Poverty, and Obedience. 
 
 Round her Neck was a Chain of Gold with a Crucifix. Behind 
 her, at the Distance of six Feet or so, walked the three Ancient 
 Dames, her Nuns and Servants. They too were still dressed in 
 their Benedictine Robes. By Living long together they had grown 
 to resemble each other so that one hardly knew which was Sister 
 Claire, Sister Angela, or Sister Clementina. They were as old aa 
 their Mistress ; their Shrivell'd Faces wore Something the Look of 
 Sheep, and when the Abbess spoke they Trembled and Huddled 
 together. These poor old Ladies had been turn'd out of the 
 Gouvent with Lady Katharine, but there was no Wrath in their 
 Faces, rather a Desire to Rest and be at Peace. 
 
 She walk'd along the Terrace and presently stopp'd. When she 
 etopp'd the Old Nuns began to tremble and crept close together. 
 But she did not stop in Order to admonish them. On the contrary, 
 which was a strange thing of her to do, she stopped to look at the 
 Players. Mostly she regarded no one in the Garden. Then she 
 beckoned to them ; and they left their Bowls and walked across 
 4he Grass, wondering, and stood before her, Will's Hand on Roger'*
 
 1 20 THE LAST MA SS. 
 
 Shoulder. As for us, we drew near as well. And my Father arose- 
 and followed the Boys. But Sir Anthony moved not. For sucb 
 as himself the Popish Woman would have none but Words of Wrath. 
 
 ' So,' she said, addressing Will. She had a Deep Man's Voice, 
 which made her the more Terrible. ' So, Sirrah ; by thy Face 
 thou shouldest be Grandson to Sir Humphrey Hayes, Robber of 
 the Church. I play'd with him when we were Children together, 
 before he despoil'd the Sanctuaries and grew Rich upon the Lands 
 and Beeves of Holy Church.' 
 
 ' Madam,' said Will, ' I am the Grandson of Sir Humphrey who- 
 is dead, and the Son of Sir Humphrey who is alive.' 
 
 ' They shall not prosper who despoil the Church,' she said,, 
 speaking slowly. ' Thy Grandsire is dead. They shall be accursed. 
 They shall be cut off, they and theirs.' 
 
 1 By your Leave, Madam,' said Will, ' some of those who despoiled 
 the Church have since done, methinks, indifferently Well. As for 
 my Grandsire, he was long past Threescore Years and Ten when 
 he died.' 
 
 ' Silence, Sirrah !' She raised the Goldheaded Stick which she 
 carried and pointed it to the Western Sky, now red and flaming. 
 ' Behold !' she said. ' The Sky is full of Blood. I hear the Groans 
 of Dying Men : I see a Great and Terrible Slaughter : there is a 
 mighty Battle upon the Ocean : the tall Ships are crushed like 
 Egg Shells, and sink to the Bottom of the Deep with all their 
 Armaments : the Waves are Red : those who went forth to Fight 
 are Drowning in the Flood : never before was there such a Battle r 
 never in Days to come shall be such another : the Arm of the- 
 Lord is outstretched : the Mighty are scattered. After the 
 Roaring of the Cannon, the Weeping of the Women : after the 
 Weeping of the Women, Punishment — yea, the Torture of the 
 Flames for those who have led the People astray. After their 
 Punishment the Ancient Faith shall be restored : then shall those 
 who thought to grow fat upon the Lands of the Church be driven 
 forth homeless and Beggars to wander upon the Roads. Woe X 
 Woe ! Woe ! to the Mothers and the Children in that day ! Death 
 to the young Men ! Woe to the Maidens !' 
 
 1 Madam,' said Will calmly, ' we who wait upon the Lord and 
 are His Servants fear not any Evils.' 
 
 The Abbess made no Sign of hearing him. 
 
 ' I see,' she said, still gazing into the Sky — 4 1 see the Bones of 
 one who thought to go Home and wed his Bride : this is his- 
 Marriage Bed among the Seaweed : the Crabs crawl about his
 
 THE LAST MASS. 121 
 
 Ribs : the Fishes eat out his Eyes : the Tides roll him hither and 
 thither.' 
 
 ' Madam,' said Will again, calmly, ' we who are in the Hands of 
 the Lord fear not any of these Evils.' 
 
 'Fools ! Fools ! ye lean upon a Reed, and it shall Pierco your 
 Hands.' Then she rais'd her Stick again. 'Death and Ruin for 
 the Enemies of the Church ! Death and Ruin for those who have 
 despoil'd the Holy Shrines 1 The Avenger cometh — lo ! the 
 Avenger cometh quickly.' 
 
 Her Nuns, all Huddled close together, cross'd themselves. Alice 
 caught my Hand, and we trembled and shook. 
 
 The Abbess slowly lower'd her Stick, and turn'd and walk'd 
 away, followed by her Attendants, who shook in their Limbs as if 
 the Curse was pronounced upon themselves. 
 
 The Sun was down by this Time : a Thunder Cloud rolled up 
 which hid the Splendour of the West : it grew darker than it is 
 wont to be at this Season : an Owl screeched from the Ivy. 
 
 ' Cheer up, Lads,' said my Father, who alone had heard her 
 unmoved. ' This is not the first Time by many that my Lady hath 
 prophecy'd Death and Disaster. Before the Pilgrimage of Grace 
 — as I have heard : before the Rebellion of the Ketts : before the 
 Death of King Edward — many Times hath she uprais'd her Voice 
 in this Fashion. 1 have never heard that any were hurt — what- 
 ever she may have said.' 
 
 'Sir,' I said, 'by your Leave: great Disasters followed her 
 Words then. What new Disaster is to follow this new and terrible 
 Forecast ?' 
 
 It was Sir Anthony who answered, gravely, having now joined us: 
 
 ' Those who are as3ur'd that they hold the true Catholick Faith 
 need fear nothing. Since it hath been prov'd abundantly that the 
 only true Catholick Doctrine is that of our own Church, we are, as 
 Master Will truly said, in the Lord's Hand. Therefore let us fear 
 nothing. The Times are truly full of Trouble : there will be 
 Wars, and many of our Young Men may fall. Yet be of Good 
 Cheer all, as those who are on the Lord's Side, though Owls may 
 screech and Nuns predict Confusion.' 
 
 As he spoke, the Owl screech'd again, and the first Drops fell of 
 the coming Shower, and the Thunder roll'd and rumbled. 
 
 'Sweetheart !' cried Will, catching my Hand, 'why so pale and 
 white ? The Thunder is the Cannon with which we shall salute 
 our Enemies. Let us meet our Fate, whatever happens, with 
 Stout Heart and Steady Eye.'
 
 122 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 4 Words, "Words,' said my Father. • Let the p^or mad Woman 
 rave. Now, Lads, let us within. Nell shall Pop a Posset upon na, 
 and Alice shall Sing us a Song, before we go to Bed.' 
 
 II. 
 
 The Abbess came to this House — the House of her Sister's Hus- 
 band — in the Year 1539, when, with her Nuns, she was turn'd out 
 of her Convent of Benedictine Sisters at Binstead. 'Twas the 
 Year when the Great Religious Houses were made to Follow the 
 Small, and All together were Overwhelm'd in One Destruction. It 
 was thirty Years before I was born, yet have I talk'd with old Men 
 who Remember'd very well this Great Event, and to their Dying 
 Day they could never Understand how this Great Destruction 
 could have been peacefully carried out. 
 
 There was then, to be sure, a most Masterful King who would 
 have his Will in everything : he had also Masterful Ministers under 
 him who carried out his Bidding. But still the Affections of the 
 People must have been already turn'd away from the Monks, or 
 there must have been a Rising everywhere. Not here and there 
 one Convent suppressed, but everywhere, over the Whole Country 
 — Six Hundred and More — with Thousands of Monks and Nuns 
 driven forth : a Hundred Hospitals, a Hundred Colleges, and I 
 know not how many Hundreds of Chantries — of which there is 
 not now left a single one. What befell the Priests and Monks is 
 not known. Some, I believe, fell into a low Way of Life, and 
 became mere Yagabonds and Rogues. Some, being of rustical 
 Origin, return d to their People, and once more Steer'd the Plough 
 — a Wholesome Discipline, though the Flesh might Rebel. I have 
 never heard how these became afterwards Disposed towards the 
 Protestant Faith. They would, methinks, regard it with half- 
 hearted Loyalty. As for the Nuns, they, in our Part of the 
 Country, mostly took Ship and sail'd across to the Low Countries, 
 where they were admitted into other Convents, and looked for 
 Rest, but I fear found none, by Reason of the Wars of Religion. 
 Some of them, especially those who belong'd to Substantial Families, 
 return'd to their Friends, and were by them Maintain'd until their 
 Death, no one asking whether a harmless Woman read her Prayers 
 in Latin or in English, from a Missal or the Book of Common 
 Prayer. 
 
 The Convent of Binstead would have been held in Greater
 
 THE LAST MASS. 123 
 
 Respect had it not been for its Rich and Illustrious Neighbour of 
 Walsingham. The Sisters possess'd a Priceless Treasure (as it 
 ■was then deemed) in the Arm of St. Philip. There are still living 
 Country People who will tell you how Miracles were worked at 
 Binstead as well as at Walsingham, the Arm of St. Philip being 
 strong to heal the Sick, sovereign in Cases of Rheumatism. The 
 "Walls are now pulled down, and their Stones have been used for 
 Farm Buildings : the Chapel itself, the Refectory, the Dormitory, 
 are all Destroyed : Nothing remains but a few Stone Walls of what 
 is said to have been the Kitchen, and the broad Moat which guarded 
 it on all Sides. The last Abbess of Binstead, the Lady Katharine, 
 was but twenty-eight Years of Age, though ten Years Novice and 
 Nun and six Years Abbess, at the Time of the Suppression of the 
 Religious Houses. Though so young, she ruled her House with 
 Authority, strictly Enforcing the Rules of the Order, so that the 
 Sisters Trembled daily lest they should incur her Displeasure, and 
 receive those Punishments by which Obedience is enforc'd in such 
 Houses, where I cannot but think little Things are magnify'd, and 
 a Broken Rule, even one of no Consequence, becomes a Great Sin. 
 The Visitors of the King could find no Fault at all with this 
 House ; but, like the rest, it must needs go. 
 
 On the Day when they must Depart, the Sisters, Sixteen in 
 Number, came forth Weeping from the Chapel where they had 
 Held their Last Service. These Walls had Shelter'd them from 
 the Dangers of the World : some of them had grown Old in the 
 House and look'd to lay their Bones in the Convent Burying- 
 Ground : Borne were of Middle Age, who never Thought to leave 
 the House : some were Young, and yet had no other Hope but to 
 Continue where they were until they should Exchange the Black 
 Frock of their Order for the White Robe of the Angels. There- 
 fore they came forth Weeping. They knew not, besides, whither 
 they would go, or what would become of them, or where they 
 Ehould find Friends. By the Order of the Abbess, however, they 
 chang'd their Wailing into Singing, and with the Chanting of 
 Psalms they walked to Wells, where Thirteen of them said Fare- 
 well to the Rest and went on Board Ship, and bo to the Low 
 Countries. But how they fared there I know not and have never 
 heard. Long since, doubtless, their Troubles have ceased. 
 
 The three youngest remained with the Abbess, who took them 
 to her Sister's House at Burnham St. Clement. Here they had 
 their own Chambers set apart for them, in which they lived and 
 took their Meals. The Chapel was also given to them, in which
 
 124 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 they might "Worship after their own Fashion, and so might keep 
 up in their Chambers the Convent Rules, as they still wore the 
 Dress of their Order. And just as before they never went beyond 
 the Walls of their Convent, so now they never pass'd outside the 
 Garden. In a Word, there was a little Convent of four Benedic- 
 tine Nuns establish'd within a Protestant Household, whose Master 
 was a Justice of the Peace, yet tolerated this Breaking of the Law, 
 The Abbess from the first Day of the Dissolution looked for some 
 signal Punishment which should fall from Heaven upon the King 
 or the Country. Herod, for Instance, was Devoured of Worms for 
 his Blasphemies : for the Sins of David a Pestilence raged among 
 his People. So should it be with King Henry. And after he was 
 gone the old Order would be Restored, save for the Glories of the 
 Shrines which were scatter'd and destroyed. (So Xehemiah re- 
 built the Temple, but could not Restore the Gold and Silver 
 Vessels and the Carved Work.) No Punishment, as the Years 
 went on, fell upon King or People. It is true that King Henry 
 dyed some ten Years after the Suppression of the Houses. But 
 then he was arrived at a good Age, and we must all die. And his 
 Son, who succeeded him, was a Protestant, who dyed in his Youth 
 — on Account of his Protestantism, said the Papists. Then Queen 
 Mary came to the Throne, and for a While it seem'd as if the 
 Roman Catholick Religion was Restored for Good. Then the 
 Abbess, Lady Katharine, with her three Sisters, rode to Binstead, 
 purposing to return to their House. Alas ! it was already destroy : d. 
 The Country Folk had Broken down the Wood Work and carry'd 
 off the Stones. No Human Creature could live among the Ruins. 
 Therefore the Sisters rode back to Burnham St. Clement, and con- 
 tinued to abide there. 
 
 Queen Mary dyed, and Queen Elizabeth succeeded. 
 
 The Abbess once more fell to looking for the Judgment of 
 Heaven upon the Country. Surely for all that hath been granted 
 to us, the Gracious Mercies and the Crowning Victories, we should 
 be prepared to Acknowledge the Blessing of the Lord and His 
 Approbation of the Protestant Faith. 
 
 Lady Katharine was old when first I remember her. As long as 
 she lived afterwards no change fell upon her. She was always 
 Lofty in her Spirit, always Terrible in her Eyes, and always 
 Wrathful. So look'd, I suppose, Judith : so Jael, the Wife of 
 Heber the Kenite : so Deborah : so Boadicea. Mostly Lady 
 Katharine sat in her own Chamber, her three Women standing 
 around her : she took her Meals alone : she walk'd about tha
 
 THE LAST MA SS. 125 
 
 Garden followed by the three Sisters, all in Silence. They, how- 
 ever, were certainly not Wrathful, nor did they ever Prophesy 
 Disaster. On the contrary, they were as Happy as Women who 
 are old can expect to be : nay, they were Happier than we who have 
 the Protestant Light can ever be, because they were Convinced that 
 their Salvation was Assured to them by their Profession and by the 
 Power of the Church. Their only Care was not to incur the Dis- 
 pleasure of the Abbess, of whom, old as they were, they still stood 
 in as much Dread as a young Maid who fears to be whipped for 
 Carelessness : in the Presence of the Abbess they were Mute as 
 Mice. But when, as sometimes Happened, they were permitted or 
 ordered to leave her Presence, they would run and play and laugh 
 like unto Children. They were also like Children in their Simple 
 Contentment with small Things, and in their Readiness to Laugh 
 and be amused with Toys, and in their Fear of being Puuish'd. 
 Sometimes one would be in Disgrace, though of this the others did 
 not speak. After the Abbess died — in what Manner you shall 
 hear — the Sisters told me how hard was her Discipline, so that for 
 Little Things they were put upon Bread and Water : their Warm 
 Clothing was taken from them : they had to say more Prayers : 
 they had to Kneel in Corners — I know not what Indignities they 
 did not endure. But with me, from my Childhood, they would 
 Play as if they were Children too, and they knew many Stories 
 about Saints and Miracles, which I now understand to have been 
 Fables, but which then pleased me mightily. W x hen I hear Talk 
 •of Nunneries, I think of these poor old Women, so Simple and so 
 Childish. And when I hear Talk of an Abbess, I think of a tall 
 old Woman with a Hooked Nose and Fierce Eyes and a Man'g 
 Voice. 
 
 in. 
 
 I was, to be sure, thrown into a most Dreadful Fear by this 
 Prophecy, despite of Will's Courage. Such a Prediction, utter'd by 
 a Woman, hath in it Something much more Terrible than if it 
 were Pronounc'd by a man. We of Norfolk are quick to consider 
 .any old Woman as a Witch ; and if any poor Old Rustical Creature 
 woo desires it can command Magic Power, why not a Stately Lady 
 of Gentle Birth, like the Lady Katharine ? 
 
 Why, it was but three or four Years before this that they Burned 
 at Lynn Regis an old Woman — her Name was Mother Gobley — 
 •because of her Abominable Witchcraft. With Egg Shells and
 
 126 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 "Water she Compass'd the Shipwreck of a Noble Vessel and the 
 Cruel Deaths of Fourteen Brave Sailors. If such Mischief be per- 
 mitted, I say, to a Miserable Old Woman like her, even at the Cost 
 of her Immortal Soul, what would not be accorded to such as Lady 
 Katharine if she Sought it ? 
 
 'As for Battles,' said Will, 'the World is full of them, and 
 always shall be. They are Fighting in the Low Countries : they 
 are Fighting in France ; there is never any Peace upon the West 
 Indian Seas : and as for Spain, is not Drake gone forth to destroy 
 as many of the Spaniard's Ships as he can ? Sweetheart, it needs 
 no Witch to see Blood in the Red Sky and to hear the Groans of 
 Dying Men. Courage ! Perhaps War will not come hither.' 
 
 It was in August — only a few Weeks later — that certain good 
 News made us forget our Fears, and put the Prophecy for a while- 
 clean out of our minds. 
 
 Will brought us the News. It was on the last Day of our 
 Harvest, the Day of the Horkey Load, when the Last Waggon is- 
 driven Home, adorn'd, according to our Country Custom, with 
 Flags and Ribbons, very splendid, and perch 'd atop, a Kern Baby. 
 We were in the very Middle of the Feast. When the Waggon drew 
 near to the House my Father went out to meet it, followed by 
 Mj'self and all the Maids. He carry'd a great Horn fill'd with Ale. 
 When the Waggon stopp'd, the Men all took Hands and shouted,. 
 ' Largesse !' ' Largesse !' after which the Horn was passed about 
 and one who bad a Trumpet blew it. After the Passage of the 
 Horn from Hand to Hand, the Men sat down to a Feast of Beef 
 and Pudding with more Ale : nowhere are the Rustics better at 
 the Drinking of Ale than in our Norfolk ; and if they Drink too 
 much, it is but a Headache the next Morning, and so no more 
 Mischief. As soon as the Men were at their Work, the Lord of 
 the Harvest, as they call a Fellow dressed Fantastically, began to 
 run abcut the Tables, singing : 
 
 ' So Drink, Boys, Drink, 
 
 And See you Do not Spill : 
 For if you Do, you Shall Drink Twice ; 
 It is your Matter's Will.' 
 
 Now, while they were thus making Merry, we heard the Clatter- 
 ing of Hoofs, and Will rode into the midst of us, his Handsome 
 Face so full of Joy that we knew at the first Sight of him that he 
 had Good News to Tell. 
 
 ' Good News, Sir Francis !' he cry'd unto my Father. ' Rare 
 News, Roger ! Here he threw himself from his Horse, and toss'd
 
 THE LAST MASS. 127 
 
 the Ileitis to one of the Varlets. ' I come from Wolls, and am 
 carrying the News to my Father. Up, Men, shout for the Queen, 
 and toss your Caps, and drink her Health, and Confuiion to her 
 Enemies !' 
 
 Our Honest Lads needed no Second Invitation. With one 
 Consent they sprang to their Feet and threw up their Caps, and 
 drank with Zeal. Both Drinking and Shouting were very much to 
 their Taste. 
 
 Then Will began his Story. 
 
 4 1 come from Wells,' he said, 'whither the News hath been 
 Brought by John Eldred, Master Mariner of the Ship Good Intent, 
 from London, laden with Wine and other Goods. He reports that 
 the Day before he dropped down the River Thames there arrived 
 Francis Drake himself from Plymouth, bringing to the Queen the 
 most excellent News that he had entcr'd the Spanish Port of 
 Cadiz, and under the Enemy's Nose, look you, there Fired and 
 Sunk no fewer than Thirty Ships, great and small, without Damage 
 to his own Fleet.' 
 
 ' That is good,' said my Father. ' Thirtj Ships cannot be built 
 in a day.' 
 
 ' But they may be borrow'd or bought,' said Sir Anthony, jp'io 
 was present. ' Go on, Will. Is there more ? Thirty Ships will 
 not destroy the Spanish Kingdom. Is there more ?' 
 
 ' There is Much More,' Will reply'd. ' For when he left Cadiz, 
 Drake sail'd along the Coast and Destroyed a Hundred more 
 Ships.' 
 
 * That is Brave News indeed,' said my Father. 
 
 'It is Brave News,' said Sir Anthony. 'But I would rather 
 have Heard that Drake had Captur'd one of the King's Treasure 
 Ships. It is in the West, in the West, that the Spaniard must be 
 struck. A Hundred and Fifty Ships will not destroy the Spanish 
 Kingdom. But I grant you that it is Brave News.' 
 
 'They are Ringing the Bells at Wells,' said WilL 'You can 
 hear them. Listen !' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Sir Anthony, * we will not be behindhand,' and 
 commanded the Ringers to be set to Work. 
 
 'A Hundred and Thirty "Vessels!' said my Father. ''Tis a 
 splendid Fleet destroy'd.' 
 
 ' Why,' said Will, ' I doubt if from all our Ports we could get 
 together so vast a Fleet. A Hundred and Thirty Ships ! With 
 all his Treasure, yea, and back'd by the Pope himself, I doubt if 
 the King of Spain will recover this Blow in his Lifetime. Well,.
 
 I2 8 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 it seems that we are Safe at Last. "Without Ships, what can he 
 do ? Will he Cross the Flood like Moses or like Joshua ?' 
 
 ' The longer Time we have,' said my Father, ' the better for us 
 Let us not forget that though the Kiug of Spain may Die, the 
 Pope doth never Die. Therefore, we have an Enemy who, until 
 he himself is Overthrown, will never cease to Conspire against us.' 
 ' Yet, Sir, with Submission,' said Will, ' one Fears the Pope less 
 than one Fears the King of Spain. The Pope is but a Priest.' 
 ' Fear him therefore the More,' said Sir Anthony. 
 Well, so we talk'd and gave Thanks to God for this signal Mercy, 
 and for a Time I wholly forgot the Prophecy of Evil, and lived in 
 a Fool's Paradise, and thought of nothing but of Will and of happy 
 Love. Yet, as Afterwards I remember'd, there were many 
 Warnings which should have Shaken my Confidence. I know that 
 under the new Religion we are Taught not to Regard these Warn- 
 ings (yet the Country People are slow to give them up) : but 
 certain it is that all this Autumn I saw Shooting Stars (particularly 
 in November) : there was an Eclipse of the Sun : the Moon 
 showed in September of a Bloody Hue : I continually heard the 
 Scrcech-Owl, the Croaking Raven, and the Chattering Pie : the 
 Dogs Howled : I had Fearful Dreams : there were Strange Sounds 
 -at Night. All this was not for Nothing, as you will presently 
 Understand. But being Young and Happy, I pay'd no Heed. 
 
 I know not if Lady Katharine heard this News. In those Days 
 I avoided her : it seem'd to me that her Eyes were Growing 
 Fiercer : she Mutter'd as she Walk'd : and once I saw her Stop 
 short on the Terrace and Throw up her eyes to Heaven, crying 
 aloud in her deep Man's Voice, ' O Lord 1 how long ?' The three 
 Ancient Nuns behind her Caught each other by the Hand and 
 liuddled together, trembling and shaking for Fear., 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was a Christmas Day— None Other— the Day when Peace and 
 Good- Will should Reign among Men— that our Peace was rudely 
 interrupted. We awoke in the Morning and arose long before 
 Daybreak, expecting Nothing more than a Day of Feasting and 
 Rejoicing, with Twelve more Days to Follow, all of Mirth and 
 Joy. Well : Feasting there was. As for the Rejoicing— but ycu 
 
 . shall hear. 
 
 In the Morning all my Fathers Tenants and the Servants
 
 THE LAST MASS. 129 
 
 gathertt about Eight of the Clock in the Hall. Here we met them, 
 and after Christmas Greetings— all the Old Customs did not perish 
 when the Religion was changed— the Black Jack went Round full 
 of Strong October instead of Small Ale, and the Men sat down to 
 the great Christmas Sausage with Toast and Cheese. There had 
 been a Bowl of Lamb's Wool the Night before, and some of them, 
 had drunk deeply thereat, so that their Heads were Heavy ; yet at 
 the Morning Draught they seem'd to be refresh'd suddenly and 
 Ready for More. 
 
 After Breakfast we all went together to Church. 'Twas a still 
 Morning, the Snow falling, and the Ditches frozen over. Such a 
 Christmas Morning one loves, when the World seems Hushed and 
 Awed by the Tremendous Event of the Night. In every Church, 
 mi.thinks, on that Morning, is a Manger ; every Star is the Star of 
 Bethlehem ; the Way of Walsingham, as the People still call the 
 Milky Way, points to the Church in every Parish. Iu this 
 Night, they say, the Cock awoke and crow'd, ' Christ is Born.' 
 Then the Raven awoke and croak'd, ' When ?' And the Crow 
 reply'd, 'This Night.' And the Ox ask'd, 'Where?' And the 
 Sheep reply'd, ' In Bethlehem.' 
 
 My Father led the Way, and after him I walked with my Brother 
 and all the People after, save the Maids, who were wanted by the 
 Cook to dress and serve the Christmas Feast. That, to be sure, 
 was ready long before, with its Store of Christmas Pye, Shrid Pye, 
 Plum Pudding, and Plum Porridge ; its Beef and Turkeys — none 
 30 good as those from Norfolk ; its Capons, Fat Geese, and 
 Manchets. 
 
 After the Service Sir Anthony gave a Weighty Discourse on the 
 Superstition of those who Worship the Mother and Babe inste.. I 
 of the Holy Trinity, and reminded us of the Fond Practices whi ■■ 
 were finally renounced when the Queen's Grace ascended th 
 Throne : how they would set a Wooden Child dress'd up on the 
 Altar, while the Boys and Girls dane'd before it, and the Priests 
 shouted : how on St. Stephen's Day they gallop'd the Horses into 
 a Sweat, hoping thus to keep them well for the next Year ; how 
 on St. John's Day the Priests consecrated Wine and sold it for the 
 Making of Manchets to keep off Storms — nay, we have some of 
 these Manchets still. And how on Childermas the Priests beat one 
 another, which, Sir Anthony said, was the only Righteous Custom 
 of all. Many there were in that Church who could remember when 
 ';ho Mass was set up again under Queen Mary, whose Husband, the 
 King of Spain, was never weary of contriving and conspiring for 
 
 9
 
 1 3 o THE LAST MASS. 
 
 the Overthrow of the Protestant Faith. Many there were also 
 who remember'd the Martyrs of Norwich. Therefore Sir Anthony 
 bade us never forget that we might be call'd upon, one and all, to 
 testify for the Truth in like Manner, even to the Horrible Agony 
 of the Stake. 
 
 Sermon over, the People flock'd out, and we follow'd. But in 
 the Porch, waiting for Speech with Sir Francis, was none other 
 than Sir Humphrey Hayes, and with him Will and two or three 
 Grave Merchants of Wells. So Sir Humphrey went into the 
 Church and talk'd for the Space of ten Minutes, and then they 
 came forth. My Father, instead of walking through the People, 
 who were waiting in two Lines for us to pass, mounted the Steps 
 of the old Church Cross, where he stood looking mighty Grave, so 
 that all the World could tell that he had News to tell. Sir 
 Humphrey remained in the Porch with Sir Anthony and the 
 Merchants. 
 
 Then my Father spoke. 
 
 ' My Friends,' he say'd, ' here is News which is likely to be a Mar- 
 Feast. Yet needs must that I tell you. It is such News as I had 
 hoped never to hear in my Lifetime. Yet, since it has been 
 threaten'd long, surely the Sooner it happens the Better, while we 
 have Stomach for the Fight. You all know how the King of 
 Spain, once the Consort of Queen Mary, doth continually devise 
 Mischief to this Country. That has long been known. Nor will 
 anything, we are convinc'd, assuage his Hellish Malice and Rage 
 Insatiable. Briefly, then, he now Aims at Nothing short of the 
 Subjugation of this Realm, the Enslaving of us all, and the Over- 
 throw of our Free Religion. Doubtless he hath been more than 
 commonly Enraged by the Great Havoc wrought among his Ships 
 by our Brave Commander Francis Drake. Wherefore, having few 
 Ships of his own, he hath bought or borrow'd from Venice, Genoa, 
 and other Ports so great a Fleet as was never before gotten to- 
 gether, which he is now fitting out with Guns and Men and Muni- 
 ments of War, intending to launch it against this Country as soon 
 as the Winter is over. Nay, it is not so vast but what, with the 
 Blessing of the Lord, we shall know how to meet it. But every 
 Man who can handle a Pike and carry a Harquebus will be wanted. 
 Wherefore you will go Home to your Christmas Fare with the 
 Knowledge that you must shortly Fight for your Liberties and 
 your Religion. Keep the Feast joyfully, in the Firm Trust that 
 the Lord will protect His Servants. 
 
 ' My Lads,' he continu'd, ' I know that you will all play the Part
 
 THE LAST MASS. 131 
 
 of Men, seeing what is before you if you Play that of Cowards. 
 Every Seaport will, according to its Means, contribute a Ship or 
 more towards the Fleet which the Queen will raise to meet this 
 great Expedition. There is talk of Ten Ships or more from the 
 City of London. Wells is but a small Port, but we will do our 
 Part, and if we get Volunteers we will, with the Blessing of God, 
 send one Tall Ship, well armed and equipped, to strike a Blow for 
 Freedom and for Faith. My Lads ' — here he raised his hat — ' God 
 save the Queen ! Who volunteers ?' 
 
 Roger and Will sprang forward the first, drawing their Swords 
 with a Shout. Then one of the Village Lads — 'twas a mere Stable 
 Boy — stepped forth and lugged off his Hat and pulled his Fore- 
 lock. ' May it Please your Honour to take me,' he said. And then 
 another and another — oh, Brave Lads of Burnham !— till from our 
 Little Village alone there were a Dozen at least. My Heart swells 
 ■with Pride when I think of those Brave Lads. They had plodded 
 in the Fields all their Days, with Plough and Flail, and Hook and 
 Sickle : they had no more Knowledge of War than comes from a 
 Wrestling Match and a Bout with Quarter Staff : and now they 
 were Soldiers going forth to fight upon the Ocean. They went 
 because Roger led the way : our Brave English will go anywhere 
 if they are led. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said my Father to the Merchants, 'here are our 
 Lads. If every Village does as well, we shall be well sped. Roger, 
 bring your Troop to the Hall. Sir Humphrey, you will Feast with 
 me this Day, and to-morrow we will take such Order as the Queen 
 in Council hath directed.' 
 
 So with a Shout the Men followed, headed by Roger, and with 
 him Will, walking with Drawn Swords : and not a Lad among 
 them but held up his Head and straighten'd his Back as if he was 
 Marching to Battle. Nay, the Ancient Men, who would stay at 
 Home, also straighten'd their Backs and stuck out their Legs, as if 
 they too felt the Glow of War, and would Fain go forth to Fight. 
 And the Boys cheer'd and ran beside the Troop of Volunteers and 
 c.ivied them. As for the Women, some Wept, but not aloud ; and 
 some there were whose Cheeks were pale : and one, at least, among 
 them would Fain have been alone in her Chamber to fall upon her 
 Knees and Weep and Pray. 
 
 Never, I declare, was Christmas kept with more Lusty Cheer or 
 greater Rejoicing. One would have thought, from the Way that 
 -these Brave Fellows Feasted and Laugh'd and Sang, that the 
 Prospect of Fighting was the most Joyful Thing in the Whole 
 
 0—2
 
 i 3 2 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 World. The Heavy Country Lads show'd themselves suddenly 
 Nimble-witted : those who only Yesterday would have sat Mum 
 all the Evening over a Tankard of Ale and a Crab, now Sang and 
 Joked, and were as Merry as so many Players at the Fair. Even 
 Sir Anthony himself, who, if King Philip won the Yictory, would 
 assuredly meet the Fate of St. Bilney on Mousehold Heath — even 
 Sir Anthony, I say, Laugh'd and Crack'd his Fingers at the Jests 
 of the Lord of Misrule. 
 
 They feasted all the Day. My Father sat in his great Arm- 
 Chair : Sir Humphrey sat beside him : after the Christmas Antics 
 a Bowl of Punch was brought, and some sang Songs : and the 
 Talk fell upon War and Battles and the Brave Deeds of English 
 Men in Days gone by. Presently the Village Lads went away, 
 singing noisily Outside, and the Maids went to Bed, and we were 
 alone, the Red Light of the Logs for Candles. Then we fell to 
 more serious Talk. While we talk'd we heard the Voices of the 
 Abbess and the three Sisters from the Chapel. They were singing 
 a Triumphal Psalm. It was doubtless the Psalm appointed for 
 the Office of the Day : yet to me it seemed as if they were Singing 
 for the Overthrow of the English Armaments, and my Heart fell, 
 thinking of the Prophecy, and there rose before me in the Embers 
 a Shape which seemed to be the Skeleton of my Lover rolled 
 about by the Waves at the Bottom of the Sea. The deep Man's 
 Voice of Lady Katharine rose Loud above the Quaverings of the 
 three Ancient Sisters. 
 
 The Others seemed not to hear. 
 
 ' There are no Sailors,' said Sir Anthony, ' like the English 
 Sailors, for Courage and for Holding on. The Dutch are Good, 
 but the English are Best. There are none who can Handle a 
 Ship like an Englishman. God grant we meet them on the 
 Ocean !' 
 
 Alas ! it was on the Ocean that Lady Katharine's Battle was to 
 be fought ; when the Ships should be Crush'd like Egg Shells, and 
 sink down to the Bottom of the Deep with their Gallant Freight 
 of Brave Hearts. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Ship furnish'd by the Merchants of Wells for the Service of 
 the Queen was named the Mere Honour : she was a Stout and 
 Serviceable Craft and a Swift Sailer: she carry'd Sixteen Guns,
 
 THE LAST MASS. 133 
 
 and was three Ilundred Tons Burden : as for her Complement of 
 Men, I know not how many she carry'd, with Sailors and Volun- 
 teers. They were Fighting Men all, Tall and Resolute Fellows, 
 with Half a Dozen young Gentlemen of Family such as Will and 
 Roger, and while the Ship was making Ready with her Equipment, 
 not only of Provisions and Water, hut also of Arms, such as Board- 
 ing Pikes, Grappling Irons, Harquebuses, and Cutlasses, there were 
 Martial Exercises every Day for the Volunteers, who were taught 
 to Board a Ship, to Repel Boarders, to handle their Weapons, and 
 all the Time you never saw Young Men so Gay and Cheerful. 
 They went to their Exercises with Songs, as if they were going to 
 a Wedding or a Feast. As for us, we look'd on, but I promise you 
 without Joke and Laughter : and because we would be doing 
 Something towards the Good Work, we made a great Standard for 
 the Ship, all of Silk, with the Royal Arms embroider'd thereon, 
 and a very fine Flag it was. Sailors love their Ship to be adorn'd, 
 like a Woman, with Ribbons and fine Colours. 
 
 At last all was ready, and our Brave Lads must sail. I say 
 Nothing of the Fond and Tender Farewells of those who had 
 Lovers among 'em. There was not one, I am sure, of the Girls 
 who would keep her Sweetheart Ignobly Tied to her Apron 
 String, while the others went forth to Fight for their Country : 
 yet of Tears there were Many, with Dismal Forebodings and 
 Prayers, both secret and public. Alas ! it seems better to be a 
 Man and go forth to fight, even to meet Wounds or Death, than 
 to be a Woman and to stay at Home. 
 
 It was a Morning Early in February when the Mere Honour 
 eail'd away. The Day was fine, with a South-easterly Breeze, and 
 the Sun Shining. We were all gather'd upon the Quay to see the 
 Ship set Sail. Guns were fired : Trumpets play'd : Drums were 
 beat. On the High Poop stood the Gentlemen waving their Caps 
 — the most Comely among them all my Brother and my Lover. 
 The Waist and Forecastle were Crowded with the Volunteers, who 
 also wav'd their Caps and shouted. The Yards were mann'd by 
 the Sailors : and on the Quay were all the People of the Town, 
 and Hundreds from the Country, as far as Hunstanton on one 
 Side and Clay on the other, to see the Sight. The Ship was Hung 
 with long Streamers and waving Pennons, and our great Flag 
 Floated Bravely from the Poop. Then the Anchor was weigh'd 
 and the Sails unf url'd, and the Ship mov'd slowly down the Creek, 
 and so out into the Open Sea. To the Last I saw the two Lads 
 standing boside our Flag, with Caps doifd in Farewell to their
 
 134 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 Sweethearts. Well : it was not until we could see them no longer 
 that we fell to Weeping. 
 
 There they go,' said Sir Humphrey, 'for a Shipload of as 
 Gallant Fellows as one would wish to have in the Queen's Navy. 
 Some there are among them who will never come back, I doubt. 
 Well, God speed the Ship !' 
 
 ' Old Friend,' said my Father, 'your Son is on Board her, and so 
 is mine. If we were sending them to certain Death, would we 
 keep them at Home ? God Knows that they would not Stay. 
 Many a Brave Lad shall meet with a Watery Grave. In the End 
 we hope 'twill be no Worse for him.' 
 
 We rode Home ; but all that Day I seem'd to hear the Voice of 
 Lady Katharine saying, ' I see his white bones lying among the 
 Seaweed beneath the V/aves ; the Fishes have eaten out bis Eyes, 
 and the Tide Rolls him hither and thither.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 All that Year, until the Sea-Fight was over, the Country was 
 full of Rumours and Alarms. Everybody knew by this Time that 
 the King of Spain had gotten together a vast great Army, with 
 Ships innumerable. The Pope had renew'd his Bill of Excom- 
 munication against the Queen : that matter'd no more than the 
 Barking of a Dog ; but he also supply'd King Fhilip with Vast 
 Sums of Money. For our Part, not only were the Fleets fitted 
 out with Expedition, but every Man in the Country became a 
 Soldier, the Catholicks being as eager in the Cause as the Pro- 
 testants, though the Catholick Gentlemen were not allow'd to have 
 a Command (but Lord Howard of Effingham, the High Admiral, 
 my Kinsman, was himself a Catholick). I know not what Forces 
 were collected, bit it was said that wherever the Spaniard might 
 Attempt to Land, there within two D lys an Army of Twenty 
 Thousand Men could be gather'd together to meet him. All this 
 is Matter of History known to all the World. It is also very well 
 known that the English Fleet, consisting of a Hundred and Fifty 
 Ships with Fifteen Thousand Men, was read}' in the Spring to meet 
 the Armada on the Sea, though there were twice that nujaber of 
 Spaniards, with Ships twice as big as the little English Craft. 
 
 As for our Boys, I had one Letter from Will. That dear Letter 
 have I always kept. It is the only Letter that I have ever had in 
 all my Life. This is what he said :
 
 THE LAST MASS. 135 
 
 ' Sweetheart, — Our Good Ship the Mere Honour is now cruising 
 off the Coast of Flanders, and I promise you the Duke of Parma 
 keeps Snug Ashore, and only Peeps out to See if we are Out of 
 Sight. Tis said that he has Innumerable Fiat-Boats and Twenty 
 Thousand Men with whom to invade our Island. Well : we boast 
 not. We are Commanded by Lord Henry Seymour. Two Score 
 Ships we be ; our Friends the Dutchmen have promised three 
 Score more : with Drake and Hawkins at Plymouth are other 
 three Score or even a greater Number. We know not yet what 
 Force will come against us : 'tis said that the King of Spain 
 designs to imitate King William the Conqueror, but with a Larger 
 Fleet and a Greater Army : he is, by the Latest Newa to Hind 
 when we sailed out of the Port of London, levying Troops every- 
 where : hiring and buying Ships at Venice, Genoa, Naples, and 
 Sicily, not to speak of his own Port3. I boast not, I say again, but 
 eveiy Man of us is Resolute. My Dear, I long for the Sight of 
 thy most sweet Face once more. Forget not, whatever happens, 
 that I love thee. As for Roger, he is the most proper Man of our 
 Company, and the lightest-hearted. If he hath not Written to 
 thy Father or to Alice, let this Letter send them News of him. 
 Most of our Lads were down with Seasickness, but that is past, 
 and now there is not one but can walk about and Exercise with the 
 Rest. I knew not before that a Sailor's Life was so Merry. We 
 are never plagu'd with Thoughts of the Harvest : we have no Hay 
 to cut, or Corn to reap : we care little whether the Sun shines or 
 not : we are not Troubl'd with Rumours such as continually dis- 
 quiet our Folk at Home : we have no Trouble for Money : we 
 Fear not Poverty : there is little Sickness at Sea save when the 
 Voyage has been long and the Provisions are mouldy : and as for 
 Tempest, Shipwreck, or the Enemy, no one at Sea regards these 
 Dangers. I talk as a Sailor, for indeed when one is on Board, 
 although a Volunteer only, one begins to become a Sailor and to 
 Speak and Think like one. They said in London that the Spanish 
 Fleet would certainly Sail in the Spring. It is now April, where- 
 fore we may shortly look for Hot Work. Farewell, Sweetheart. 
 
 • From your loving 
 
 'W. H.* 
 
 The Spring pass'd and the Summer follow'd : then we heard — 
 'twas in June — that the Armada had set Sail from the Tagus. 
 Next we heard that it had met with Gales in the Bay of Biscay, 
 and was Dispers'd and Soatter'd. At the News we had a Thanks-
 
 135 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 giving Service in the Church. But presently it appear'd that 
 though the Fleet was scatter'd hy a Storm, little Harm was done, 
 and then for a Space we had no more news, but waited with Beat- 
 ing Hearts. 
 
 VII. 
 
 All that Summer the Air was Thick with Rumours. The Spaniards, 
 we heard one Day, had landed : another Day, Drake's Fleet was 
 sunk and himself kilPd : the Queen had fled : the Camp at Tilbury 
 had been broken up. There was nothing too monstrous to be 
 whispered or to be believ'd. All was idle Gossip, the Effect of 
 Fear aud Uncertainty. How could the People escape Fear and 
 Uncertainty, when in every Village all the Men who could bear 
 Arms were daily train'd, and all were under Orders to repair, on 
 the Signal made, to such and such a Rendezvous, and on every 
 Hill along the South Coast — I say not along our Eastern Shores — 
 there was a Watch by Day and Night, and a Beacon Pile ready to 
 be Fir'd should the Spanish Fleet be Discern'd upon the Horizon ? 
 Let these Rumours pass: what I have to tell was not the Effect of 
 Fear. 
 
 Everybody knows now that the Armada was first seen on the 
 21st Day of July: on Tuesday, the 23rd, the Fighting Began, 
 and was Continued, the Spaniards every Day getting into worse 
 Troubles, until the last Day of the Month, when they had no more 
 Stomach for the Fight, and resolved to Fly Northwards, which 
 they did, a Part of the English Fleet in Pursuit, until they had no 
 more Ammunition and were compell'd to stop. But the Hand of 
 the Lord was heavy upon them, and the Tempests Overwhelm'd 
 them, so that in the End out of all that Great Fleet, that Invin- 
 cible Armada, the Spanish Admiral brought Home barely Fifty 
 Ships, and out of Thirty Thousand Men not half return'd. 
 
 Now on Tuesday Evening, the Day when the Fighting began, 
 the Lady Katharine spoke to me again. (Note that she had not 
 spoken to any of us for a whole Year, namely, since the Evening 
 when she saw the Skies red with Blood, and foretold the Battle.) 
 She came forth, as before, to take the Air in the Evening, follow'd 
 by her Nuns. According to her wont, sheWalk'd Slowly along the 
 Terrace, looking before her as if she saw Nothing. But her Lips 
 moved. She was Agitated. Suddenly she Stopp'd as one who is 
 call'd, or who hears Something. I, who was sitting beside my
 
 THE LAST MASS. \yj 
 
 Father in the Garden, saw that her Face Changed Suddenly. Tears 
 rose in those Hard Eyes : her Lips Trembled. 
 
 Then she Beckon'd to me. 
 
 'Child,' she said softly, 'come hither. Listen!' — for I obey'd 
 and stood before her. 'Listen ! The Day of the Lord hath come 
 at last. Listen ! You can hear the Roaring of the Cannon and 
 the Shrieks of the Wounded Men; the Ships are dash'd together, 
 and they Break like Egg Shells, and Sink with their Guns to the 
 Bottom of the Deep. The Day of the Lord hath come ! The Day 
 of the Lord hath come ! Let us within — to sing Praises — to sing 
 Praises — to sing Praises.' 
 
 So without a Word more she turn'd and walk'd back to the 
 House, follow'd by the Nuns, and so to the Chapel, where until 
 Midnight I heard their Voices Singing Psalms of Praise, while I 
 6pent the Xight in Tears and Prayers. 
 
 After this I saw her no more for nearly a Fortnight. But I 
 have learn'd since that she was all the Time as one possess'd with a 
 Spirit. She Spoke to the Sisters as if she was the Spectator of the 
 Fight: she told them how here a Tall Ship was Sinking, and here 
 Another was in Flames, and how one blew up, and how the Fire- 
 Ships in the Dead of Night spread Destruction and Dismay. She 
 rested not nor had any Sleep by Night : she took no Food : and 
 broke out Continually into Praise and Thanksgiving for the 
 Destruction of Heretics and those who had Despoil'd the Holy 
 Sanctuaries. 
 
 It was on the Last Day of July (when the Spanish Fleet was 
 sailing Northwards in full flight) that this Ecstasy of Spirit left 
 her suddenly. Then she Clasp'd her Hands, Solemnly Thanked 
 God, took some Food, and fell Asleep, continuing to Sleep like a 
 Child for a Whole Night and Most of the following Day. In the 
 Evening of that Day, when she Awoke, the Sisters saw that she 
 was Chang'd : for she was now Meek and Gentle : she Spoke to 
 them as a Sister, not as their Abbess : she ask'd Humbly for Food, 
 and when she had taken it and read a few Prayers from her Book, 
 she fell asleep again. And so also the next Day, and the next, 
 being always Gentle when she awoke, and falling to Sleep again 
 quickly. 
 
 Now on the Night of Saturday, the 4th of August, I could not 
 Sleep for the Great Trouble of my Mind. Reports had reach'd us 
 that the Fleets had met: a Ship from London brought the News 
 that there had been Heavy Fighting : there were other Rumours, 
 which I pass over : my Father was more than Commonly Grave :
 
 133 THE LAST MASS. 
 
 I had heard him saying to Sir Anthony that the Last Stand Might, 
 after all, have to be made upon the Dykes of Holland, if our own 
 Land were to be Conquer'd by the Papists. Therefore I could not 
 Sleep, but lay awake thinking that if Will were Dead his Spirit 
 might perhaps be Permitted to Whisper Consolation to me. I 
 even cry'd aloud to him at Midnight while the Church Clock was 
 striking the Hour: I say that I sat up in Bed and held out my 
 Arms and cry'd : ' Will ! Will ! Will ! come to me, O Dead Spirit 
 of my Dead Lover !' He came not. There was no Sound or Sigh, 
 no Yoice or Appearance at all. Yet now I knew — or thought I 
 knew — that he was surely Dead, since she who foretold his Death 
 was also permitted to Hear the Roaring of the Guns and to Witness 
 afar off the Sinking of the Ships. 
 
 Two Hours and more pass'd thus in Wakefulness and in Weep- 
 ing. Then, while the First Light of the Day was just Showing in 
 the Sky, I heard Footsteps Outside, and my Door was open'd, and 
 one of the Sisters came running in. 'Twas Sister Clementina, the 
 Youngest (though she was already Seventy-six). 
 
 'Awake !' she cried — ' oh ! awake and come Quickly. The Abbess 
 calls you. Dress Quickly, and come.' 
 
 She helped me to Dress, and I Hurry'd away with her — a Dreadful 
 Fear in my Heart — to the Chamber where no one had been per- 
 mitted to Enter for Fifty Years. 
 
 The Daylight was quickly growing stronger. The Abbess sat in 
 her Bed propp'd up by Pillows. She was dying : anyone, even a 
 Girl who had never looked on Death, could Perceive that Imme- 
 diately. The Face, as happens often to Dying People, was Young 
 again, and it was Beautiful. Her Eyes were Soft and Kind. 
 
 'My Dear,' she said — she called me my Dear — 'thou wilt do me 
 a Service. These Sisters of Mine are Old and Weak, but thou art 
 Young and Strong. Hasten therefore. Take Horse and ride to 
 the Meals beyond Weils: ride over the Meals to the Sea-Shore. 
 There is a Fisherman's Hut. Bid the old Fisherman mount the 
 Horse, and do thou sit behind him and come back. Teil him that 
 I am Dying; but I cannot Die until I have Heard the Holy Mas3 
 a^ain. Tell him that the Day of the Lord hath come ; He hath 
 Blown with His Breath, and His Enemies are scatter'd. The Holy 
 Faith hath Come Again.' 
 
 I marvell'd at these Words, but I lost no Time. The Stable 
 Boys were all asleep: I Saddled a Horse and rode forth. The 
 Town of Wells was Fast Asleep; I Rode through it and out upon 
 the Sand-Hills that we call the Meals. It is a Wild and Deserted
 
 THE LAST MA SS. 139 
 
 Place ; the Wild Fowl Fly about it all the Year round : nobody 
 comes with Hawk or Dog for them : the Rabbits swarm among the 
 Sand and Swamps : if there be any Fishermen's Huts, there are no 
 Fishing-Boats ; the Going is dangerous for Horses on account of 
 the Holes made by the Rabbits. 
 
 By this Time it was broad Daylight. Presently from a Sand- 
 Hill a little higher than the Rest I discern'd in the Distance a Hut 
 standing alone very near the Shore. It was a rude Hut form'd by 
 an old Boat turn'd Bottom upwards, and placed on Supports, the 
 whole Cover'd with Black Pitch. As I drew near the Hut I saw an 
 Ancient Man in a rough Fisherman's Dress, with long white Hair 
 and Beard, standing at the Door, as if waiting. 
 
 'I am ready,' he said. 'I was waiting for the Message.' 
 
 I have never learn'd what he meant, or how he knew I was 
 Coming. 
 
 He Mounted, however, and I behind him, and so we Rode slowly 
 away, but on the Journey he said no Single Word. I, however, 
 understood by this Time what this Meant. He was no Fisherman, 
 which anyone could understand by his Speech : and if the Lady 
 Katharine sent for him because she would Fain Hear the Mass once 
 more, he must be a Catholick Priest. 
 
 At the Entrance of the Park — Lo ! a Marvel. Sometimes I 
 think I must have Dream'd this Thing. But no ; I cannot have 
 Dream'd it. Besides, there was living until a Year or two ago the 
 Sister Clementina (she died at the Age of ninety-five), who could 
 Testify to the Truth of what I tell. 
 
 I had left a Dying Woman waiting for the Priest before her 
 Soul could leave her Body. She was too Weak to stand ; she spoke 
 Feebly. Now— could one believe one's Eyes ? — she was Standing at 
 the Entrance of the Park, erect and strong, without even her 
 Stick ; she was Dress'd in her Full Habit as a Benedictine Abbess : 
 in her Hands she bore Reverently Something— I know not what 
 — wrapp'd in Silk and Cloth of Gold. Behind her stood the Three 
 Sisters bearing Vestments and Vessels of Gold. Then the Priest 
 dismounted, and the Sisters clothed him with some of the Vest- 
 ments. And then, the Priest going first, they walk'd in Procession, 
 carrying their Sacred Things, towards the Church, which stands 
 outside the Park. I follow'd, Watching and Wondering. They 
 sang, as they went, that Psalm which begins Exnrr/at Deus. It is 
 the Sixty-eighth Psalm, and is Appointed for the Thirteenth Day 
 of the Month. It is a Psalm of Thanksgiving and Praise : ' Let 
 God Arise, and let His Enemies be Scatter'd ' — why, they were
 
 14° THE LAST MASS. 
 
 already Scatter'd, she thought. 'Kings with their Armies did 
 Flee ' — the poor Lady thought that Queen Elizabeth with her 
 Armies was in Flight. 'The Lord hath said, I will bring my 
 People again ' — they were the People from Rome. ' Sing therefore 
 as unto God, ye Kingdoms of the Earth ; oh ! sing Praises unto 
 the Lord.' 
 
 Then they reach'd the Church Door, which was open — who bad 
 Open'd it?— nay, I know not— and they "Walked in, still singing, 
 and so to the Table, which stood, as is our Custom, unfurnish*d 
 save with a Red Cloth Covering or Pall ; but upon this Table they 
 placed these Vessels and so made it into an Altar for their Mass. 
 
 The Sun was now High in the Heavens, and shone through the 
 East Window (which is Splendid with Colour'd Glass) upon the 
 Abbess and the three Sisters, who Knelt together upon the Steps 
 before the Communion Table, making their White Cassocks look 
 as if they were Cloth of Gold, and Painting their White Faces a 
 rosy red. 
 
 There was never, sure, a Stranger Service than this Mass in the 
 Early Morning, sang by the Old Priest to the Four Old Nuns in 
 the Parish Church, now handed over to Protestant Use. I look'd 
 on, unnoticed, while the Priest went through the Service, some- 
 times putting on and sometimes taking off his Vestments, some- 
 times praying in Silence. Then I beheld for the first Time the 
 Elevation of the Host. It was Strange to think that until Forty 
 Years Agone they held this Service every Sunday in the Church, 
 and had so held it since the Church was built.! 
 
 At last the Mass was said. 
 
 The Abbess way on her Knees, bow'd down almost to the 
 Ground ; the Sisters beside her were in Like Manner humbly 
 bow'd and kneeling ; the Priest knelt in Silence before the Altar ; 
 upon it glitter'd the Cups and Vessels of the Service, and the 
 Thing, whatever it was, which the Abbess had carry'd wrapt in 
 Cloth of Gold. 
 
 Then as I watch'd, standing beside a Pillar, I saw the Lady 
 Katharine suddenly Sink Forward. I cry'd out and ran to lift her 
 up ; the Sisters sprang to their Feet ; the Priest stopp'd his 
 Prayers, and we lifted her up. 
 
 But she was dead. And oh ! how Sweet a Face was that upon 
 which we gazed ! All the Pride and Wrath were gone out of it : a 
 Sweet Pale Face, full of Meekness and Piety ; the Face with which, 
 Sixty Years before, she had taken her Vows. 
 
 She was dead. First the Sisters began to Tremble and to Weep j
 
 THE LAST MASS. 141 
 
 then they recover'd their Wits, and set themselves, refusing my 
 Help, to Carry the Dead Body of the Ahbess back to her Chamber. 
 
 No one had seen the Procession on its Way : no one saw its 
 Return : as for the Priest, I know not what became of him, nor 
 did I ever learn. 
 
 At Eight o' the Clock that Morning the Sexton went to open 
 the Church Door. He found it open. Also — this was his Story 
 — he found upon the Communion Table a Human Bone, which he 
 had thrown into a newly opened Grave. Nothing more. When I 
 told my Father what had happen'd, he said that the Bone could 
 have been none other than the Famous Arm of St. Philip, which 
 had once belong'd to Binstead Abbey. 
 
 Now while we talk'd of this strange Event I heard a Footstep 
 outside the Hall — a Footstep which I knew. "Tis Will !' I cried ; 
 ' 'tis Will !' and would have run to meet him, but the Door open'd, 
 and he stood before ns. 
 
 He was Alone, and he Hung his Head. 
 
 'Will !' cried my Father, ' what Cheer, my Lad ?' 
 
 He Hung his Head lower, and the Tears stood in his Eyes. In 
 his Hand he bore a Sword. Alas ! I knew whose Sword it was. 
 
 ' First, Man,' said my Father, ' what of the Enemy ? ' 
 
 ' They are Dispers'd and Scatter'd. Half their Fleet is Sunk or 
 Taken ; the Rest are in Flight. We Pursu'd them until we had 
 no more Powder. We were Order'd to Return, each Ship to her 
 own Port, and to be in Readiness. But it is Finish 'd. They will 
 not try to Invade us again.' 
 
 'God save the Queen !' said my Father solemnly. 
 
 'I have brought you his Sword,' said Will, without more Words. 
 ' He was Kill'd in the last Day's Fighting by a Musket Shot when 
 we Boarded and Took the San Matteo. We bury'd him at Sea.' 
 
 So the Prophecy of Lady Katharine came True. There was the 
 Great Sea-Fight : there was the Sinking of the Ships : there was 
 the Mighty Slaughter : and of the two Young Men who stood 
 before me one was to Lie at the Bottom of the Deep as she Fore- 
 told. It was my Brother — my Brave and Gallant Brother. 
 Wherefore Alice goeth still in Sadness and Mourning, and hath 
 Refused to Marry, saying that her Husband indeed Liveth, and in 
 Heaven is waiting still for her.
 
 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION. 
 
 • Professor !' cried the Director, rushing to meet their guest and 
 lecturer as the door was thrown open, and the great man appeared, 
 calm and composed, as if there was nothing more in the wind than 
 an ordinary Scientific Discourse. ' You are always welcome, my 
 friend, always welcome '—the two enthusiasts for science wrung 
 hands— 'and never more welcome than to-night. Then the great 
 Mystery is to be solved at last. The Theatre is crammed with 
 people. What does it mean ? You must tell me before you 
 go in.' 
 
 The Physicist smiled. 
 
 'I came to a conviction that I was on the true line five years 
 ago,' he said. 'It is only within the last six months that I have 
 demonstrated the thing to a certainty. I will tell you, my friend,' 
 he whispered, ' before we go in.' 
 
 Then he advanced and shook hands with the President. 
 
 ' Whatever the importance of your Discovery, Professor,' said 
 the President, ' we are fully sensible of tho honour yoa have done 
 us in bringing it before an English audience first of all, and 
 especially before an audience of the Royal Institution.' 
 
 ' Ja, Ja, Herr President. But I give my Discovery to all the 
 world at this same hour. As for myself, I announce it to my very 
 good friends of the Royal Institution. Why not to my other very 
 good friends of the Royal Society ? Because it is a thing which 
 belongs to the whole world, and not to scientific men only.' 
 
 It was in the Library of the Royal Institution. The President 
 and Council of the Institution were gathered together to receive
 
 PROLOGUE. 143 
 
 their illustrious lecturer, and every face was touched with interro- 
 gation and anxiety. What was this Great Discovery ? 
 
 For six months there had appeared, from time to time, 
 mysterious telegrams in the papers, all connected with this indus- 
 trious Professor's laboratory. Nothing definite, nothing certain : 
 it was whispered that a new discovery, soon about to be an- 
 nounced, would entirely change the relations of man to man ; of 
 nation to nation. Those who professed to be in the secret sug- 
 gested that it might alter all governments and abolish all laws. Why 
 they said that I know not, because certainly nobody was admitted 
 to the laboratory, and the Professor had no confidant. This big- 
 headed man, with the enormous bald forehead and the big glasses 
 on his fat nose — it was long and broad as well as fat — kept his 
 own counsel. Yet, in some way, people were perfectly certain 
 that something wonderful was coming. So, when Roger Bacon 
 made his gunpowder, the monks might have whispered to each 
 other, only from the smell which came through the keyhole, that 
 now the Devil would be at last met upon his own ground. The 
 telegrams were continued with exasperating pertinacity, until over 
 the whole civilized world the eyes of all who loved science were 
 turned upon that modest laboratory in the little University of 
 Ganzweltweisst am Rhein. What was coming from it ? One 
 does not go so far as to say that all interest in contemporary busi- 
 ness, politics, art, and letters ceased ; but it is quite certain that 
 every morning and every evening, when everybody opened his 
 paper, his first thought was to look for news from Ganzweltweisst 
 am Rhein. 
 
 But the days passed by, and no news came. This was especially 
 hard on the leader-writers, who were one and all waiting, each 
 man longing to have a cut in with the subject before anybody else 
 got it. But it was good for the people who write letters to the 
 papers, because they had so many opportunities of suggestion and 
 surmise. And so the leader-writers got something to talk about 
 after all. For some suggested that Prof. Schwarzbaum had found 
 out a way to make food artificially, by chemically compounding 
 nitrogens, phosphates, and so forth. And these philosophers built 
 a magnificent Palace of Imagination, in which dwelt a glorified 
 mankind no longer occupied in endless toil for the sake of pro- 
 viding meat and drink for themselves and families, but all en- 
 gaged in the pursuit of knowledge, and in Art of all kinds, 
 Buch as Fiction, Poetry, Painting, Music, Acting, and so forth,
 
 144 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 getting out of Life such a wealth of emotion, pleasure, and 
 culture as the world had never before imagine J. Others there were 
 who thought that the great Discovery might le a method of 
 instantaneous transmission of matter from place to place ; so 
 that, as by the electric wire one can send a message, so by some 
 kind of electric method one could send a human body from any 
 one part of the world to any other in a moment. Tin's suggestion 
 offered a fine field for the imagination ; and there was a novel 
 written on this subject which had a great success, until the Dis- 
 covery itself was announced. Others, again, thought that the 
 new Discovery meant some great and wonderful development of 
 the Destructive Art ; so that the whole of an army might be 
 blown into countless fragments by the touch of a button, the dis- 
 charge of a spring, the fall of a hammer. This took the fancy 
 hugely, and it was pleasant to read the imaginary developments 
 of history as influenced by this Discovery. But it seemed certain 
 that the learned Professor would keep it for the use of his own 
 country. So that there was no longer any room to doubt that, 
 if this was the nature of the Discovery, the whole of the habit- 
 able world must inevitably fall under the Teutonic yoke, and an 
 Empire of Armed Peace would set in, the like of which had 
 never before been witnessed upon the globe. On the whole, the 
 prospect was received everywhere, except in France and Russia, 
 with resignation. Even the United States remembered that they 
 had already many millions of Germans among them ; and that the 
 new Empire, though it would give certainly all the places to these 
 Germans, would also save them a great many Elections, and there- 
 fore a good deal of trouble, and would relieve the national con- 
 science — long grievously oppressed in this particular— of truckling 
 to the Irish Vote. Dynamiters and anarchists, however, were 
 despondent, and Socialists regarded each other with an ever- 
 deepening gloom. This particular Theory of the great Discovery 
 met, in fact, with universal credence over the whole civilized 
 globe. 
 
 From the great man himself there came no sign. Enter- 
 prising interviewers failed to get speech with him. Scientific 
 men wrote to him, but got no real information in reply. And the 
 minds of men grew more and more agitated. Some great change 
 was considered certain — but what ? 
 
 One morning— it was the morning of Thursday, June 20th, 
 189G— there appeared an advertisement in the papers. By the 
 telegrams it was discovered that a similar advertisement had
 
 PROLOGUE. 145 
 
 been published in every great city all over the world. That of the 
 London papers differed from others in one important respect — in 
 this, namely : Professor Schwarzbaum would himself, without any 
 delay, read before a London audience a Taper which should reveal 
 his new Discovery. There was not, however, the least hint in the 
 ■announcement of the nature of this Discovery. 
 
 'Yes,' said the Physicist, speaking slowly, 'I have given the 
 particulars to my friends over the whole earth ; and, as London is 
 still the centre of the world, I resolved that I would myself com- 
 municate it to the English.' 
 
 ' But what is it ? — what is it ?' asked the President. 
 
 ' The Discovery,' the Professor continued, ' is to be announced 
 at the same moment all over the world, so that none of the 
 newspapers shall have an unfair start. It is now close upon nine 
 o'clock by London time. In Paris it is ten minutes past nine : 
 in Berlin it is six minutes before ten : at St. Petersburg it is 
 eleven o'clock : at New York it is four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 Yery good. When the clock in your theatre points to nine exactly, 
 at that moment everywhere the same Paper will be read.' 
 
 In fact, at that moment the clock began to strike. The 
 President led the way to the Theatre, followed by the Council. 
 The Director remained behind with the Lecturer of the evening. 
 
 ' My friend,' said Professor Schwarzbaum, • my subject is 
 nothing less ' — he laid his finger upon the Director's arm — 
 ' nothing less than " The Prolongation of the Yital Energy." ' 
 
 ' Yv T hat ! The Prolongation of the Yital Energy ? Do you know 
 what that means ?' The Director turned pale. ' Are we to 
 understand ' 
 
 ' Come,' said the Professor, ' we must not waste the time.' 
 
 Then the Director, startled and pale, took his German brother 
 by the arm and led him into the Theatre, murmuring, 'Prolonga- 
 tion . . . Prolongation . . . Prolongation ... of the Yital — the 
 Yital— Energy !' 
 
 The Theatre was crowded. There was not a vacant seat : there 
 was no more standing room on the stairs : the very doors of the 
 gallery were thronged : the great staircase was thronged with 
 those who could not get in, but waited to get the first news 
 Nay, outside the Institution, Albemarle Street was crowded with 
 people waiting to hear what this great thing might be which all 
 the world had waited six months to hear. Within the Theatre, 
 what an audience ! For the first time in English history no re- 
 
 10
 
 146 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 spect at all had been paid to rank : the people gathered in the 
 Theatre were all that the great City could boast that was dis- 
 tinguished in science, art, and letters. Those present were the 
 men who moved the world. Among them, naturally, a sprinkling 
 of the men who are born to the best things of the world, and 
 are sometimes told that they help to move it. There were 
 ladies among the company, too : ladies well known in scientiCc 
 and literary circles ; with certain great ladies led by curiosity. 
 On the left-hand side of the Theatre, for instance, close to the 
 door, sat two very great ladies indeed — one of them the Countess 
 of Thordisa, and the other her only daughter, the Lady Mildred 
 Carera. Leaning against the pillar beside them stood a young 
 man of singularly handsome appearance, tall and commanding of 
 stature. 
 
 ' To you, Dr. Linister,' said the Countess, 'I suppose everything 
 that the Professor has to tell us will be already well known ?' 
 
 ' That,' said Dr. Linister, ' would be too much to expect.' 
 
 'For me,' her Ladyship went on delicately, 'I love to catch 
 Science on the wing — on the wing— in her lighter moods, when she 
 has something really popular to tell.' 
 
 Dr. Linister bowed. Then his eyes met those of the beautiful 
 girl sitting below him, and he leaned and whispered : 
 
 'I looked for you ever}' where last night. You had led me to 
 understand ' 
 
 ' "We went nowhere, after all. Mamma fancied she had a bad 
 cold.' 
 
 ' Then this evening. May I be quite — quite sure ?' 
 
 His voice dropped, and his fingers met hers beneath the fan. 
 She drew them away quickly with a blush. 
 
 'Yes,' she whispered, 'you may find me to-night at Lady 
 Chatterton's or Lady Ingleby's.' 
 
 From which you can understand that this young Dr. Linister 
 was quite a man in society. He was young : he had already a 
 great reputation for Biological research ; he was the only son of a 
 fashionable physician ; and he would be very rich. Therefore, in 
 the season, Harry Linister was of the season. 
 
 On most of the faces present there sat an expression of anxiety, 
 and even fear. What was this new thing ? "Was the world really 
 going to be turned upside down ? And when the West End was 
 so very comfortable and its position so very well assured ! Eut 
 there were a few present who rubbed their hands at the thought of 
 a great upturn of everything. Up with the scum first ; when that
 
 PROLOGUE. 147 
 
 had been ladled overboard a new arrangement would be possible, to 
 tbe advantage of those who rubbed their hand*. 
 
 When the clock struck nine, a dead silence fell upon the Theatre ; 
 not a breath was heard ; not a cough ; not the rustle of a dress. 
 Their faces were pale with expectancy ; their lips were parted ; 
 their very breathing seemed arrested. 
 
 Then the President and the Couucil walked in and took their 
 places. 
 
 ' Ladies and Gentlemen,' said the President shortly, ' the learned 
 Professor will himself communicate to you the subject and title of 
 his Paper, and we may be certain beforehand that his subject and 
 matter will adorn the motto of the Society — lllustrans commoda 
 l■^t(Je. , 
 
 Then Dr. Schwarzbaum stood at the table before them all, and 
 looked round the room. Lady Mildred glanced at the young man, 
 Harry Linister. He was staring at the German like the rest,, 
 speechless. She sighed. Women did not in those days like love- 
 making to be forgotten or interrupted by anything, certainly not 
 by science. 
 
 The learned German carried a small bundle of papers, which he 
 laid on the table. He carefully and slowly adjusted his spectacles. 
 Then he drew from his pocket a small leathern case. Then he 
 looked round the room and smiled. That is to say, his lips were 
 covered with a full beard, so that the sweetness of the smile was 
 mostly lost ; but it was observed under and behind the beard. The 
 mere ghost of a smile ; yet a benevolent ghost. 
 
 The Lecturer began, somewhat in copybook fashion, to remind 
 his audience that everything in Nature is born, grows slowly to 
 maturity, enjoys a brief period of full force and strength, then 
 decays, and finally dies. The tree of life is first a green sapling, 
 and last a white and leafless trunk. He expatiated at some length 
 on the growth of the young life. He pointed out that methods 
 had been discovered to hinder that growth, turn it into unnatural 
 forms, even to stop and destroy it altogether. He showed how the 
 body is gradually strengthened in all its parts ; he showed, for his 
 unscientific hearers, how the various parts of the structure assume 
 strength. All this was familiar to most of his audience. Next he 
 proceeded to dwell upon the period of full maturity of bodily and 
 mental strength, which, in a man, should last from twenty-five to 
 sixty, and even beyond that time. The decay of the bodily, and 
 even of the mental organs, may have already set in, even when mind 
 and body seem the most vigorous. At this period of the disjassiou 
 
 10—2
 
 » 4 8 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 aaost of the audience were beginning to flag in their attention. 
 Was such a gathering as this assembled only to bear a discussion on 
 the growth and decay of the faculties? But the Director, who 
 knew what was coming, sat bolt upright, expectant. It was strange, 
 the people said afterwards, that no one should have suspected what 
 wa3 coming. There was to be, everybody knew, a great announce- 
 ment. That was certain. Destruction, Locomotion, Food, Trans- 
 mission of Thought, Substitution of Speech for Writing — all these 
 things, as has been seen, had been suggested. But no one even 
 guessed the real nature of the Discovery. And now, with the ex- 
 ception of the people who always pretend to have known all along, 
 to have been favoured with the Great Man's Confidence, to have 
 guessed the thing from the outset, no one had the least suspicion. 
 
 Therefore, when the Professor suddenly stopped short, after a 
 prolix description of wasting power and wearied organs, and held 
 up an admonitory finger, everybody jumped, because now the 
 Secret was to be divulged. They had come to hear a great Secret. 
 
 'What is this Decay?' he asked. ' What is it? Why does it 
 begin ? What laws regulate it ? What check can we place upon 
 it ? How can we prevent it ? How can we stay its progress ? 
 Can Science, which has done so much to make Life happy — which 
 has found out so many things by which Man's brief span is crowded 
 with delightful emotions — can Science do no more ? Cannot 
 Science add to these gifts that more precious gift of all — the 
 lengthening of that brief span ?' 
 
 Here everybody gasped. 
 
 4 1 ask,' the speaker went on, 4 whether Science cannot put off 
 that day which closes the eyes and turns the body into a senseless 
 lump ? Consider : we are no sooner arrived at the goal of our 
 ambitions than we have to go away ; we are no sooner at the pleni- 
 tude of our wisdom and knowledge, than we have to lay down all 
 that we have learned and go away — nay, we cannot even transmit 
 to others our accumulations of knowledge. They are lost. We 
 are no sooner happy with those we love, than we have to leave 
 them. We collect but cannot enjoy ; we inherit — it is but for a 
 day ; we learn, but we have no time to use our learning ; we love 
 — it is but for an hour ; we pass our youth in hope, our manhood 
 in effort, and we die before we are old ; we are strong, but our 
 strength passes like a dream ; we are beautiful, but our beauty 
 perishes in a single day. Cannot, I ask again — cannot Science 
 prolong the Yital Force, and stay the destroying hand of Decay ?' 
 
 At this point a wonderful passion seized upon many of the peopla
 
 PROLOGUE. 149 
 
 present. For some sprang to their feet and lifted hands and shouted; 
 some wept aloud : some clasped each other by the hand : there were 
 lovers among the crowd who fell openly into each other's arms : there 
 were men of learning who hugged imaginary books and looked up 
 with wild eyes : there were girls who smiled, thinking that their 
 beauty might last longer than a day: there were women down whose 
 cheeks rolled the tears of sorrow for their vanished beauty : there 
 ■were old men who heard and trembled. 
 
 One of them spoke — out of all this crowd only one found words. 
 It was an old statesman ; an old man eloquent. He rose with shaking 
 limbs. 
 
 'Sir,' he cried, his voice still sonorous, 'give me back my man- 
 hood !' 
 
 The Professor continued, regardless : 
 
 'Suppose,' he said, 'that Science had found out the way, not to 
 restore what is lost, but to arrest further loss ; not to give back 
 what is gone— you might as well try to restore a leg that has been 
 cut off — but to prevent further loss. Consider this for a moment, 
 I pray you. Those who search into Nature's secrets might, if this 
 were done for them, carry on their investigations far beyond any 
 point which had yet been reached : those who cultivate Art might 
 attain to a greater skill of hand and truth of sight than has ever 
 yet been seen : those who study human nature might multiply their 
 observations : those who love might have a longer time for their 
 passion : men who are strong might remain strong : women who are 
 beautiful might remain beautiful ' 
 
 'Sir,' cried again the old man eloquent, 'give me back my man- 
 hood !' 
 
 The Lecturer made no reply, but went on : 
 
 ' The rich might have a time — a sensible length of time — in which 
 to enjoy their wealth: the young might remain young: the old might 
 grow no older: the feeble might not become more feeble — all for a 
 prolonged time. As for those whose lives could never become any- 
 thing but a burden to themselves and to the rest of the world — the 
 crippled, the criminal, the poor, the imbecile, the incompetent, the 
 stupid and the frivolous — they would live out their allotted lives and 
 die. It would be for the salt of the earth, for the flower of mankind, 
 for the men strong of intellect and endowed above the common 
 herd, that Science would re.-erve this precious gift.' 
 
 ' Give me back my manhood !' cried again the old man elo- 
 quent. 
 
 But he was not alone. For they all sprang to their feet together
 
 l 5 o THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 and cried aloud, shrieking, weeping, stretching forth hands, 'Give 
 — give — give !' But the Director, who knew that what was asked 
 for would be given, sat silent and self-possessed. 
 
 The Speaker motioned them all to sit down again. 
 
 'I would not,' lie said, 'limit this great gift to those alone whose 
 intellect leads the world. I would extend it to all who help to 
 make life beautiful and happy: to lovely women' — here the men 
 heaved a sigh so deep, so simultaneous, that it fell upon the ear 
 like the voice of thanksgiving from a Cathedral choir — 'to those 
 who love only the empty show and pleasures and vainglories of 
 life' — here many smiled, especially of the younger sort — 'even to 
 some of those who desire nothing of life but love and song and 
 dalliance and laughter.' Again the younger sort smiled, and tried 
 to look as if they had no connection at all with that band. ' I would 
 extend this gift, I repeat, to all who can themselves be happy in the 
 sunshine and the light, and to all who can make the happiness of 
 others. Then, again, consider. When you have enjoyed those things 
 for awhile: when your life has been prolonged, so that you have 
 enjoyed all that you desire in full measure and running over: when 
 not two or three years have passed, but perhaps two or three cen- 
 turies, you would then, of your own accord, put aside the aid of 
 Science and suffer your body to fall into the decay which awaits all 
 living matter. Coutented and resigned, you would sink into the 
 tomb, not satiated with the joys of life, but satisfied to have had 
 your share. There would be no terror in death, since it would take 
 none but those who could say, " I have had enough." That day 
 would surely come to everyone. There is nothing — not research 
 and discovery, not the beauty of Nature, not love and pleasure, not 
 art, not flowers and sunshine and perpetual youth— of which we 
 should not in time grow weary. Science cannot alter the Laws of 
 Nature. Of all things there must be an end. But she can prolong: 
 she can avert : she can .... Yes, my friends. This is my Dis- 
 covery: this is my Gift to Humanity: this is the fruit, the outcome 
 of my life : for me this great thing has been reserved. Science can 
 arrest Decay. She can make you live— live on — live for centuries 
 — nay, I know not — why not ? — she can, if you foolishly desire it, 
 make you live for ever.' 
 
 Now, when these words were spoken there fell a deep silence 
 upon the crowd. No one spoke : no one looked up : they were 
 awed: they could not realize what it meant that would be given 
 them : they were suddenly relieved of a great terror, the constant 
 dread that lies in man's heart, ever present, though we conceal it —
 
 PROLOGUE. 151 
 
 the dread of Death ; but they could not, in a moment, understand 
 that it was given. 
 
 But the Director sprang to his feet, and grasped his brother 
 physicist by the hand : 
 
 1 Of all the sons of Science,' he said solemnly, \ thou shalt be pro- 
 claimed the first and best.' 
 
 The assembly heard these words, but made no sign. There was 
 no applause — not a murmur, not a voice. They were stricken dumb 
 with wonder and with awe. They were going to live — to live on 
 — to live for centuries — nay, why not ? — to live for ever ! 
 
 'You all know,' the Professor continued, 'how at a dinner a 
 single glass of champagne revives the spirits, looses the tongue, and 
 brings activity to the braiu. The guests were weary: they were in 
 decay : the Champagne arrests that decay. My discovery is of 
 another kind of Champagne, which acts with a more lasting effect. 
 It strengthens the nerves, hardens the muscles, quickens the blood, 
 and brings activity to the digestion. With new strength of the 
 body returns new strength to the mind : mind and body are one.' 
 He paused a moment. Then he gave the leathern case into the 
 hands of the Director. ' This is my Gift, I say. I give to my 
 brother full particulars and the history of the invention. I seek 
 no profit for myself. It is your own. This day a new epoch begins 
 for humanity. We shall not die, but live. Accident, fire, lightning, 
 may kill us. Against these things we cannot guard. But old age 
 shall no more fall upon us : decay shall no more rob ns of our life 
 and strength : and death shall be voluntary. This is a great change. 
 I know Dot if I have done aright. That is for you to determine. 
 See that you use this gift aright.' 
 
 Then, before the people had understood the last words, the speaker 
 stepped out of the Theatre and was gone. 
 
 But the Director of the Royal Institution stood in his place, 
 and in his hand was the leathern case containing the Gift op 
 Life. 
 
 The Countess of Thordisa, who had been asleep throughout the 
 lecture, woke up when it was finished. 
 
 ' How deeply interesting !' she sighed. • This it is, to catch 
 Science on the wing.' Then she looked round. ' Mildred, dear,' 
 she said, ' has Dr. Linister gone to find the carriage ? Dear me ! 
 what a commotion I And at the Royal Institution, of all places in 
 the world !' 
 
 •I think, Mamma,' 6aid Lady Mildred coldly, ' that we had better
 
 152 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 get someone else to find the carriage. Dr. Linister is over there-, 
 He is better engaged.' 
 
 He was : he was among his brother physicists : they were 
 eagerly asking questions and crowding round the Director. And! 
 the Theatre seemed filled with mad people, who surged and crowded 
 and pushed. 
 
 ' Come, Mamma,' said Lady Mildred, pale, but with a red spot on 
 either cheek, ' we will leave them to fight it out.' 
 
 Science had beaten love. She did not meet Harry Linister again 
 that night. And when they met again, long years afterwards, he 
 passed her by with eyes that showed he had clean forgotten her 
 existence, unaltered though she was in face and form. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TIIE SUPPER-BELL. 
 
 When the big bell, in the Tower of the House of Life, struck the- 
 hour of seven, the other bells began to chime as they had done every 
 day at this hour for I know not how many years. "Very likely in 
 the Library, where we still keep a great collection of perfectly use- 
 less books, there is preserved some History which may speak of 
 these Bells, and of the builders of the House. "When these chimes 
 began, the swifts and jackdaws which live in the Tower began to 
 fly about with a great show of hurry, as if there was barely time for 
 supper, though, as it was yet only the month of July, the sun would 
 not be setting for an hour or more. 
 
 We have long since ceased to preach to the people: otherwise, we 
 might make them learn a great deal from the animal world. They 
 live, for instance, from day to day ; not only are their lives miser- 
 ably short, but they are always hungry, always fighting, always 
 quarrelling, always fierce in their loves and their jealousies. Wash- 
 ing the swifts, for instance, which we may do nearly all day long, 
 we ought to congratulate ourselves on our own leisurely order, the 
 adequate provision for food made by the Wisdom of the College,. 
 the assurance of preservation also established by that Wisdom, and 
 our freedom from haste and anxiety, as from the emotions of love, 
 hatred, jealousy, and rivalry. But the time has gone by for that 
 kind of exhortation. 
 
 Thus, our people, who at this hour crowded the great Square, 
 showed in their faces, their attitudes, and their movements, the
 
 THE SUPPER-BELL. 153 
 
 calm that reigned in their souls. Some were lying on the grass ; 
 some were sitting on the benches ; some were strolling : they were 
 for the most part alone: if not alone — because habit often survives 
 when the original cause of the habit is gone — then in pairs. 
 
 In the old unhappy days there would have been restless activity 
 — a hurrying to and fro: there would have been laughter and 
 talking — everybody would have been talking : there would have 
 been young men eagerly courting the favours of young women, 
 looking on them with longing eyes, ready to fight for them, each 
 for the girl he loved ; thinking each of the girl he loved as of a 
 goddess or an angel —all perfection. The girls themselves ardently 
 desired this foolish worship. Again, formerly there would have 
 been old men and old women looking with melancholy eyes on the 
 scenes they were about to quit, and lamenting the days of their 
 strength and their youth. And formerly there would have been 
 among the crowd beggars and paupers : there would have been 
 some masters and some servants ; some noble and some bourgeois : 
 there would have been every conceivable difference in age, rank, 
 strength, intellect, and distinction. 
 
 Again, formerly there would have been the most insolent differ- 
 ences in costume. Some of the men used to wear broadcloth, sleek 
 and smooth, with glossy hats, and gloves, and flowers at their 
 button-hole ; while beside them crawled the wretched half-clad ob- 
 jects pretending to sell matches, but in reality begging for their 
 bread. And some of the women used to flaunt in dainty and ex- 
 pensive stuffs, setting off their supposed charms (which were 
 mostly made by the dressmaker's art) with the curves and colours 
 of their drapery. And beside them would be crawling the 
 wretched creatures to whom in the summer, when the days were 
 hot and fine, the Park was their only home, and rusty black their 
 only wear. 
 
 Now, no activity at all : no hurrying, no laughing, not even any 
 talking. That might have struck a visitor as one of the most re- 
 markable results of our system. No foolish talking. As for their 
 dress, it was all alike. The men wore blue flannel jackets and 
 trousers, with a flannel shirt and a flat blue cap : for the working 
 hours they had a rougher dress. The women wore a costume in 
 gray, made of a stuff called beige. It is a useful stuff, because it 
 wears well ; it is soft and yet warm, and cannot be objected to by 
 any of them on the score of ugliness. What mutinies ! what 
 secret conspiracies ! what mad revolts ! had to be faced before the 
 women could be made to understand that Socialism — the only form
 
 154 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 of Society which can now be accepted — must be logical and com- 
 plete. What is one woman more than another that she should 
 separate herself from her sisters by her dress ! Therefore, since 
 their subjugation they all wear a gray beige frock, with a jacket 
 of the same, and a flat gray cap, like the men's, under which they 
 are made to gather up their hair. 
 
 This scene, indeed — the gathering of the People before the 
 supper-bell — is one of which I never tire. I look at all the eager, 
 hurrying swifts in the air, I remember the Past ; and I think of the 
 Present when I gaze upon the great multitude, in which no one 
 regardeth his neighbour, none speaks to none. There are no in- 
 dividual aims, but all is pure, unadulterated Socialism, with — not 
 far distant — the Ultimate Triumph of Science ! 
 
 I desire to relate the exact circumstances connected with certain 
 recent events. It is generally known that they caused one deplor- 
 able Death— one of our own Society, although not a Physician of 
 the House. I shall have to explain, before I begin the narrative, 
 certain points in cur internal management which may differ from 
 the customs adopted elsewhere. "We of the Later Era visit each 
 other so seldom that differences may easily grow up. Indeed, con- 
 sidering the terrible dangers of travel — how, if one walks, there are 
 the perils of unfiltered water, damp beds, sprained ankles, byrsitis 
 of the knee, chills from frosts and showers ; or, if one gets into a 
 wheeled vehicle, the wheels may fall off, or the carriage may be 
 overturned in a ditch. . . . But why pursue the subject ? I repeat, 
 therefore, that I must speak of the community and its order, but 
 that as briefly as may be. 
 
 The Rebels have been driven forth from the Pale of Humanity 
 to wander where they please. In a few years they will be released 
 — if that has not already happened— by Death from the diseases 
 and sufferings which will fall upon them. Then we shall remem- 
 ber them no more. The centuries will roll by, and they shall be 
 forgotten ; the very mounds of earth which once marked the place 
 of their burial will be level with the ground around them. But 
 the House and the Glory of the House will continue. 
 
 Thus perish all the enemies of Science 1 
 
 The City of Canterbury, as it was rebuilt when Socialism was 
 finally established, has in its centre a great Square, Park, or 
 Garden, the central breathing place and relaxation ground of the 
 City. Each side is exactly half a mile in length. The Garden, 
 thus occupying an area of a fourth of a square mile, is planted with
 
 THE SUPPEREELL. 155 
 
 every kind of ornamental tree, and laid out in flower-bed?, winding 
 walks, serpentine rivers, lakes, cascades, bridges, grottoes, summer- 
 houses, lawns, and everything that can help to make the place 
 attractive. During the summer it is thronged every evening with 
 the people. On its west side has been erected an enormous Palace 
 of glass, low in height, but stretching far away to the west, cover- 
 ing an immense area. Here the heat is artificially maintained at 
 temperatures varying with the season and the plants that are in 
 cultivation. In winter, frost, bad weather, and in rain, it forms a 
 place of recreation and rest. Here grow all kinds of fruit-trees, 
 with all kinds of vegetables, flowers, and plants. All the year 
 round it furnishes, in quantities, sufficient for all our wants, an 
 endless supply of fruit ; so that we have a supply of some during 
 the whole year, as grapes, bananas, and oranges ; others for at 
 least half the year, as peaches, strawberries, and so forth ; while of 
 the commoner vegetables, as peas, beans, and the like, there is now 
 no season, but they are grown continuously. In the old times we 
 were dependent upon the changes and chances of a capricious and 
 variable climate. Now, not only has the erection of these vast 
 houses made us independent of summer and winter, but the placing 
 of much grass and corn land under glass has also assured our crops 
 and secured us from the danger of famine. This is by no means 
 one of the least advantages of modern civilization. 
 
 On the South side of the Square stands our Public Hall. The 
 building has not, like the House of Life, any architectural beauty 
 — why should we aim at beauty, when efficiency is our sole object ? 
 The House of Life was designed and erected when men thought 
 perpetually of beauty, working from their admiration of beauty in 
 woman and in nature to beauty in things which they made with 
 their own hands, setting beauty above usefulness ; even thinking it 
 necessary, when usefulness had been attained, to add adornment, 
 as when they added a Tower to the House of Life, yet did nothing 
 with their Tower and did not want it. 
 
 The Public Hall is built of red brick : it resembles a row of 
 houses each with a gable to the street. There is for each a broad 
 plain door with a simple porch, below ; and above, a broad plain 
 window, twenty feet wide, divided into four compartments or 
 divisions, the whole set in a framework of wood. The appearance 
 of the Hall is, therefore, remarkably plain. There are thirty-one 
 of these gables, each forty feet wide ; so that the whole length of 
 the Hall is twelve hundred and forty feet, or nearly a quarter of a 
 mile.
 
 156 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 Within, the roof of each of these gables covers a Hall separated 
 from its neighbours by plain columns. They are all alike, except 
 that the middle Hall, set apart for the College, has a gallery 
 originally intended for an orchestra, now never used. In the 
 central Hall one table alone is placed ; in all the others there are 
 four, every Hall accommodating eight hundred people and every 
 table two hundred. The length of each Hall is the same — namely r 
 two hundred and fifty feet. The Hall is lit by one large window 
 at each end. There are no carvings, sculptures, or other orna- 
 ments in the building. At the back is an extensive range of 
 buildings, all of brick, built in small compartments, and fire-proof : 
 they contain the kitchens, granaries, abattoirs, larders, cellars, 
 dairies, still-rooms, pantries, curing-houses, ovens, breweries, and 
 all the other offices and chambers required for the daily pro- 
 visioning of a city with twenty-four thousand inhabitants. 
 
 On the East side of the Square there are two great groups of 
 buildings. That nearest to the Public Hall contains, in a series of 
 buildings which communicate with one another, the Library, the 
 Museum, the Armoury, the Model-room, and the Picture Gallery. 
 The last is a building as old as the House. They were, when these 
 events began, open to the whole Community, though they were 
 never visited by any even out of idle curiosity. The inquisitive 
 spirit is dead. For myself, I am not anxious to see the people 
 acquire, or revive, the habit of reading and inquiring. It might be 
 argued that the study of history might make them contrast the 
 present with the past, and shudder at the lot of their forefathers. 
 But I am going to show that this study may produce quite the 
 opposite effect. Or, there is the study of science. How should 
 this help the People ? They have the College always studying and 
 investigating for their benefit the secrets of medical science, which 
 alone concerns their happiness. They might learn how to make 
 machines : but machinery requires steam, explosives, electricity, 
 and other uncontrolled and dangerous forces. Many thousands of 
 lives were formerly lost in the making and management of these 
 machines, and we do very well without them. They might, it is 
 true, read the books which tell of the people in former times. 
 But why read works which are filled with the Presence of Death, 
 the Shortness of Life, and the intensity of passions which we have 
 almost forgotten ? You shall see what comes of these studies- 
 vvhich seem so innocent. 
 
 I say, therefore, that I never had any wish to see the people 
 fljcking into the Library. For the same reason — that a study and
 
 THE SUPPER-BELL, i$7 
 
 iContemplation of things past might unsettle or disturb the tran- 
 quillity of their minds— I have never wished to see t'uem in the 
 Museum, the Armoury, or any other part of our Collections. And 
 since the events of which I have to tell, we have enclosed these 
 buildings and added them to the College, so that the people can no 
 longer enter them even if they wished. 
 
 The Curator of the Museum was an aged man, one of the few old 
 men left — in the old days he had held a title of some kind. He was 
 placed there because he was old and much broken, and could do no 
 work. Therefore he was told to keep the glass cases free from dust 
 and to sweep] the floors every morning. At the time of the Great 
 Discovery he had been an Earl or Viscount — I know not what — 
 and by some accident he escaped the Great Slaughter, when it was 
 resolved to kill all the old men and women in order to reduce the 
 population to the number which the land would support. I believe 
 that he hid himself, and was secretly fed by some man who had 
 formerly been his groom, and still preserved some remains of what 
 he called attachment and duty, until such time as the executions 
 were over. Then he ventured forth again, and so great was the 
 horror of the recent massacre, with the recollection of the prayers 
 and shrieks of the victims, that he was allowed to continue alive. 
 The old man was troubled with an asthma which hardly permitted 
 him an hour of repose, and was incurable. This would have made 
 his life intolerable, except that to live— only to live, in any pain 
 and misery — is always better than to die. 
 
 For the last few years the old man had had a companion in the 
 Museum. This was a girl — the only girl in our Community — who 
 called him — I know not why ; perhaps because the relationship 
 xeally existed — Grandfather, and lived with him. She it was who 
 •dusted the cases and swept the floors. She found some means of 
 relieving the old man's asthma, and all day long — would that I had 
 discovered the fact, or suspected whither it would lead the wretched 
 jgirl ! — she read the books of the Library, and studied the contents 
 of the cases, and talked to the old man, making him tell her every- 
 thing that belonged to the past. All she cared for was the 
 Past : all that she studied was to understand more and more — 
 how men lived then, and what they thought, and what they 
 talked. 
 
 She was about eighteen years of age ; but, indeed, we thought 
 ber still a child. I know not how many years had elapsed since 
 any in the City were children, because it is a vain thing to keep 
 ■account of the years : if anything happens to distinguish them, it
 
 158 I HZ lA'A'ER HOUSE. 
 
 must be something disastrous, because we have now arrived almost 
 at the last stage possible to man. It only remains for us to dis- 
 cover, not only how to prevent disease, but how to annihilate it. 
 Since, then, there is only one step left to take in advance, every 
 other event which can happen must be in the nature of a calamity, 
 and therefore may be forgotten. 
 
 I have said that Christine called the old man her grandfather. 
 We have long, long since agreed to forget old ties of blood. How 
 can father and son, mother and daughter, brother and sister con- 
 tinue for hundreds of years, and when all remain fixed at the 
 same age, to keep up the old relationship ? The maternal love 
 dies out with us — it is now but seldom called into existence— when 
 the child can run about. Why not ? The animals, from whom we 
 learn so much, desert their offspring when they can feed them- 
 selves ; our mothers cease to care for their children when they are 
 old enough to be the charge of the Community. Therefore Chris- 
 tine's mother cheerfully suffered the child to leave her as soon a3 
 she was old enough to sit in the Public Hall. Her grandfather — 
 if indeed he was her grandfather— obtained permission to have the 
 child with him. So she remained in the quiet Museum. We never 
 imagined or suspected, however, that the old man, who was eighty 
 at the time of the Great Discovery, remembered everything that 
 took place when he was young, and talked with the girl all day 
 long about the Past. 
 
 I do not know who was Christine's father. It matters not now • 
 and, indeed, he never claimed his daughter. One smiles to think of 
 the importance formerly attached to fathers. We no longer work 
 for their support. We are no longer dependent upon their assist- 
 ance : the father does nothing for the son, nor the son fcr the 
 father. Five hundred years ago, say — or a thousand years ago — 
 the father carried a baby in his arms. What then ? My own 
 father — I believe he is my own father, but on this poiut I may be 
 mistaken — I saw yesterday taking his turn in the hayfield. He 
 seemed distressed with the heat and fatigue of it. Why not ? It 
 makes no difference to me. He is, though not so young, still as 
 strong and as able-bodied as myself. Christine was called into 
 existence by the sanction of the College when one of the Com- 
 munity was struck dead by lightning. It was my brother, I believe. 
 The terrible event filled us all with consternation. However, 
 the population having thus been diminished by one, it was resolved 
 that the loss should be repaired. There was precedent. A great 
 many years previously, owing to a man being killed by the fall of a
 
 THE SUPPER-BELL. ,- 9 
 
 hayrick — all hayricks are now made low — another birth had been 
 allowed. That was a boy. 
 
 Let us now return to our Square. On the same side are the 
 buildings of the College. Here are the Anatomical collections ; 
 the store-house of Materia Medica; and the residences of the Arch 
 Physician, the Suffragan, the Fellows of the College or Associate 
 Physicians, and the Assistants or Experimenters. The buildings 
 are plain and fire-proof. The College has its own private gardens, 
 which are large and filled with trees. Here the Physicians walk 
 and meditate, undisturbed by the outer world. Here is also their 
 Library. 
 
 On the North side of the Square stands the great and venerable 
 House of Life, the Glory of the City, the Pride of the whole 
 Country. 
 
 It is very ancient: formerly there were many such splendid 
 monuments standing in the country ; now this alone remains. It 
 was built in the dim, distant ages, when men believed things now 
 forgotten : it was designed for the celebration of certain ceremonies 
 or functions ; their nature and meaning may, I dare say, be ascer- 
 tained by any who cares to waste time in an inquiry so useless. 
 The edifice itself could not possibly be built in these times : first, 
 because we have no artificers capable of rearing such a pile ; and 
 next, because we have not among us anyone capable of conceiving 
 it, or drawing the design of it. Nay, we have none who could 
 execute the carved stone-work. 
 
 I do not say this with humility, but with satisfaction. For, if 
 we contemplate the building, we must acknowledge that, though it 
 is, as I have said, the Glory of the City, and though it is vast in 
 proportions, imposing by its grandeur, and splendid in its work, 
 yet most of it is perfectly useless. What need of the tall columns 
 to support a roof which might very well have been one-fourth the 
 present height ? Why build the Tower at all ? What is the good 
 of the carved work ? We of the New Era build in brick, which 
 is fire-proof ; we put up structures which are no larger than are 
 wanted ; we waste no labour, because we grudge the time which 
 must be spent in necessary work, over things unnecessary. Besides, 
 we are no longer tortured by the feverish anxiety to do something 
 — anything — by which we may be remembered when the short span 
 of life is past. Death to us is a thing which may happen by accident 
 but not from old age or by disease. Why should men toil and 
 trouble in order to be remembered ? All things are equal ; why 
 6hould one man try to do something better than another — or what
 
 160 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 another cannot do — or what is useless when it is done ? Sculptures, 
 pictures, Art of any kind, will not add a single ear of corn to the 
 general stock, or a single glass of wine, or a yard of flannel. There- 
 fore we need not regret the decay of Art. 
 
 As everybody knows, however, the House is the chief Laboratory 
 of the whole country. It is here that the Great Secret is preserved ; 
 it is known to the Arch Physician and to his Suffragan alone. No 
 other man in the country knows by what process is compounded 
 that potent liquid which arrests decay and prolongs life, apparently 
 without any bound or limit. I say without any bound or limit. 
 There certainly are croakers, who maintain that at some future 
 time — it may be this very year, it may be a thousand years hence — 
 the compound will lose its power, and so we — all of us, even the 
 College — must then inevitably begin to decay, and after a few short 
 years perish and sink into the silent grave. The very thought 
 causes a horror too dreadful for words; the limbs tremble, the 
 teeth chatter. But others declare that there is no fear whatever 
 of this result, and that the only dread is lest the whole College 
 should suddenly be struck by lightning, and so the Secret be lost. 
 For though none other than the Arch Physician and his Suffragan 
 knew, until recently, the Secret, the whole Society — the Fellows or 
 Assistant Physicians— knew where the Secret was kept in writing, 
 just as it was communicated by the Discoverer. The Fellows of 
 the College all assist in the production of this precious liquid, 
 which is made only in the House of Life. But none of them, until, 
 as I said, recently, knew whether they were working for the Arcanum 
 itself, or on some experiment conducted for the Arch Physician. 
 Even if one guessed, he would not dare to communicate his sus- 
 picions even to a Brother-Fellow, being forbidden, under the most 
 awful of all penalties, that of Death itself, to divulge the experi- 
 ments and processes that he is ordered to carry out. 
 
 It is needless to say that if we are proud of the House, we are 
 equally proud of the City. There was formerly an old Canterbury, 
 of which pictures exist in the Library. The streets of that town 
 were narrow and winding ; the houses were irregular in height, 
 size and style. There were close courts, not six feet broad, in 
 which no air could circulate, and where fevers and other disorders 
 were bred. Some houses, again, stood in stately gardens, while 
 others h;id none at all ; and the owners of the gardens kept them 
 closed. But we can easily understand what might have happened 
 when private property was recognised, and laws protected the so- 
 called rights of owners. Now that there is no property, there are
 
 THE SUPPER-BELL. i6f 
 
 no laws. There are also no crimes, because there is' no incentive 
 to jealousy, rapine, or double-dealing. Where there is no crime, 
 there is that condition of Innocence which our ancestors so eagerly 
 desired, and sought by means which were perfectly certain to fail. 
 
 How different is the Canterbury of the present ! First, like all 
 modern towns, it is limited in size ; there are in it twenty-four 
 thousand inhabitants, neither more nor less. Round its great 
 central Square or Garden are the public buildings. The streets, 
 which branch off at right angles, are all of the same width, the 
 same length, and the same appearance. They are planted with 
 trees. The houses are built of red brick, each house containing 
 four rooms on the ground floor — namely, two on either side the 
 door — and four on the first-floor, with a bath-room. The rooms 
 are vaulted with brick, so that there is no fear of fire. Every 
 room has its own occupant; and as all the rooms are of the same 
 size, and are all furnished in the same way, with the same regard 
 to comfort and warmth, there is really no ground for complaint or 
 jealousies. The occupants also, who have the same meals in the 
 same Hall every day, cannot complain of inequalities, any more 
 than they can accuse each other of gluttonous living. In the 
 matter of clothes, again, it was at first expected that the grave 
 difficulties with the women as to uniformity of fashion and of 
 material would continue to trouble us. But with the decay of 
 those emotions which formerly caused so much trouble, since the 
 men have ceased to court the women, and the women have ceased 
 to desire men's admiration, there has been no opposition. All ol 
 them now are clad alike : gray is found the most convenient colour.^ 
 soft beige the most convenient material. 
 
 The same beautiful equality rules the hours and methods r "" 
 work. Five hours a day are found ample, and everybody takes l.i- 
 time at every kind of work, the men's work being kept separate 
 from that given to the women. I confess that the work is not 
 performed with as much zeal as one could wish ; but think of the 
 old times, when one had to work eight, ten, and even eighteen 
 hours a day, in order to earn a poor and miserable subsistence 1 
 "What zeal could they have put into their work ? How different is 
 this glorious equality in all things from the ancient anomalies and 
 injustices of class and rank, wealth and poverty ! Why, formerly, 
 the chief pursuit of man was the pursuit of money. And now 
 there is no money at all ; and our wealth lies in our barns and 
 garncr3. 
 
 I must be forgiven if I dwell upon these contrasts. The history 
 
 11
 
 162 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 which has to be told — how an attempt was actually made to destroy 
 this Eden, and to substitute in its place the old condition of things 
 — fills me with such indignation that I am constrained to speak. 
 
 Consider, for one other thing, the former condition of the world. 
 It was filled with diseases. People were not in any way protected. 
 They were allowed to live as they pleased. Consequently, they all 
 committed excesses and all contracted disease. Some drank too 
 much ; some ate too much ; some took no exercise ; some took too 
 little ; some lay in bed too long ; some went to bed too late ; some 
 suffered themselves to fall into violent rages, into remorse, into 
 despair ; some loved inordinately ; thousands worked too hard. 
 All ran after Jack-o'-Lanterns continually ; for, before one there was 
 dangled the hope of promotion ; before another, that of glory ; 
 before another, that of distinction, fame, or praise ; before another, 
 that of wealth ; before another, the chance of retiring to rest and 
 meditate during the brief remainder of his life — miserably short 
 even in its whole length. Then diseases fell upon them, and they 
 died. 
 
 "We have now prevented all new diseases, though we cannot 
 wholly cure those which have so long existed. Rheumatism, gout, 
 fevers, arise no more, though of gout and other maladies there are 
 hereditary cases. And since there are no longer any old men 
 among us, there are none of the maladies to which old age is liable. 
 No more pain, no more suffering, no more anxiety, no more Death 
 (except by accident) in the world. Yet some of them would return 
 to the old miseries ; and for what? — for what ? You shall hear. 
 
 When the Chimes began, the people turned their faces with one 
 consent towards the Public Hall, and a smile of satisfaction spread 
 over all their faces. They were going to Supper — the principal 
 event of the day. At the same moment a Procession issued from 
 the iron gates of the College. First marched our Warder, or 
 Porter, John Lax, bearing a halberd ; next came an Assistant, 
 carrying a cushion, on which were the Keys of Gold, symbolical of 
 the Gate of Life ; then came another, bearing our banner, with the 
 Labarum or symbol of Life ; the Assistants followed, in ancient 
 garb of cap and gown ; then came the twelve Fellows or Physicians 
 of the College, in scarlet gowns and flat fur-lined caps ; after them, 
 I myself— Samuel Grout, M.D., Suffragan — followed. Last, there 
 marched the first Person in the .Realm — none other than the Arch 
 Physician Himself, Dr. Henry Linister, in lawn sleeves, a black 
 Bilk gown and a scarlet hood. Four Bedells closed the Procession-
 
 THE SUPPER-BELL. 163 
 
 For, with us, the only deviation from equality absolute is made in 
 the case of the College. We are a Caste apart ; we keep mankind 
 alive and free from pain. This is our work ; this occupies all our 
 thoughts ; we are, therefore, held in honour, and excused the 
 ordinary work which the others must daily perform. And behold 
 the difference between ancient and modern times ! For, formerly, 
 those who were held in honour and had high office in this always 
 sacred IIouse were aged aud white-haired men, who arrived at thia 
 distinction but a year or two before they had to die. But we of 
 the Holy College are as stalwart, as strong, and as young as any 
 man in the Hall. And so have we been for hundreds of years ; and 
 so we mean to continue. 
 
 In the Public Hall, we take our meals apart in our own Hall ; yet 
 the food is the same for all. Life is the common possession ; it is 
 maintained for all by the same process ; here must be no difference, 
 Let all, therefore, eat and drink alike. 
 
 When I consider, I repeat, the universal happiness, I am carried 
 away, first, with a burning indignation that any should be so mad 
 as to mar this happiness. They have failed. But they cost us, as 
 you shall hear, much trouble, and caused the lamentable death of 
 a most zealous and able officer. 
 
 Among the last to enter the gates were the girl Christine and 
 her grandfather, who walked slowly, coughing all the way. 
 
 ' Come, grandad,' she said, as we passed her, ' take my arm. You 
 will be better after your supper. Lean on me.' 
 
 There was in her face so remarkable a light that I wonder now 
 that no suspicion or distrust possessed us. I call it light, for I can 
 compare it to nothing else. The easy, comfortable life our people 
 led, and the absence of all exciting work, the decay of reading and 
 the abandonment of art, had left their faces placid to look upon, 
 but dull. They were certainly dull. They moved heavily ; if 
 they lifted their eyes, they wanted the light that flashed from 
 Christine's. It was a childish face, still — full of softness ; no one 
 would ever believe that a creature so slight in form, so gentle to 
 look upon, whose eyes were so soft, whose cheeks were like the un- 
 touched bloom of a ripe peach, whose half-parted lips were so rosy, 
 was already harbouring thoughts so abominable and already con- 
 ceiving an enterprise so wicked, 
 
 Yfe do not suspect, in this our new World. As wa have no 
 property to defend, no one is a thief ; as everybody has as much of 
 everything as he wants, no one tries to get more ; we fear not 
 Death, and therefore need no religion ; we have no private ambi- 
 
 11—2
 
 164 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 tions to gratify, and no private ends to attain. Therefore, we hare 
 long since ceased to be suspicious. Least of all should we have been 
 suspicious of Christine. Why, but a year or two ago she was a little 
 newly-born babe, whom the Holy College crowded to see, as a new 
 thing. And yet — was it possible that one so young should be so 
 corrupt ? 
 
 ' Suffragan,' said the Arch Physician to me at supper, ' I begin to 
 think that your Triumph of Science must be really complete.' 
 
 ' Why, Physician ?' 
 
 ' Because, day after day, that child leads the old man by the hand, 
 places him in his seat, and ministers, after the old forgotten fashion, 
 to his slightest wants, and no one pays her the slightest heed.' 
 
 « Why should they ?' 
 
 1 A child — a beautiful child ! A feeble old man ! One who 
 ministers to another. Suffragan, the Past is indeed far, far away. 
 But I knew not until now that it was so utterly lost. Childhood 
 and Age and the offices of Love ! And these things are wholly 
 unheeded. Grout, you are indeed a great man !' 
 
 He spoke in the mocking tone which was usual with him ; so 
 that we never knew exactly whether he was in earnest or not. 
 But I think that on this occasion he was in earnest. No one but a 
 very great man — none smaller than Samuel Grout — myself — could 
 have accomplished this miracle upon the minds of the People. They 
 did not minister one to the other. Why should they ? Every- 
 body could eat his own ration without any help. Offices of Love ? 
 These to pass unheeded ? What did the Arch Physician mean ? 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GROUT, SUFFRAGAN. 
 
 It always pleases me, from my place at the College table, which is 
 raised two feet above the rest, to contemplate the multitude whom 
 it is our duty and our pleasure to keep in contentment and in 
 health. It is a daily joy to watch them flocking, as you have seen 
 them flock, to their meals. The heart glows to think of what we 
 have done. I see the faces of all light up with satisfaction at the 
 prospect of the food ; it is the only thing that moves them. Yes ; 
 we have reduced life to its simplest form. Here is true happiness. 
 Nothing to hope ; nothing to fear — except accident ; a little work 
 for the common preservation ; a body of wise men always devising 
 measures for the common good ; food plentiful and varied ;
 
 GROUT, SUFFRAGAN. 165 
 
 gardens for repose and recreation, both summer and winter ; 
 warmth ; shelter ; and the entire absence of all emotions. Why, 
 the very faces of the People are growing alike ; one face for the 
 men, and another for the women ; perhaps, in the far-off future, 
 the face of the man will approach nearer and nearer to that of tb*. 
 woman, and so all will be at last exactly alike, and the individual 
 will exist, indeed, no more. Then there will be from first to last 
 among the whole multitude neither distinction nor difference. 
 
 It is a face which fills one with contentment, though it will be 
 many centuries before it approaches completeness. It is a smooth 
 face, there are no lines on it ; it is a grave face, the lips seldom 
 smile, and never laugh ; the eyes are heavy, and move slowly ; 
 there has already been achieved, though the change has been very 
 gradual, the complete banishment of that expression which has 
 been preserved in every one of the ancient portraits, which may be 
 usefully studied for purposes of contrast. Whatever the emotion 
 attempted to be portrayed, and even when the face was supposed 
 to be at rest, there was always behind, visible to the eye, an expres- 
 sion of anxiety or eagerness. Some kind of pain always lies upon 
 those old faces, even upon the youngest. How could it be other- 
 wise ? On the morrow they would be dead. They had to crowd 
 into a few days whatever they could grasp of life. 
 
 As I sit there and watch our People at dinner, I see with 
 satisfaction that the old pain has gone out of their faces. They 
 have lived so long that they have forgotten Death. They live so 
 easily that they are contented with life : we have reduced existence 
 to the simplest. They eat and drink — it is their only pleasure : 
 they work — it is a necessity for health and existence. But their 
 work takes them no longer than till noontide : they lie in the sun : 
 they sit in the shade : they sleep. If they had once any know- 
 ledge, it is now forgotten : their old ambitions, their old desires, 
 all are forgotten. They sleep and eat : they work and rest. To 
 rest and to eat are pleasures which they never desire to end. To 
 live for ever : to eat and drink for ever : this is now their only 
 hope. And this has been accomplished for them by the Holy 
 College. Science has justified herself : this is the outcome of man's 
 long search for generations into the secrets of Nature. We, who 
 have carried on this search, have at length succeeded in stripping 
 humanity of all those things which formerly made existence in- 
 tolerable to him. He lives, he eats, he sleeps. Perhaps — I know 
 not, but of this we sometimes talk in the College — I say, perhaps 
 — we may succeed in making some kind of artificial food, as wa
 
 1 66 THE INNER HOUSE 
 
 compound the great Arcanum, with simple ingredients and without 
 labour : we may also extend the duration of sleep. We may thus 
 still further simplify existence. Man in the end — as I propose to> 
 make and mould the People — will sleep until Nature calls upon 
 him to awake and eat. He will then eat, drink, and sleep again, 
 while the years roll by : he will lie heedless of all : he will be 
 heedless of the seasons, heedless of the centuries. Time will have 
 no meaning for him — a breathing, living, inarticulate mass will be 
 all that is left of the active, eager, chattering Man of the Fast. 
 
 This may be done in the future, when yonder laboratory, which 
 we call the House of Life, shall yield the secrets of Nature deeper 
 and deeper still. At present we have arrived at this point. The 
 chief pleasure of life is to eat and to drink. We have taught the 
 People so much : of all the tastes which formerly gratified man, 
 this alone remains. We provide them daily with a sufficiency and 
 variety of food : there are so many kinds of food, and the com- 
 binations are so endless, that practically the choice of our cooks is 
 unlimited. Good food, varied food, well- cooked food, with drink 
 also varied and pure, and the best that can be made, make our 
 public meals a daily joy. We have learned to make all kinds of 
 wine from the grapes in our hothouses : it is so abundant that 
 every day, all the year round, the People may call for a ration of 
 what they please. We make also beer of every kind, cider, perry, 
 and mead. The gratification of the sense of taste helps to remove 
 the incentive to restlessness or discontent. The minds of most are 
 occupied by no other thought than that of the last feast and the 
 next : if they were to revolt, where would they find their next 
 meal ? At the outset we had, I confess, grave difficulties. There 
 was not in existence any Holy College. We drifted without object 
 or purpose. For a long time the old ambitions remained : the old 
 passions were continued : the old ideas of private property prevailed : 
 the old inequalities were kept up. Presently there arose from those 
 who had no property the demand for a more equal share : the cry 
 was fiercely resisted : then there followed civil war for a space, till 
 both sides were horrified by the bloodshed that followed. Time 
 also was on the side of them who rebelled. I was one, because at 
 the time when the whole nation was admitted to a patricipation in 
 the great Arcanum, I was myself a young man of nineteen, em- 
 ployed as a washer of bottles in Dr. Linister's laboratory, and 
 therefore, according to the ideas of the time, a very humble person. 
 Time helped us in an unexpected wa}'. Property was in the 
 hands of single individuals. Formerly they died and were succeeded
 
 GROUT, SUFFRAGAN. 167 
 
 by their sons : now the sons grew tired of waiting. How much 
 longer were their fathers, who grew no older, to keep all the 
 wealth to themselves ? Therefore, the civil war having come to 
 an end, with no result except a barren peace, the revolutionary 
 party was presently joined by all but the holders of property, and 
 the State took over to itself the whole wealth — that is to say, the 
 whole land : there is no other wealth. Since that time there has 
 been no private property. For since it was clearly unjust to take 
 away from the father in order to give it to the son, with no limita- 
 tion as to the time of enjoyment, everything followed the land — 
 great houses, which were allowed to fall into ruin : pictures and 
 works of art, libraries, jewels, which are in Museums : and money, 
 which, however, ceased to be of value as soon as there was nothing 
 which could be bought. 
 
 As for me, I was so fortunate as to perceive — Dr. Linister daily 
 impressed it upon me — that of all occupations, that of Physicist 
 would very quickly become the most important. I therefore re- 
 mained in my employment, worked, read, experimented, and 
 learned all that my master had to teach me. The other professions, 
 indeed, fell into decay more speedily than some of us expected. 
 There could be no more lawyers when there was no more property. 
 Even libel, which was formerly the cause of many actions, became 
 harmless when a man could not be injured ; and, besides, it is 
 impossible to libel any man when there are no longer any rules of 
 conduct except the one duty of work, which is done in the eyes of 
 all and cannot be shirked. And how could Religion survive the 
 removal of Death to some possible remote future? They tried, it 
 is true, to keep up the pretence of it, and many, especially women, 
 clung to the old forms of faith for I know not how long : with the 
 great mass, religion ceased to have any influence as soon as life 
 was assured. As for Art, Learning, Science — other than that of 
 Physics, Biology, and Medicine — all gradually decayed and died 
 away. And the old foolish pursuit of Literature, which once 
 occupied so many, and was even held in a kind of honour — the 
 writing of histories, poems, dramas, novels, essays on human life — 
 this also decayed and died, because men ceased to be anxious about 
 their past or their future, and were at last contented to dwell in 
 the present. 
 
 Another and a most important change, which may be noted, was 
 the gradual decline and disappearance of the passion called Love. 
 This was once a curious and inexplicable yearning — so much is 
 certain — of two young people towards each other, so that they
 
 268 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 were never content unless they were together, and longed to live 
 apart from the rest of the world, each trying to make the other 
 happier. At least, this is as I read history. For my own part, as 
 I was constantly occupied with Science, I never felt this passion ; 
 or if I did, then I have quite forgotten it. Now, at the outset, 
 people who were in love rejoiced beyond measure that their happi- 
 ness would last so long. They began, so long as the words had 
 any meaning, to call each other Angels, Goddesses, Divinely Fair, 
 possessed of every perfect gift, with other extravagancies, at the 
 mere recollection of which we should now blush. Presently they 
 grew tired of each other : they no longer lived apart from the rest 
 of the world. They separated : or, if they continued to walk 
 together, it was from force of habit. Some still continue thus to 
 sit side by side. No new connections were formed. People ceased 
 desiring to make others happy, because the State began to provide 
 for everybody's happiness. The whole essence of the old society 
 was a fight. Everybody fought for existence. Everybody trampled 
 on the weaker. If a man loved a woman, he fought for her as 
 well as for himself. Love ? Why, when the true principle of 
 life is recognised — the right of every individual to his or her share 
 — and that an equal share, in everything — and when the con- 
 tinuance of life is assured — what room is there for love ? The 
 very fact of the public life — the constant companionship, the open 
 mingling of women with men, and this for year after year — the 
 same women with the same men — has destroyed the mystery which 
 formerly hung about womanhood, and was in itself the principal 
 cause of love. 
 
 It is gone, therefore, and with it the most disturbing element of 
 life. Without love, without ambition, without suffering, without 
 religion, without quarrelling, without private rights, without rank 
 or class, life is calm, gentle, undisturbed. Therefore, they all sit 
 down to supper in peace and contentment, every man's mind intent 
 upon nothing but the bill of fare. 
 
 This evening, directed by the observation of the Arch Physician, 
 I turned my eyes upon the girl Christine, who sat beside her grand- 
 father. I observed, first — but the fact inspired me with no 
 suspicion — that she was no longer a child, but a woman grown : 
 and I began to wonder when she would come with the rest for the 
 Arcanum. Most women, when births were common among us, 
 used to come at about five-and-twenty ; that is to say, in the first 
 year or two of full womanhood, before their worse enemies — where 
 there were two women, in the old days, there were two enemies —
 
 GROUT, SUFFRAGAN. 169 
 
 could say that they had begun to fall off. If you look round our 
 table, you will see very few women older than twenty-four, and 
 very few men older than thirty. There were many women at this 
 table who might, perhaps, have been called beautiful in the old 
 times ; though now the men had ceased to think of beauty, and 
 the women had ceased to desire admiration. Yet, if regular 
 features, large eyes, small mouths, a great quantity of hair, and a 
 rounded figure are beautiful, then there were many at the table 
 who might have been called beautiful. But the girl Christine — 
 I observed the fact with scientific interest — was so different from 
 the other women, that she seemed another kind of creature. 
 
 Her eyes were soft : there is no scientific term to express this 
 softness of youth — one observes it especially in the young of the 
 cervus kind. There was also a curious softness on her cheek, as if 
 something would be rubbed away if one touched it. And her voice 
 differed from that of her elder sisters : it was curiously gentle, 
 and full of that quality which may be remarked in the wood-dove 
 when she pairs in spring. They used to call it tenderness ; but, 
 since the thing itself disappeared, the word has naturally fallen 
 out of use. 
 
 Now, I might have observed with suspicion, whereas I only 
 remarked it as something strange, that the company among which 
 Christine and the old man sat were curiously stirred and uneasy. 
 They were disturbed out of their habitual tranquillity because the 
 girl was discoursing to them. She was telling them what she had 
 learned about the Past. 
 
 ' Oh,' I heard her say, ' it was a beautiful time ! Why did they 
 ever suffer it to perish ? Do you mean that 3-ou actually remember 
 nothing of it ?' 
 
 They looked at each other sheepishly. 
 
 'There were soldiers — men were soldiers: they went out to 
 fight, with bands of music and the shouts of the people. There 
 were whole armies of soldiers — thousands of them. They dressed 
 in beautiful glittering clothes. Do you forget that ?' 
 
 One of the men murmured, hazily, that there viere soldiers. 
 
 ' And there were sailors, who went upon the sea in great ships. 
 Jack Carera ' — she turned to one of them — ' you are a sailor, too. 
 You ought to remember.' 
 
 ' I remember the sailors very well indeed,' said this young man 
 readily. 
 
 I always had my doubts about the wisdom of admitting our 
 ^ajlors among the People. We have a few ships for the carriage
 
 i7o THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 of those things 'which as yet we have not succeeded in growing 
 for ourselves : these are manned by a few hundred sailors who 
 long ago volunteered, and have gone on ever since. They are a 
 brave race, ready to face the most terrible dangers of tempest and 
 shipwreck ; but they are also a dangerous, restless, talkative, 
 questioning tribe. They have, in fact, preserved almost as much 
 independence as the College itself. They are now confined to their 
 own port of Sheerness. 
 
 Then the girl began to tell some pestilent story of love and. 
 shipwreck and rescue : and at hearing it, some of them looked 
 puzzled and some pained ; but the sailor listened with all his ears. 
 
 'Where did you get that from, Christine ?' 
 
 'Where I get everything — from the old Library. Come and 
 read it in the book, Jack.' 
 
 'I am not much hand at reading. But some day, perhaps after 
 the next voyage, Christine.' 
 
 The girl poured out a glass of claret for the old man. Then she 
 ■went on telling them stories ; but most of her neighbours seemed 
 neither to hear nor to comprehend. Only the sailor-man listened 
 and nodded. Then she laughed out loud. 
 
 At this sound, so strange, so unexpected, everybody within hear- 
 ing jumped. Her table was in the Hall next to our own, so that 
 we heard the laugh quite plainly. 
 
 The Arch Physician looked round approvingly. 
 
 'How many years since we heard a good, honest young laugh, 
 Suffragan ? Give us more children, and soften our hearts for us. 
 But, no : the heart you want is the hard, crusted, selfish heart. 
 See ! No one asks why she laughed. They are all eating again 
 now, just as if nothing had happened. Happy, enviable People !' 
 
 Presently he turned to me and remarked, in his lofty manner, as 
 if he was above all the world : 
 
 ' You cannot explain, Suffragan, why, at an unexpected touch, a 
 Bound, a voice, a trifle, the memory may be suddenly awakened to 
 things long, long past by and forgotten. Do you know what that 
 laugh caused me to remember ? I cannot explain why, nor can 
 you. It recalled the evening of the Great Discovery — not the 
 Discovery itself, but quite another thing. I went there more to 
 meet a girl than to hear what the German had to say. As to that, 
 I expected very little. To meet that girl seemed of far more im- 
 portance. I meant to make love to her — love, Suffragan — a thing 
 which you can never understand — real, genuine love ! I meant to 
 marry her. Well, I did meet her ; and I arranged for a con-
 
 GROUT, SUFFRAGAN. 171 
 
 renient place where we could meet again after the Lecture. Then 
 came the Discovery ; and I was carried away, body and soul, and 
 forgot the girl and love and everything in the stupefaction of this 
 most wonderful Discovery, of which we have made, between us, 
 such admirable use.' 
 
 You never knew whether the Arch Physician was in earnest or 
 not. Truly, we had made a most beautiful use of the Discovery ; 
 but it was not in the way that Dr. Linister would have chosen. 
 
 'All this remembered just because a girl laughed! Suffragan, 
 Science cannot explain all.' 
 
 I shall never pretend to deny that Dr. Linister's powers as a 
 physicist were of the first order, nor that his Discoveries warranted 
 his election to the Headship of the College. Yet, something was 
 due, perhaps, to his tall and commanding figure, and to the look 
 of authority which reigned naturally on his face, and to the way 
 in which he always stepped into the first rank. He was always 
 the Chief, long before the College of Physicians assumed the 
 whole authority, in everything that he joined. He opposed the 
 extinction of property, and would have had everybody win what 
 he could, and keep it as long as he would : he opposed the Massacre 
 of the Old : he was opposed, in short, to the majority of the 
 College. Yet he was our Chief. His voice was clear, and what he 
 said always produced its effect, though it did not upset my solid 
 majority, or thwart the Grand Advance of the Triumph of 
 Science. As for me, my position has been won by sheer work and 
 merit. My figure is not commanding ; I am short-sighted and 
 dark-visaged : my voice is rough ; and as for manners, I have 
 nothing to do with them. But in Science there is but one second 
 to Linister — and that is Grout. 
 
 When the supper came to an end, we rose and marched back to 
 the College in the same state and order with which we had arrived. 
 As for the people, some of them went out into the Garden ; some 
 remained in the Hall. It was then nine o'clock, and twilight. 
 Some went straight to their own rooms, where they would smoke 
 tobacco — an old habit allowed by the College on account of its 
 soothing and sedative influence — before going to bed. By ten 
 o'clock everybody would be in bed and asleep. What more 
 beautiful proof of the advance of Science than the fact that the 
 whole of the twenty-four thousand people who formed the popu- 
 lation of Canterbury dropped off to sleep the moment they laid 
 their heads upon the pillow ? This it is to have learned the 
 proper quantities and kinds of food : the proper amount of bodily
 
 172 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 exercise and work : and the complete subjugation of all the ancient 
 forces of unrest and disquiet. To be sure, we were all, with one 
 or two exceptions, in the very prime and flower of early manhood 
 and womanhood. It would be hard, indeed, if a young man of 
 thirty should not sleep well. 
 
 I was presently joined in the garden of the College by the Arch 
 Physician. 
 
 ' Grout,' he said, 'let us sit and talk. My mind is disturbed. It is 
 always disturbed when the memory of the Past is forced upon me.' 
 
 ' The Evil Past,' I said. 
 
 'If you please — the Evil Past. The question is, whether it was 
 not infinitely more tolerable for mankind than the Evil Present ?' 
 
 We argued out the point. But it was one on which we could 
 never agree. For he remained saturated with the old ideas of 
 private property and individualism. He maintained that there 
 are no Rights of Man at all, except his Right to what he can get 
 and what he can keep. He even went so far as to say that the 
 true use of the Great Discovery should have been to cause the in- 
 competent, the idle, the hereditarily corrupt, and the vicious, to 
 die painlessly. 
 
 ' As to those who were left,' he said, ' I would have taught them 
 the selfishness of staying too long. When they had taken time for 
 work and play and society and love, they should have been ex- 
 horted to go away of their own accord, and to make room for their 
 children. Then we should have had always the due succession of 
 father and son, mother and daughter : always age and manhood 
 and childhood : and always the world advancing by the efforts of 
 those who would have time to work for an appreciable period. 
 Instead, we have ' — he waved his hand. 
 
 I was going to reply, when suddenly a voice, light, clear, and 
 sweet, broke upon our astonished ears. 'Twas the voice of a 
 woman, and she was singing. At first I hardly listened, because I 
 knew that it could be none other than the child Christine, whom, 
 indeed, I had often heard singing. It is natural, I believe, for 
 children to sing. But the Arch Physician listened, first with 
 wonder, and then with every sign of amazement. How could he 
 be concerned by the voice of a child singing silly verses ? Then I 
 heard the last lines of her song, which she sang, I admit, with 
 great vigour : 
 
 ' Oh I Love is worth the whole broad earth : 
 Oh 1 Love is worth the whole broad earth : 
 Give that, you give us all 1'
 
 GROUT, SUFFRAGAN. 173 
 
 1 Grout !' cried the Arch Physician in tones of the deepest 
 agitation, ' I choke— I am stifled. Listen ! They are words that 
 I wrote — I myself wrote — with my own hand — long, long ago in 
 the Past. I wrote them for a girl — the girl I told you of at dinner. 
 I loved her. I thought never again to feel as I felt then. Yet, 
 the memory of that feeling has come back to me. Is it possible ? 
 Can some things never die ? Can we administer no drug that will 
 destroy memory ? For the earth reeled beneath my feet again, 
 and my senses reeled, and I would once more — yes, I would once 
 more have given all the world — yes, life — even life — only to call 
 that woman mine for a year — a month — a day — an hour !' 
 
 The Arch Physician made this astonishing confession in a 
 broken and agitated voice. Then he rushed away, and left me 
 alone in the summer-house. 
 
 The singer could certainly have been none other than the girl 
 Christine. How should she get hold of Dr. Linister's love-song ? 
 Strange ! She had disturbed our peace at supper by laughing, 
 and she had agitated the Arch Physician himself to such a degree 
 as I should have believed impossible by singing a foolish old song. 
 When I went to bed there came into my mind some of the old 
 idle talk about witches, and I even dreamed that we were burning 
 a witch who was filling our minds with disturbing thoughts. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 CHRISTINE AT HOME. 
 
 When the girl Christine walked through the loitering crowd out- 
 side the Hall, some of the people looked after her with wondering 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Strange !' said a woman. ' She laughed ! She laughed !' 
 
 ' Ay,' said another, ' we have forgotten how to laugh. But we 
 used to laugh, before ' — she broke off with a sigh. 
 
 1 And she sings,' said a third ; ' I have heard her sing like a lark 
 in the Museum.' 
 
 1 Once,' said the first woman, ' we used to sing as well as laugh. 
 I remember, we used to sing. She makes us remember the old days.' 
 
 ' The bad old days ' — it was one of the Assistant Physicians who 
 admonished her — ' the times when nothing was certain, not even 
 life, from day to day. It should bring you increased happiness to 
 think sometimes of those old times.'
 
 174 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 The first woman who had spoken was one whom men would 
 have called beautiful in those old times, when their heads were 
 turned by such a thing as a woman's face. She was pale of cheek 
 and had black eyes, which, in those days of passion and jealousy, 
 might have flashed like lightning. Now they were dull. She was 
 shapely of limb and figure too, with an ample cheek and a full 
 mouth. Formerly, in the days of love and rage, those limbs would 
 have been lithe and active ; now they were heavy and slow. 
 Heaviness of movement and of eyes sensibly grows upon our 
 people. I welcome every indication of advance towards the Per- 
 fect Type of Humanity which will do nothing but lie down, 
 breathe, eat, and sleep. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied, with a deep sigh. ' Nothing was certain. The 
 bad old times when people died. But there was love, and we 
 danced and sang and laughed.' She sighed again and walked away 
 alone, slowly, hanging her head. 
 
 The girl passed through them, leading the old man by the hand. 
 
 I know very well, now, that we ought to have been suspicious. 
 What meant the gleam and sparkle of her eyes, when all other 
 eyes were dull ? What meant the parting of her lips, and the 
 smile which always lay upon them, when no one else smiled at all ? 
 Why did she carry her head erect, when the rest walked with 
 hanging heads ? Why, again, did she sing, when no one else sang ? 
 Why did she move as if her limbs were on springs, when all the 
 rest went slowly and heavily ? These signs meant mischief. I 
 took them for the natural accompaniments of youth. They meant 
 more than youth : they meant dangerous curiosity : they meant — 
 presently — Purpose. How should one of the People dare to 
 have a Purpose unknown to the Sacred College ? You shall 
 hear. 
 
 All that followed was, in fact, due to our own blindness. We 
 should long before have shut up every avenue which might lead 
 the curious to the study of the Past : w; 1 should have closed the 
 Museum and the Library altogether. We did not, because we 
 lived in the supposition that the more the old times were investi- 
 gated the more the people would be satisfied with the Present. 
 When, indeed, one looks at the pictures of battle, murder, cruelty, 
 and all kinds of passion ; when one reads the old books, full of 
 foolishness which can only be excused on the plea of a life too short 
 to have a right comprehension of anything, it is amazing that the 
 scene does not strike the observer with a kind of horror. When, 
 which is seldom, I carry my own memory back to the old times
 
 CHRIS TINE A T HOME. 1 7 S 
 
 and see myself before I went to the Laboratory, boy-of-all-work to 
 a Brewery, ordered here and there, working all day long with no 
 other prospect than to be a servant for a short span of life and 
 then to die ; when I remember the people among whom I lived, 
 poor, starving, dependent from day to day on the chance of work, 
 •or, at best, from week to week ; when I think of the misery from 
 which these poor people have been rescued, I cannot find within 
 me a spark of sympathy for the misguided wretches who volun- 
 tarily exchanged their calm and happy Present for the tumult and 
 anxiety of the Past. However, we are not all reasonable, as you 
 shall hear. 
 
 It was already twilight outside, and in the Museum there waa 
 only light enough to see that a few persons were assembled in the 
 Great Hall. Christine placed her grandfather in a high-backed 
 wooden chair, in which he spent most of his time, clutching at the 
 arms and fighting with his asthma. Then she turned up the 
 electric light. It showed a large, rather lofty room, oblong in 
 shape : old arms were arranged round the walls : great glass cases 
 stood about, filled with a collection of all kinds of things pre- 
 served from the old times. There were illustrations of their arts 
 — now entirely useless : such as the jewels they wore, set in brace- 
 lets and necklaces : their gloves, fans, rings, umbrellas, pictures, 
 and statuary. Then there were cases filled with the old imple- 
 ments of writing— paper, inkstands, pens, and so forth — the people 
 have long since left off writing : there were boxes full of coins with 
 which they bought things, and for which they sold their freedom : 
 there were things with which they played games — many of them 
 dangerous ones — and whiled away the tedium of their short lives : 
 there were models of the ships in which they went to sea ; also 
 models of all kinds of engines and machines which slaves — they 
 were nearly all slaves — made for the purpose of getting more 
 money for their masters : there were also crowns, coronets and 
 mitres, which formerly belonged to people who possessed what 
 they called rank : there were the praying books which were 
 formerly used every day in great buildings like the House of Life : 
 there were specimens of legal documents on parchment, by the 
 drawing up of which, when law existed, a great many people pro- 
 cured a contemptible existence : there were also models, with 
 figures of the people in them, of Parliament Houses, Churches, and 
 Courts of Justice : there were life-size models of soldiers in uni- 
 form, when men were of understanding so contemptible as to be 
 •tempted to risk life— even life — in exchange for a gold-laced coat 1
 
 i 7 6 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 But then our ancestors were indescribably foolish. There were 
 musical instruments of all kinds — I have always been glad that 
 music fell so soon into disuse. It is impossible to cultivate con- 
 tentment while music is practised. Besides the ordinary weapons 
 — sword, pike, and javelin — there were all kinds of horrible inven- 
 tions, such as vast cannons, torpedo boats, dynamite shells, and so 
 forth, for the destruction of towns, ships, and armour. It is a 
 great and splendid Collection, but it ought to have been long, long 
 before transferred to the custody of the Holy College. 
 
 The girl looked inquiringly at her visitors, counting them all. 
 There were ten — namely, five men and five women. Like all the 
 people, they were young — the men about thirty, the women about 
 twenty-two or twenty-three. The men were dressed in then- 
 blue flannels, with a flat cap of the same material : the women in 
 their gray beige, short frock, the flat gray cap under which their 
 hair was gathered, gray stockings and heavy shoes. The dress 
 was, in fact, invented by myself for both sexes : it has many ad- 
 vantages. First, there is always plenty of the stuff to be had : 
 next, both flannel and beige are soft, warm, and healthy textures : 
 with such a dress there is no possibility of distinction or of 
 superiority : and, lastly, with such a dress the women have lost all 
 power of setting forth their attractions so as to charm the men 
 with new fashions, crafty subtleties of dress, provocations of the 
 troublesome passion of love in the shape of jewels, ribbons, gloves, 
 and the like. No one wears gloves : all the women's hands are 
 hard ; and although they are still young and their faces are un- 
 changed, their eyes are dull and hard. I am pleased to think that 
 there is no more foolishness of love among us. 
 
 The people were standing or sitting about, not together, but 
 separately— each by himself or herself. This tendency to solitary 
 habits is a most healthy indication of the advance of humanity. 
 Self-preservation is the first Law— separate and solitary existence 
 is the last condition— of mankind. They were silent and re- 
 gardless of each other. Their attitudes showed the listlessness of 
 
 CD 
 
 their minds. 
 
 ' I am glad you are here,' said Christine. ' You promised you 
 would not fail me. And yet, though you promised, I feared that 
 at the last moment you might change your minds. I was afraid 
 that you would rather not be disturbed in the even current of 
 your thoughts.' 
 
 ' Why disturb our minds ?' asked one— a woman. ' We were at 
 peace before you began to talk of the Past. We had almost for-
 
 CHRIS TINE A T HOME. i 77 
 
 gotten it. And it is so long ago ' — her voice sank to a murmur — 
 *so long ago.' 
 
 They all echoed : 
 
 ' It is so long ago — so long ago !' 
 
 ' Oh !' cried the girl, ' you call this to be at peace ! "Why, if you 
 •were so many stones in the garden you could not be more truly at 
 peace. To work : to rest : to eat : to sleep : — you will call that 
 Life ! And yet you can remember — if you please — the time when 
 you were full of activity and hope.' 
 
 ' If to remember is to regret, why should we invite the pain of 
 regret ? We cannot have the old life except with the old con- 
 ditions : the short life and the ' 
 
 ' If I could remember — if I had ever belonged to the Past,' the 
 girl interrupted quickly — ' oh ! I would remember every moment 
 — I would live every day of the old life over and over again. But 
 I can do nothing — nothing — but read of the splendid Past and 
 look forward to such a future as your own. Alas ! why was I born 
 at all, since I was born into such a world as this ? Why was I 
 called into existence when all the things of which I read every 
 day have passed away ? And what remains in their place ?' 
 
 ' We have Life,' said one of the men, but not confidently. 
 
 ' Life ! Yes — and what a Life ! Oh, what a life ! Well, we 
 waste time. Listen now — and if you can, for once forget the pre- 
 sent and recall the past. Do not stay to think how great a gulf 
 lies between : do not count the years — indeed, you cannot. 
 Whether they are one hundred or five hundred they do not know, 
 even at the Holy College itself. I am sure it will make you 
 happier — 'twill console and comfort you — in this our life of 
 desperate monotony, only to remember — to recall — how you used 
 to live.' 
 
 They answered with a look of blank bewilderment. 
 
 ' It is so long ago — so long ago,' said one of them again. 
 
 ' Look around you. Here are all the things that used to be your 
 own. Let them help you to remember. Here are the arms that 
 the men carried when they went out to fight ; here are the jewels 
 that the women wore. Think of your dress in the days when you 
 were allowed to dress, and we did not all wear frocks of gray beige 
 as if all women were exactly alike. Will that not help ?' 
 
 They looked about them helplessly. No ; they did not yet 
 remember ; their dull eyes were filled with a kind of anxious 
 wonder, as might be seen in one rudely awakened out of sleep. 
 They looked at the things in the great room, but that seemed to 
 
 12
 
 178 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 bring nothing back to their minis. The Present was round them 
 like a net which they could neither cut through nor see through ; 
 it was a veil arcund them through which they could not pass. It 
 had been so long with them ; it was so unchanging ; for so long 
 they had had nothing to expect ; for so long, therefore, they had 
 not cared to look back. The Holy College had produced, in fact, 
 what it had proposed and designed. The minds of the people had 
 become quiescent. And to think that so beautiful a state of things 
 Bhould be destroyed by a girl — the only child in the Community ! 
 
 ' Will it help,' said the girl, ' if we turn down the light a little ? 
 So. Now we are almost in darkness, but for the moonlight through 
 the window. In the old times, when you were children, I have 
 read that you loved to sit together and to tell stories. Let us tell 
 each other stories.' 
 
 Nobody replied. But the young man called Jack took Christine's 
 hand and held it. 
 
 'Let us try,' said the girl again. ' I will tell you a story. Long 
 ago there were people called gentlefolk. Grandad here was a 
 gentleman. I have read about them in the old books. I wonder 
 if any of you remember those people. They were exempt from 
 work ; the lower sort worked for them ; they led a life of ease ; 
 they made their own work for themselves. Some of the men 
 fought for their country — it was in the old time, you know, when 
 men still fought ; some worked for their country ; some worked for 
 the welfare of those who worked for bread ; some only amused 
 themselves, seme were profligates, and did wicked things. . . .' 
 
 She paused ; no one responded. 
 
 4 The women had no work to do at all. They only occupied 
 themselves in making everybody happy ; they were treated with 
 the greatest respect ; they were not allowed to do anything at all 
 that could be done for them ; they played and sang ; they painted 
 and embroidered ; they knew foreign languages ; they constantly 
 inspired the men to do great things, even if they should be killed.' 
 
 Here all shuddered and trembled. Christine made haste to 
 change the subject. 
 
 ' They wore beautiful dresses — think — dresses of silk and satin, 
 embroidered with gold, trimmed with lace ; they had necklaces, 
 bracelets, and rings ; their hands were white, and they wore long 
 gloves to their elbows ; they dressed their hair as they pleased. 
 Some wore it long, like this.' She pulled off her flat cap, and threw 
 back her long tresses, and quickly turned up the light. She was 
 transformed 1 The women started and gasped. ' Take off youc
 
 CHRISTINE A T HOME. 179 
 
 caps !' she ordered. They obeyed, and at sight of the flowing locks 
 that fell upon their shoulders, curling, rippling, flowing, their eyes 
 brightened, but only for a moment. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the girl, • they wore their beautiful hair as they 
 pleased. Oh !' — she gathered in her hands the flowing tresses of 
 one — 'you have such long and beautiful hair ! It is a shame — it is 
 a shame to hide it. Think of the lovely dresses to match this 
 beauty of the hair !' 
 
 ' Oh !' cried the women, ' we remember the dresses. We 
 remember them now. AVhy make us remember them ? It is so 
 long ago — so long ago — and we can never wear them any more.' 
 
 'Nay ; but you have the same beauty,' said Christine. ' That at 
 least remains ; you have preserved your youth and your beauty.' 
 
 ' Of what good are our faces to us,' said another woman, • with 
 such a dress as this V Men no longer look upon our beauty.' 
 
 'Let us be,' said the woman who had spoken first. ' There can 
 be no change for us. Why disturb our minds ? The Present is 
 horrible. But we have ceased to care much for anything ; we do 
 our day's work every day — all the same hours of work ; we wear 
 the same dress — to every woman the same dress ; we eat and drink 
 the same food — to every one the same ; we are happy because we 
 have got all we can get, and we expect no more ; we never talk — 
 why should we talk ? When you laughed to-day it was like an 
 earthquake.' Her words were strong, but her manner of speech 
 was a monotone. This way of speaking grows upon us ; it is the 
 easiest ; I watch the indications with interest. From rapid talk to 
 slow talk ; from auimated talk to monotony ; the next step will be 
 to silence absolute. ' There is no change for us,' she repeated, 
 1 neither in summer nor in winter. We have preserved our youth, 
 but we have lost all the things which the youthful used to desire ; 
 we thought to preserve our beauty. What is tae good of beauty 
 with such a dress and such a life ? Why should we make ourselves 
 miserable in remembering any of the things we used to desire ?' 
 
 ' Oh !' cried the girl, clasping her hands. ' To me there is no 
 pleasure possible but in learning all about the past. I read the old 
 books ; I look at the old pictures ; I play the old music ; I sing the 
 old songs. But it is not enough. I know how you were dressed — 
 not all alike in gray beige frocks, but in lovely silk and beautiful 
 embroidered stuffs. I will show you presently how you dressed. 
 I know how you danced and played games and acted most beautiful 
 plays, and I have read stories about you ; I know that you were 
 always dissatisfied, and wanting something or other The s-tories 
 
 12—2
 
 j>So THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 are full of discontent ; nobody ever sits down satisfied except one 
 pair. There is always one pair, and they fall in Love — in Love,' 
 she repeated. ' What is that, I wonder ?' Then she went on again : 
 'They only want one thing then, and the story-books are all about 
 bow they got it after wonderful adventures. There are no adven- 
 tures now. The books tell us all this. But I want more. I want 
 to know more ; I want to see the old stories with my own eyes ; I 
 want to see you in your old dresses, talking in your own old way. 
 The books cannot tell me how you talked and how you looked. I 
 am sure it was not as you talk now — because you never talk.' 
 
 ' There is no reason why we should talk. All the old desirea 
 have ceased to be. We no longer want anything or expect any- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Come. I shall do my best to bring the Past back to you. First, 
 I have learned who you were. That is why I have called you to- 
 gether. In the old times you all belonged to gentlefolk.' 
 
 This announcement pioduced no effect at all. They listened with 
 lack-lustre looks. They had entirely forgotten that there were 
 e/er such distinctions as gentle and simple. 
 
 'You will remember presently,' said Christine, not discouraged. 
 ! T have found out in the ancient Rolls your names and your 
 families.' 
 
 ' Names and families,' said one of the men, ' are gone long ago. 
 Christine, what is the good of reviving the memory of things that 
 can never be restored ?' 
 
 But the man named Jack Carera, the sailor of whom I have 
 already spoken, stepped forward. I have said that the sailors were 
 a dangerous class, on account of their independence and their good 
 meaning. 
 
 ' Tell us,' he said, ' about our families. Why I, for one, have 
 never forgotten that I was once a gentleman. It is hard to tell 
 now, because they have made us all alike ; but for many, many 
 years — I know not how many — we who had been gentlemen con- 
 sorted together.' 
 
 'You shall again,' said Christine, 'if you please. Listen, then. 
 First, my grandfather. He was called Sir Arthur Farrance, and 
 he was called a Baronet. To be a Baronet was, in those days, 
 something greatly desired by many people. A man, in the old 
 books, was said to enjoy the title of Baronet. But I know not why 
 one man was so raised above another.' 
 
 ' Ileugh ! Heugh ! Heugh !' coughed the old man. ' I remember 
 that. Why, what is there to remember except the old times ? I
 
 CHRIS TINE A T HOME. I 3f 
 
 was a Baronet — the fifth Baronet. My country place was in Sussex, 
 and my town address was White's and the Travellers'.' 
 
 ' Yes,' Christine nodded. ' My grandfather's memory is tena- 
 cious ; he forgets nothing of the things that happened when he was 
 young. I have learned a great deal from him. He seems to have 
 known ail your grandmothers, for instance, and speaks of them as 
 if he had loved them all.' 
 
 ' I did— I did,' said the old man. 'I loved them every one.' 
 The girl turned to the women before her — the dull-eyed, heavy- 
 headed women, all in the gray dresses exactly alike ; but their gray 
 flat caps had been thrown off, and they looked disturbed, moved 
 out of the common languor. 
 
 ' Now I will tell you who you were formerly. You ' — she 
 pointed to the nearest— 'were the Lady Mildred Carera, only 
 daughter of the Earl of Thordisa. Your father and mother sur- 
 vived the Discovery, but were killed in the Great Massacre Year, 
 when nearly all the old were put to death. You were a great 
 beauty in your time, and when the Discovery was announced you 
 were in your second season. People wondered who would win you. 
 But those who pretended to know talked of a young scientific 
 Professor.' 
 
 The woman heard as if she was trying to understand a foreign 
 language. This was, in fact, a language without meaning to her. 
 As yet she caught nothing. 
 
 'You,' said Christine, turning to the next, 'were Dorothy 
 Oliphant ; you were also young, beautiful, and an heiress ; you,, 
 like Lady Mildred, had all the men at your feet. I don't know 
 what that means, but the books say so. Then the Discovery came, 
 and love-making, whatever that was, seems to have gone out of 
 fashion.' 
 
 The second woman heard this information with lack-lustre eyes. 
 "What did it matter ? 
 
 ' You,' Christine turned to a third and to a fourth and fifth — 
 * you were Rosie Lorrayne ; you, Adela Dupre ; you, Susie Camp- 
 bell. You were all in Society ; you were all young and beautiful 
 and happy. Now for the men.' She turned to them. The sailor, 
 named Jack, gazed upon her with eyes of admiration. The other 
 men, startled at first by the apparition of the tresses, had relapsed 
 into listlessness. They hardly looked up as she addressed them. 
 First she pointed to the sailor. 
 
 4 Your name ' 
 
 1 1 remember my name,' he said. ' I have not forgotten so much
 
 tS2 the inner house. 
 
 as our friends. Sailors talk more -with each other, and remember. 
 I am named John Carera, and I was formerly first cousin to Lady 
 Mildred. Cou-in' — he held out his hand— 'have you forgotten 
 your cousin ? We used to play together in the old times. You 
 promised to merry me when you should grow up.' 
 
 Lady Mildred gave him her hand. 
 
 'It is so long ago— so long ago,' she murmured ; but her eyes 
 were troubled. She had begun to remember the things put away 
 and forgotten for so long. 
 
 'You,' Christine turned to another, 'were Geoffrey Heron. You 
 were Captain in a Cavalry Regiment. You will remember that 
 presently, and a great deal more. Yon,' she turned to another, 
 ' were Laurence De Heyn, and you were a young lawyer, intending 
 to be a Judge. You will remember that in time. You,' she 
 turned to another, ' were Jack Culliford ; and you were a Private 
 Secretary, intending to go into Parliament, and to rise perrn^s to 
 be Prime Minister. And you,' she turned to the last, ' were Arnold 
 Buckland, already a Poet of Society. You will all remember these 
 things before long. Lastly, you all belonged to the people who 
 were born rich, and never used to have any care or anxiety about 
 their daily bread. Nor did you ever do any work, unless you 
 chose.' 
 
 'It is so long ago,' said Lady Mildred— her face was brighter 
 now — < that we have forgotten even that there ever were gentle- 
 folks.' 
 
 ' It is not strange,' said Christine, • that you should have '''orgottea 
 it. Why should you remember anything ? We are only a nerd, 
 one with another : one not greater, and one not less, than another. 
 Now that you know your names again and remember clearly— be- 
 cause I have told you ' — she repeated the information for fear they 
 should again forget—' who and what you were, each of you— you 
 will go on to remember more.' 
 
 ' Oh ! what good ? What good ?' asked Lady Mildred. 
 
 ' Because it will rouse you from your lethargy,' said the girl im- 
 petuously. ' Oh ! you sit in silence day after day: yoxx walk alone : 
 you ought to be together as you used to be, talking, playing. See ! 
 I have read the books : your lives were full of excitement. It 
 makes my heart beat only to read how the men went out to fight, 
 daring everything, for the sake of the women they loved.' 
 
 ' The men love us no longer,' said Lady Mildred. 
 
 ' If the brave men fell ' 
 
 But here all faces, except the sailor's, turned pale, and they
 
 CHRISTINE AT HOME. 183 
 
 shuddered. Christine did not finish the sentence. She, too, 
 shuddered. 
 
 In the old times I remember how, being then errand-boy in the 
 Brewery, I used to listen, in the Whitechapel Road, to the men 
 who, every Sunday morning and evening, used to tell us that re- 
 ligion was a mockery and a snare, invented by the so-called priests 
 for their own selfish ends, so that they might be kept in sloth and 
 at their ease. There was no need now for these orators. The old 
 religion was clean dead and forgotten. When men ceased to expect 
 Death, what need was there to keep up any interest in the future 
 world, if there should be any ? But the bare mention of the dread- 
 ful thing is still enough to make all cheeks turn pale. Every year, 
 the farther off Death recedes, the more terrible he looks. Therefore 
 they all shuddered. 
 
 Among the musical instruments in the Museum there stands one, 
 a square wooden box on legs, with wires iuside it. There are many 
 other musical instruments, the use of all (as I bought) forgotten. 
 Very soon after the Great Discovery people jeased to care for music. 
 For my own part, I have never been able to understand how the 
 touching of chords and the striking of hammers on wires can pro- 
 duce any effect at all upon the mind except that of irritation. We 
 preserve trumpets for the processions of the College because mere 
 noise awes people, and because trumpets make more noise with less 
 trouble than the human voice. But with music, such as it used to 
 be, we have now nothing to do at all. I have been told that people 
 were formerly greatly moved by music, so that every kind of emotion 
 was produced in th<.ir minds merely by listening to a man or woman 
 playing some instrument. It must have been so, because Christine, 
 merely by playing the old music to the company, was able to bring 
 back their minds to the long-forgotten Past. But it must be re- 
 membered that she had disturbed their minds first. 
 
 She sat down, then, before this box, and she began to play upon 
 it, watching the people meanwhile. She played the music of their 
 own time — indeed, there has been none written since. It was a 
 kind of witchery. First the sailor named Jack sprang to his feet 
 and began to walk up and down the room with wild gestures and 
 strange looks. Then the rest, ono by one, grew restless : they 
 looked about them : they left their chairs and began to look at each 
 other, and at the things in the cases: the Past was coming slowly 
 into sight. I have heard how men at sea perceive an island far 
 away, but like a cloud on the horizon: how the cloud grows larger 
 and assumes outline: how this grows clearer and larger still, until
 
 1 84 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 before the ship reaches the harbour and drops her anchor, the cliff? 
 and the woods, and even the single trees on the hill-sides, are clearly 
 visible. 
 
 Thus the listeners gradually began to see the Past again. Now, 
 to feel these old times again, one must go back to them and become 
 once more part of them. It is possible, because we are still of the 
 age when we left them. Therefore, this little company, who had 
 left the old time when they were still young, began to look again 
 as they had then looked. Their eyes brightened, their cheeks flushed: 
 their limbs became elastic: their heads were thrown back: the faces 
 of the women grew soft, and those of the men strong : on all alike 
 there fell once more the look of restless expectancy and of unsatisfied 
 yearning which belonged to all ages in the old time. 
 
 Presently they began to murmur, I know not what : and then to 
 whisper to each other with gentle sighs. Then the girls — they were 
 really girls again — caught each other by the hand, and panted and 
 Bighed again. AnC it last they fell upon each other's necks and 
 kissed. As for the men, ibey now stood erect and firm, but for the 
 most part they gazed upon the girls with wonder and admiration 
 unspeakable. So great was the power of witchery possessed by this 
 insignificant girl. 
 
 Christine looked on and laughed gently. Then she suddenly 
 changed her music, and began to play a March, loud and triumphant. 
 And as she played she spoke : 
 
 ' When the brave soldiers came home from battle and from victory, 
 it was right that the people should all go forth to meet them. The 
 music played for them : the children strewed roses under their feet : 
 the bells were set ringing : the crowds cheered them : the women 
 wept and laughed at the same time, and waved them welcome. 
 Nothing could be too good for the men who fought for their 
 country. Listen ! I found the song of the Victors' Keturn in an 
 old book. I wonder if you remember it. I think it is a very 
 simple little thing.' 
 
 Then she sang. She had a strong, clear voice — they had heard 
 her singing before — no one sang in the whole City except this child, 
 and already it had been observed that her singing made men restless. 
 I do not deny the fulness and richness of her voice ; but the words 
 ihe sang — Dr. Linister's words, they were — are mere foolishness : 
 
 • With flying flag, with beat of drum, 
 Oh ! brave and gallant show ! 
 In rags and tatters home they corn*— 
 We love them better, so.
 
 CHRISTINE A T HOME. 185 
 
 With sun-burnt cheeks and wounds and scars : — 
 
 Yet still their swords are bright : 
 Oh ! welcome, welcome from the wars, 
 
 Brave lads who fought the fight ! 
 
 'The girls they laugh, the girls they cry, 
 
 " What shall their guerdon be ? — 
 
 Alas ! that some must fall and die ! — 
 
 Bring forth our gauds to see. 
 'Twere all too slight, give what we might." 
 Up spoke a soldier tall, 
 " Oh ! Love is worth the whole broad earth : 
 Oh ! Love is worth the whole broad earth : 
 Give that, you give us all !" ' 
 
 1 Do you remember the song ?' Christine asked. 
 
 They shook their heads. Yet it seemed familiar. They remem- 
 bered some such songs. 
 
 ' Geoffrey Heron,' said the girl, turning to one of the men, ' you 
 were Captain Heron in the old days. You remember that you were 
 in the army.' 
 
 ' Was I V He started. ' No : yes. I remember : I was Captain 
 Heron. We rode out of Portsmouth Dockyard Gates when we 
 came home— all that were left of us. The women were waiting on 
 the Hard outside, and they laughed and cried, and caught our hands, 
 and ran beside the horses. Our ranks were thin, for we had been 
 pretty well knocked about. I remember now. Yes — yes, I was — 
 I was Captain Heron.' 
 
 'Go into that room. You will find your old uniform. Takeoff 
 the blue flannels, and show us how you looked when you were in 
 uniform.' 
 
 As if it was nothing at all unusual, the man rose and obeyed. It 
 was observed that he now carried himself differently. He stood 
 erect, with shoulders squared, head up, and limbs straight. They 
 all obeyed whatever this girl ordered them to do. 
 
 Christine began to play again. She played another March, but 
 always loud and triumphant. 
 
 When the soldier came back, he was dressed in the uniform which 
 he had worn in the time of the Great Discovery, when they left off 
 taking account of time. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Christine, springing to her feet. ' See ! See ! Here 
 is a soldier ! Here is a man who has fought !' 
 
 He stood before them dressed in a scarlet tunic and a white hel- 
 met: a red sash hung across him, and on his breast were medals. 
 At sight of him, the girl called Dorothy Oliphant changed counte-
 
 186 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 nance: all caught their breath. The aspect of the man carried 
 them, indeed, back to the old, old time. 
 
 'Welcome home, Captain Heron,' said Christine. 'We have 
 followed your campaign day by day.' 
 
 'We are home again,' the soldier replied gravely. 'Unfor- 
 tunately, we have left a good many of our regiment behind.' 
 
 ' Behind ? You mean— they — are — dead.' Christine shuddered. 
 The others shuddered. Even Captain Heron himself for a moment 
 turned pale. But he was again in the Past, and the honour of his 
 regiment was in his hands. 
 
 ' You have fought with other men,' said Christine. ' Let me 
 look in your face. Yes — it is changed. You have the look of the 
 fighting men in the old pictures. You look as if you mean to have 
 scmething, whatever it is, whether other men want it or not. Oh ! 
 you have fought with men. It is wonderful ! Perhaps you have 
 even killed men. Were you dreadfully afraid ?' 
 
 Captain Heron started and flushed. 
 
 ' Afraid ?' he asked. ' Afraid ?' 
 
 'Oh!' Christine clapped her hands. 'I wanted to see that 
 look. It is the look of a man in sudden wrath. Forgive me ! It 
 is terrible to see a man thus moved. No, Captain Heron, no ! I 
 understand. An officer in your regiment could be afraid of 
 nothing.' 
 
 She sat down, still looking at him. 
 
 ' I have seen a soldier,' she said. Then she sprang to her feet. 
 'Now,' she cried, 'it is our turn. Come with me, you ladies, and 
 you — gentlemen — go into that room. For one night we will put 
 on the dresses you used to wear. Come !' 
 
 They obeyed. There was nothing that they would not have 
 done, so completely had she bewitched them. How long since they 
 had been addressed as ladies and gentlemen 1 
 
 ' Come,' she said, in a room whither she led the women, 'look 
 about, and choose what you please. But we must make haste.' 
 
 There was a great pile of dainty dresses laid out for them to 
 choose — dresses in silk and all kinds of delicate stuffs, with em- 
 broidery, lace, ribbons, jewels, chains, rings, bracelets, gloves, fans, 
 shoes — everything that the folly of the past time required to make 
 rich women seem as if they were not the same as their poorer 
 sisters. 
 
 They turned over the dresses, and cried out with admiration. 
 Th«n they hastened to tear o2E their ugly gray frocks, and began 
 to dress.
 
 CHRISTINE AT HOME. 187 
 
 But the girl called Dorothy Oliphant sank into a chair. 
 
 • Oh ! he has forgotten me ! he has forgotten me ! Who am I 
 that he should remember me after all these years ?' 
 
 'Why,' said Christine, 'how should he remember? What 
 matters that you have the same face ? Think of your dull look 
 and your heavy eyes : think of the dowdy dress and the ugly cap. 
 Wait till you have put on a pretty frock and have dressed your 
 hair : here is a chain of pearls which will look pretty in your hair ; 
 here is a sweet coloured silk. lam sure it will fit you. Oh ! it ia 
 a shame — it is a shame that we have to dress so. Never mind. 
 Now I have found out the old dresses, we will have many evenings 
 together. We will go back to the Past. He will remember you, 
 Dorothy dear. Oh ! how could you give them up ? How could 
 you give up your lovely dresses?' 
 
 ' We were made to give them up because there were not enough 
 beautiful dresses to go round. They said that no woman must be 
 dressed better than another. So they invented — it was Dr. Grout, 
 the Suffragan, who did it— the gray dress for the women and the 
 blue flannel for the men. And I had almost forgotten that there 
 were such things. Christine, my head is swimming. My heart is 
 beating. I have not felt my heart beating for I know not how 
 long. Oh ! will Geoffrey remember me when I am dressed ?' 
 
 ' Quick ! Of course he will. Let me dress you. Oh ! I often 
 come here in the daytime and dress up, and pretend that it is the 
 Past again. You shall come with me. But I want to hear you 
 talk as you used to talk, and to see you dance as you used to dance. 
 Then I shall understand it all.' 
 
 When they returned, the men were waiting for them. Their 
 blue flannels were exchanged for black cloth clothes, which it had 
 been the custom of those who called themselves gentlemen to wear 
 in the evening. In ancient times this was their absurd custom, 
 kept up in order to mark the difference between a gentleman and 
 one of the lower class. If you had no dress-coat, you were not a 
 gentleman. How could men ever tolerate, for a single day, the 
 existence of such a social difference ? As for me, in the part of 
 London where I lived, called Wiiitechapel, there were no dress- 
 coats. The change, however, seemed to have transformed them. 
 Their faces had an eager look, as if they wanted something. Of 
 course, in the old times everybody always wanted something : you 
 can see it in the pictures ; the faces are never at rest ; in the 
 portraits, the eyes are always seeking for something ; nowhere is 
 there visible the least sign of contentment. These unfortunate
 
 1 88 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 men bad acquired, with their old clothes, something of the old 
 restlessness. 
 
 Christine laughed aloud and clapped her hands. 
 
 The women did not laugh. They saluted the men, who bowed 
 with a certain coldness. The manners of the Past were coming 
 back to them swiftly, but the old ease was not recovered for the 
 first quarter of an hour. Then Captain Heron, who had changed 
 his uniform for civilian dress, suddenly flushed and stepped for- 
 ward, whispering : 
 
 ' Dorothy ! you have forgotten me ?' 
 
 Dorothy smiled softly, and gave him her hand with a quick sigh. 
 No, she had not forgotten him. 
 
 • Danes !' said Christine. ' I want to see you dance. I will play 
 for you.' 
 
 She played a piece of music called a Waltz. When this kind of 
 music used to be played — I mean in the houses of (so-called) ladies, 
 not those of the People — the young men and women caught each 
 other round the waist and twirled round. They had many foolish 
 customs, but none more foolish, I should suppose, than this. I 
 have never seen the thing done, because all this foolishness was 
 forgotten as soon as we settled down to the enjoyment of the Great 
 Discovery. When, therefore, Christine began this music, they 
 looked at each other for a few moments, and then, inspired by 
 memory, they fell into each other's arms and began their dance. 
 
 She played for them for a quarter of an hour. While the rest 
 danced, the young man Jack stood beside the piano, as if he was 
 chained to the spot. She had bewitched them all. but none so much 
 as this man. He therefore gazed upon the girl with an admiration 
 which certainly belonged to the old time. Indeed, I have never 
 been able to understand how the Past could be so suddenly as- 
 sumed. To admire— actually to admire — a woman, knowing all the 
 time — it is impossible to conceal the fact — that she is your inferior, 
 that she is inferior in strength and intellect ! Well, I have already 
 called them unfortunate men : I can say no more. How can people 
 admire things below themselves ? When she had played for a 
 quarter of an hour or so, this young man called upon her to stop. 
 The dancers stopped too, panting, their eyes full of light, their 
 cheeks flushed and their lips parted. 
 
 ' Oh 1' Dorothy sighed. ' I never thought to feel such happiness, 
 again. I could dauce on for ever.' 
 
 ' With me ?' murmured Geoffrey. • I was praying that the last 
 round might never stop. With me ?'
 
 CHRIS TINE A T HOME i ?9 
 
 ' With you,' she whispered. 
 
 I Come !' cried the young man Jack. ' It is too bad. Christine 
 must dance. Play for us, Cousin Mildred, and I will give her a 
 lesson.' 
 
 Mildred laughed. Then she started at the unwonted Bound. 
 The others laughed to hear it, and the walls of the Museum echoed 
 with the laughter of girls. The old man sat up in his chair and 
 looked around. 
 
 ' I thought I was at Philippe's, in Paris,' he said. ' I thought we 
 were having a supper after the theatre. There was Ninette, and 
 there was Madeleine — and — and ' 
 
 He looked about him bewildered. Then he dropped his head 
 and went to sleep again. When he was neither eating nor battling 
 for his breath, he was always sleeping. 
 
 I I am your cousin, Jack,' said Mildred. ' But I had long for- 
 gotten it. And as for playing — but I will try. Perhaps the old 
 touch will return.' 
 
 It did. She played with far greater skill and power than the 
 self-taught Christine ; but not (as they have said since) with 
 greater sweetness. 
 
 Then Jack took Christine and gave her a first lesson. It lasted 
 nearly half an hour. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried the girl, when Lady Mildred stopped. ' I feel as if 
 I had been floating round in a dream. Was I a stupid pupil, Jack ?' 
 
 'You were the aptest pupil that dancing-master ever had.' 
 
 1 1 know now,' she said, with panting breath and flushed cheeks, 
 * what dancing means. It is wonderful that the feet should answer 
 to the music. Surely you must have loved dancing ?' 
 
 1 We did,' the girls replied ; ' we did. There was no greater 
 pleasure in the world.' 
 
 ' Why did you give it up ?' 
 
 They looked at each other. 
 
 1 After the Great Discovery,' said Dorothy Oliphant, ' we were 
 .so happy to get rid of the terrors of old age, and the loss of our 
 beauty, and everything, that at first we thought of nothing else. 
 When we tried to dance again, something had gone out of it. The 
 .men were not the same. Perhaps we were not the same. Every- 
 thing languished after that. There was no longer any enjoyment. 
 We ceased to dance because we found no pleasure in dancing.' 
 
 ' But now you do ?' said Christine. 
 
 'To-night we do, because you have filled our hearts with the old 
 .thoughts. To get out of the dull, dull round — why is it that we
 
 I go THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 never felt it dull till to-night ? Oh ! so long as we can remember 
 the old thought*, let U3 continue to dance and to play and to ping. 
 If the old thoughts cease to come back to us ' — she looked at 
 Geoffrey — 'let us fall back into our dulness, like the men and 
 women round us.' 
 
 ' It was to please me first,' said Christine. ' You were so very 
 kind as to come here to please me, because I can have no recollec- 
 tion at all of the Past, and I was curious to understand what I 
 read. Come again — to please yourselves. Oh ! I have learned so 
 much — so very much more than I ever expected. There are so 
 many, many things that I did not dream of. But let us always 
 dance,' she said — 'let us always dance — let me always feel every 
 time you come as if there was nothing in the world but sweet 
 music calling me, and I was spinning round and round, but always 
 in some place far better and sweeter than this.' 
 
 • Yes,' Lady Mildred said gravely. ' Thus it was we used to 
 feel.' 
 
 * And I have seen you as you were — gentlemen and gentlewomen 
 together. Oh, it is beautiful ! Come every night. Let us never 
 cease to change the dismal Present for the sunny Past. But there 
 is one thing — one thing that I cannot understand.' 
 
 ' What is that ?' asked Lady Mildred. 
 
 ' In the old books there is always, as I said before, a young man 
 in love with a girl. What is it — Love ?' The girls sighed and 
 cast down their eyes. 'Was it possible for a man so to love a girl 
 as to desire nothing in the world but to have her love, and even to 
 throw away his life — actually his very life — his very life — for her 
 sake ?' 
 
 ' Dorothy,' said Geoffrey, taking both her hands — ' was it possible ? 
 Oh ! was it possible ?' 
 
 Dorothy burst into tears. 
 
 ' It teas possible !' she cried ; ' but, oh ! it is not possible any 
 longer.' 
 
 'Let us pretend,' said Geoffrey — 'let us dream that it is pos- 
 sible.' 
 
 ' Even to throw away your life — to die — actually your life V 
 asked Christine. 'To die? To exist no longer? To abandon 
 life— for the sake of another person ?' 
 
 A sudden change passed over all their faces. The light died out 
 of their eyes ; the smile died on their lips ; the softness vanished 
 from the ladies' faces ; the men hung their heads. All their 
 gallantry left them. And Geoffrey let Mildred's hands slip from.
 
 CHRISTINE AT HOME. 191 
 
 hie holding. The thought of Death brought them back to the 
 Present. 
 
 'No,' said Lady Mildred sadly, and 'with changed voice. 'Such 
 things are no longer possible. Formerly, men despised death 
 because it was certain to come, in a few years at best ; and why 
 not, therefore, to-morrow ? But we cannot brave death any more. 
 We live each for himself. This is the only safety ; there is only 
 the law of self-preservation. All are alike ; we cannot love each 
 other any more, because we are all alike. No woman is better 
 than another in any man's eyes, because we are all dressed the 
 same, and we are all the same. What more do we want ?' she said 
 harshly. ' There is no change for us ; we go from bed to work, 
 from work to rest and food, and so to bed again. What more can 
 we want? We are all equals ; we are all the same ; there are no 
 more gentlewomen. Let us put on our gray frocks and our flat 
 caps again, and hide our hair and go home to bed.' 
 
 'Yes, yes,' Tied Christine ; ' but you will come again. You will 
 come again, and we will make every night a Play and Pretence of 
 the beautiful — the lovely Past. When we lay aside the gray frocks, 
 and let down our hair, we shall go back to the old time — the dear 
 old time.' 
 
 The young man named Jack remained behind when the others 
 were gone. 'If it were possible,' he said, 'for a man to give up 
 everything — even his life — for a woman, in the old times, when 
 life was a rich and glorious possession — how much more ought he 
 not to be willing to lay it down, now that it has been made a worth- 
 less weed !' 
 
 ' I have never felt so happy ' — the girl was thinking of something 
 else — ' I have never dreamed that I could feel so happy. Now I 
 know what I have always longed for — to dance round and round 
 for ever, forgetting all but the joy of the music and the dance. 
 But, oh ! Jack,' her face turned pale again, ' how could they ever 
 have been happy, even while they waltzed, knowing that every 
 minute brought them nearer and nearer to the dreadful end ?' 
 
 ' I don't know. Christine, if I were you, I would never mention 
 that ugly topic again, except when we are not dressed up and 
 acting. How lovely they looked — all of them ! But none of them 
 to compare with the sweetest rosebud of the garden.' 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it, and then left her alone with the 
 old man in the great Museum.
 
 192 THE INNER HOUSE, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 It would be idle to dwell upon the repetition of such scenes as 
 those described in the last chapter. These unhappy persons con- 
 tinued to meet day after day in the Museum ; after changing their 
 lawful garments for the fantastic habits worn before the Great 
 Discovery, they lost themselves nightly in the imagination of the 
 Past. They presently found others among the People, who had 
 also been gentlewomen and gentlemen in the old days, and brought 
 them also into the company ; so that there were now, every even- 
 ing, some thirty gathered together. Nay, they even procured food 
 and made suppers for themselves, contrary to the practice of common 
 meals enjoined by the Holy College ; they gloried in being a com- 
 pany apart from the rest ; and because they remembered the past, 
 they had the audacity to give themselves, but only among them- 
 selves, airs of superiority. In the daytime they wore the common 
 dress, and were like the rest of the People. The thing grew, how- 
 ever. Every evening they recalled more of the long-vanished 
 customs and modes of thought — one remembering this and the 
 other that little detail — until almost every particular of the ancient 
 life had returned to them. Then a strange thing happened. For 
 though the Present offered still — and this they never denied — its 
 calm, unchanging face, with no disasters to trouble and no certain 
 and miserable end to dread ; with no anxieties, cares, and miseries ; 
 with no ambitions and no struggles ; they fell to yearning after the 
 old things : they grew to loathe the Present : they could hardly sit 
 with patience in the Public Hall ; they went to their day's work 
 with ill-concealed disgust. Yet, so apathetic had the people grown, 
 that nothing of this was observed ; so careless and so unsuspicious 
 were we ourselves, that though the singing and playing grew louder 
 and continued longer every evening, none of us suspected anything. 
 Singing, in m\ ears, was no more than an unmeaning noise; that 
 the girl in the Museum should sing and play seemed foolish ; but, 
 then, children are foolish. They like to make a great noise. 
 
 One afternoon — it was some weeks since this dangerous fooling 
 began — the cause of the whole, the girl Christine, was in the 
 Museum alone. She had a book in her hand, and was reading in 
 it. First she read a few lines, and then paused and meditated 
 awhile Then she read again, and laughed gently to herself. And
 
 WHAT IS LOVE t 195 
 
 then she read, and changed colour. And again she read, and knitted 
 her brows as one who considers but cannot understand. 
 
 The place was quite deserted, save for her grandfather, who sat 
 in his great chair, propped up with pillows and fast asleep. He had 
 passed a bad night with his miserable asthma ; in the morning, as 
 often happens with this disease, he found himself able to breathe 
 again, and was now, therefore, taking a good spell of sleep. His 
 long white hair fell down upon his shoulders, his wrinkled old 
 cheek showed a thousand crows' feet and lines innumerable ; he 
 looked a very, very old man. Yet he was no more than seventy-five 
 or so, in the language of the Past. He belonged formerly to those 
 who lived upon the labour of others, and devoured their substance. 
 Now, but for his asthma, which even the College cannot cure, he 
 should have been as perfectly happy as the rest of the People. The 
 sunshine which warmed his old limbs fell full upon his chair ; so that 
 he seemed, of all the rare and curious objects in that collection, the 
 rarest and most curious. The old armour on the wall, the trophies 
 of arms, the glass vases containing all the things of the Past, were 
 not so rare and curious as this old man — the only old man left 
 among us. I daily, for my own part, contemplated the old man 
 with a singular satisfaction. He was, I thought, a standing lesson 
 to the People — one daily set before their eyes. Here was the sole 
 surviving specimen of what in the Past was the best that the men 
 and women could expect — namely, to be spared until the age of 
 seventy-five, and then to linger on afflicted with miserable diseases 
 and, slowly or swiftly, to be tortured to death. Beholding that 
 spectacle, I argued, all the people ought to rub their hands in com- 
 placency and gratitude. But our people had long ceased to reason 
 or reflect. The lesson was consequently thrown away upon thei: 
 Nay, when this girl began her destructive career, those whom a\ : 
 dragged into her toils only considered this old man because hi 
 would still be talking, as all old men used to talk, about the days of 
 his youth, for the purpose of increasing their knowledge of the 
 Past, and filling their foolish souls with yearning after the bad old 
 times. 
 
 While Christine read and pondered, the door of the Museum 
 opened. The young man called Jack stood there gazing upon her. 
 She had thrown off her cap, and her long brown curls lay over her 
 shoulders. She had a red rose in the bosom of her gray dress, and 
 she had tied a crimson scarf round her waist. Jack (suffer me to 
 use the foolishness of their language — of course his name was John) 
 closed the door silently. 
 
 13
 
 i 9 4 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 ' Christine,' he whispered. 
 
 She started, and let her book fall. Then she gave him her hand, 
 which he raised to his lips. (Again I must ask leave to report a 
 great deal of foolishness.) 
 
 'It is the sweet old fashion,' he said. 'It is ray homage to my 
 lady.' 
 
 They were now so far gone in folly that she accepted this act as 
 if it was one natural and becoming. 
 
 ' I have been reading,' she said, ' a book full of extracts — all about 
 love. I have never understood what love is. If I ask Dorothy, 
 she looks at Geoffrey Heron and sighs. If I ask him, he tells me 
 that he cannot be my servant to teach me, because he is already 
 sworn to another. What does this mean? Have the old times 
 come back again, so that men once more call themselves slaves of 
 love ? Yet what does it mean ?' 
 
 ' Tell me,' said Jack, ' what you have been reading.' 
 
 ' Listen, then. Oh, it is the strangest extravagance ! What did 
 men mean when they could gravely write down, and expect to be 
 read, such things as — 
 
 ' " I do love you more than words can wield the matter- 
 Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty ; 
 Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare." 
 
 " Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty." Did they really mean 
 that ?' 
 
 ' They meant more : they meant dearer than life itself !' said 
 Jack slowly. ' Only it was stupid always to say the same thing.' 
 
 ' Well, then, listen to this : 
 
 ' " Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love 
 
 That inward beauty and invisible : 
 Or, were I deaf, thy outward parts would move 
 
 Each part in me that were but sensible : 
 Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, 
 
 Yet should I be in love, by touching thee." 
 
 Now, Jack, what can that mean ? Was anything more absurd ?' 
 ' Read another extract, Christine.' 
 ' Here is a passage more difficult than any other : 
 
 ' " Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind j 
 And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind : 
 Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste ; 
 Wings and no eyes, figure unheedy haste : 
 And therefore is Love said to be a child, 
 Because in choice he is so oft beguiled."
 
 WHAT IS LOVE t 195 
 
 Tell me, if you can, what this means. But perhaps you were never 
 in love, Jack, in the old times.' 
 
 'Romeo was in love before he met Juliet,' said Jack. 'I, too, 
 have been reading the old books, you see, Child. I remember — 
 but how can I tell you ? I cannot speak like the poet. Yet I 
 remember — I remember.' He looked round the room. ' It is only 
 here,' he murmured, ' that one can clearly remember. Here are 
 the very things which used to surround our daily life. And here 
 are youth and age. They were always with us in the old time — 
 youth and age. Youth with love before, and age with love behind. 
 Always we knew that as that old man, so should we become. The 
 chief joys of life belonged to youth : we knew very well that un- 
 less we snatched them then, we should never have them. To age 
 we gave respect ; because age, we thought, had wisdom : but to us 
 — to us — who were young, age cried unceasingly : 
 
 " Gather your rosebuds while ye may." 
 
 If I could tell only you ! Christine ! come with me, into the 
 Picture Gallery. My words are weak, but the poets and the 
 painters speak for us. Come. We shall find something there that 
 will speak for me what I have not words to say for myself.' 
 
 Nothing in the whole world — I have maintained this in the 
 College over and over again — has done so much harm to Humanity 
 as Art. In a world of common-sense which deals with nothing 
 but fact and actuality, Art can have no place. Why imitate what 
 we see around us ? Artists cheated the world : they pretended to 
 imitate, and they distorted or they exaggerated. They put a light 
 into the sky that never was there : they filled the human face with 
 yearning after things impossible : they put thoughts into the 
 heart which had no business there : they made woman into a god- 
 dess, and made love — simple love — a form of worship : they ex- 
 aggerated every joy : they created a heaven which could not exist. 
 I have seen their pictures, and I know it. Why — why did we not 
 destroy all works of Art long ago— or, at least, why did we not 
 enclose the Gallery, with the Museum, within the College wall ? 
 
 The Picture Gallery is a long room with ancient stone walls : 
 statuary is arranged along the central line, and the pictures line 
 the walls. 
 
 The young man led the girl into the gallery and looked around 
 him. Presently he stopped at a figure in white marble. It re- 
 presented a woman, hands clasped, gaaing upwards. Anatomically, 
 I must say, the figure is fairly correct. 
 
 13—2
 
 196 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 ' See,' he said, ' when in the olden times our sculptors desired to 
 depict the Higher Life — which we have lost or thrown away for 
 awhile — they carved the marble image of a woman. Her form 
 represented perfect beauty : her face represented perfect purity ; 
 the perfect soul must be wedded to the perfect body, otherwise 
 there can be no perfection of Humanity. This is the Ideal 
 Woman : look in her face : look at the curves of her form : look 
 at the carriage of her head : such a woman it was whom men used 
 to love.' 
 
 ' But were women once like this ? Could they look so ? Had 
 they such sweet and tender faces ? This figure makes me 
 ashamed.' 
 
 ' When men were in love, Christine, the woman that each man 
 loved became in his mind such as this. He worshipped in hia 
 mistress the highest form of life that he could conceive. Soma 
 men were gross ; their ideals were low : some were noble ; then 
 their ideals were high. Alwaj's there were among mankind some 
 men who were continually tryiug to raise the ideal : always, the 
 mass of men were keeping the ideal low.' 
 
 ' Were the women ashamed to receive such worship ? Because 
 they must have known what they were in cold reality.' 
 
 1 Perhaps to the nobler sort,' said the young man, ' to be thought 
 so good, lifted up their hearts and kept them at that high level. 
 But indeed I know not. Remember that when men wrote the 
 words that you think extravagant, they were filled and wholly 
 possessed with the image of the Perfect Woman. Nay, the nobler 
 and stronger their nature, the more they were filled with that 
 Vision. The deeper their love for any woman, the higher they 
 placed her on the Altar of their worship.' 
 
 'And if another man should try to take that woman from 
 them ' 
 
 ' They would kill that other man,' said Jack, with a fierce gleam 
 in his eye which made the girl shudder. Yet she respected him 
 for it. 
 
 ' If another man should come between us now, Christine, I 
 would . . . Nay, dear, forgive my rude words. What has jealousy 
 to do with you ?' 
 
 She dropped her eyes and blushed, and in all her limbs she 
 trembled. This young man made her afraid. And yet — she knew 
 not why — it made her happy, only to be afraid of him. 
 
 * Let us see some of the pictures,' said Jack. 
 
 There were many hundreds of them. They represented I know
 
 WHAT IS LOVE t 197 
 
 not what: scenes of the old life in the old time. I dare say every- 
 thing was there, with all the exaggerations which pleased the 
 painters and cheated the senses of those who looked on. Fair 
 women were painted fairer than women could ever be : their eyes 
 were larger, softer, fuller of thought ; their cheeks more tender ; 
 their limbs more comely. 
 
 There were battle scenes : the young man led the girl past them. 
 There were scenes from history — kings laying down crowns : 
 traitors receiving sentence : and so forth : he passed them by. 
 There were groups of nymphs : portraits of fair women : groups 
 of girls dancing : girls at play : girls laughing : girls bathing : he 
 passed them by. Presently he stopped before three panels side by 
 side, representing a simple allegory of the old time. In the first 
 picture, two, a young man and a girl, walked hand-in-hand beside 
 a stream. The water danced and rippled in the sunlight : behind 
 them was an orchard full of blossom : flowers sprang up at their 
 feet — the flowers of spring. And they walked hand-in-hand, 
 gazing in each other's eyes. The second picture showed a man in 
 middle age returning home from work : beside him walked his 
 boys : in the porch the mother sat with her daughters spinning at 
 the wheel. The stream was now a full, majestic river : the trees 
 were loaded with fruit not yet ripe : the fields were covered with 
 corn, green still, but waving with light and shade under the 
 summer sky : in the distance, passing away, was a heavy thunder- 
 cloud. In the third panel an old pair stood beside a great river, 
 looking out upon the ocean. Again they were hand-in-hand. The 
 Bun was setting in great splendour across the sea : the reapers were 
 carrying their harvest home with songs and dances. And the old 
 people still gazed in each other's face, just as they had done fifty 
 years ago. 
 
 ' See, Christine !' said Jack. ' In the first panel, this pair think 
 of nothing but of each other. Presently they will have other 
 thoughts. The stream beside which they wander is the Stream of 
 Life. It widens as it goes. While they walk along its banks, the 
 river grows broader and deeper. This means that as they grow 
 older they grow wiser and learn more. So they go on continually, 
 until they come to the mouth of the river, where it loses itself in 
 the ocean of— what our friends tremble so much as to name. Tell 
 me, is there terror, or doubt, or anxiety on their faces now that 
 they have come to the end ?' 
 
 ' No : their faces are entirely happy.' 
 
 'This you do not understand. Christine, if you were snre that
 
 198 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 in the end you would be as happy as that old woman at the end!, 
 would you be content to begin with the beginning ? Would you 
 play the part of that girl, and walk — with me — along the Stream 
 of Life ?' 
 
 He took her hand, but she made no reply, save that her eyes 
 filled with tears. Presently she murmured : 
 
 4 They are always happy — at the beginning and at the end. Did 
 they know at the beginning that there would be an end ?' 
 
 4 They knew : everybody knew : the very children knew almost 
 from infancy the great Law of Nature, that for everything there is 
 the allotted end. They knew it.' 
 
 4 And yet they were always happy. I cannot understand it.' 
 
 4 We have destroyed that happiness,' said the young man. 4 Lov© 
 cannot exist when there is no longer end, or change, or anything 
 to hope or fear — no mystery, nothing to hope or fear. What is a 
 woman outside the Museum in the eyes of the College ? She is 
 only the half of humanity, subject to disease and requiring food at 
 intervals. She no longer attracts men by the sacred mystery of 
 her beauty. She is not even permitted any longer to make herself 
 beautiful by her dress : nor is she allowed to create the feeling of 
 mystery and the unknown by seclusion. She lives in the open, 
 like the rest. We all live together : we know what each one says 
 and thinks and does : nay, most of us have left off thinking and 
 talking altogether.' 
 
 But Christine was hardly listening : she could not understand 
 this talk. She was looking at the pictures. 
 
 4 Oh !' she said, ' they look so happy. There is such a beautiful 
 contentment in their eyes : they love each other so, that they 
 think of nothing but their love. They have forgotten th« 
 end.' 
 
 4 Nay ; but look at the end.' 
 
 4 They are happy still, although the river flows into the Ocean. 
 How can they be happy ?' 
 
 4 You shall learn more, Christine. You have seen enough tc* 
 understand that the talk of the Physicians about the miseries of 
 the old time is mischievous nonsense, with which they have fooled 
 us into slavery.' 
 
 * Oh 1 if they heard you ' 
 
 'Let them hear,' he replied sternly. *I hope, before long, w» 
 may make them hear. Christine, you can restore the old love by 
 your own example. You alone have nothing to remember and 
 nothing to unlea.-n. As for the re*t of us, we have old habits t»
 
 WHAT IS LOVE t 199 
 
 forget and prejudices to overcome before we can get back to the 
 Past.' 
 
 Then he led her to another picture. 
 
 The scene was a green village churchyard, standing amid trees — 
 yews and oaks — and round a gray old church. Six strong men 
 bore a bier piled with flowers towards an open grave, newly dug. 
 Beside the grave stood one in a white robe, carrying a book. Be- 
 hind the bier followed, hand-in-hand, a weeping company of men, 
 women, and children. But he who walked first wept not. 
 
 I Oh !' cried Christine. ' He is dead ! He is dead !' 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 1 Nay,' said Jack. * It is the wife who is dead. The husband 
 lives still. See, he follows with tottering step. His grandchild 
 leads him as you lead your grandfather. And they are all weeping 
 except him. Why does he alone not weep? He has been married 
 for fifty years and more : all his life has been shared by the love 
 and sympathy of the woman — the dead woman. She is dead, my 
 dear' — he repeated these words, taking the girl's hands — 'she is 
 dead, and he sheds no tears. Why not ? Look at his face. Is it 
 unhappy ? Tell me, Christine, do you read the sorrow of hope- 
 lessness in that old man's face ?' 
 
 1 No — no,' she said. ' He is grave, but he is not unhappy. Yet 
 here is Death, with all the terrible things that we read of in the 
 books — the deep pit, the body to be lowered in the grave — oh 1' 
 
 She Bhuddered and turned her head. 
 
 'As I read his face,' said Jack, ' I see hope and consolation.' 
 
 4 Why is there a man in white ?' 
 
 '•I will tell you sometime. Meanwhile, observe that the old man 
 is happy, though his wife is dead, and though he knows that to- 
 morrow his turn will come, and a grave will be dug for him beside 
 his wife, and he also will be laid among the cold clay-clods, as cold, 
 as senseless as them, there to lie while the great world rolls round 
 and round. He knows this, I say, and yet he is not unhappy.' 
 
 'What does it mean, Jack ?' 
 
 ' I will tell you — soon.' 
 
 1 We who are sailors,' this young man continued, ' are not like 
 the rest of the world. We are always exposed to danger : we are 
 not afraid to speak of Death : and though we have taken advan- 
 tage (in we thought) of the Great Discovery, we have never for- 
 gotten the Past or the old ideas. We have to think for ourselves, 
 which makes us independent. There is no Holy College on board 
 ship, and no sacred Physician ventures his precious Life upon a
 
 ?oo THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 rolling deck. When we come ashore, we look round and see things. 
 Then we go on board again and talk, in the night watches below 
 the stars. I think the Holy College would be pleased if the}' could 
 sometimes hear our talk. Christine, there is no happiness left in 
 the world except among those whom the Great Discovery cannot 
 save from the dangers of a storm. When you spoke to me my 
 heart leaped up, because I saw — what as yet you do not see. The 
 others were too sluggish to remember, until you had dragged 
 their thoughts into the old channels. But there was no need to 
 drag me. For I remember always, and I only pretended until the 
 others should come with me.' 
 
 Christine only heard half of this, for she was looking at the 
 picture of the village funeral again. 
 
 ' Oh ! how could men be happy with such an end before them ?' 
 she cried. ' I cannot understand it. To be torn away : to be laid 
 in a box : to be put away deep under ground, there to lie for ever 
 — oh !' She trembled again. ' And not to be unhappy !' 
 
 'Look round the room, Christine. Read the faces. Here are 
 portraits of men and women. Some of them are eager : some are 
 calm : none are unhappy for thinking of the end. Here is a 
 battlefield. The dead and wounded are lying about the ground : 
 look at this troop of horsemen charging. Is there any terror in 
 their faces ? What do they care about the men who have fallen ? 
 Their duty is to fight. See here again. It is a dying girl. What 
 do you read in her face ? I see no fear, but a sweet joy of resig- 
 nation. Here is a man led forth to execution. There is no fear 
 in his face.' 
 
 'I could never bear to be alone in this room, because Death is 
 everywhere, and no one seems to regard it.' 
 
 1 Christine, did you never hear, by any chance, from your grand- 
 father, why people were not afraid ?' 
 
 ' No ; he cannot bear to speak of such a thing. He trembles 
 and shakes if it is even mentioned. They all do, except you.' 
 
 ' What does he tell you ?' 
 
 ' He talks of the time when he was young. It was long before 
 the Great Discovery. Oh ! he is very old. He was always going 
 to feasts and dances. He had a great many friends, and some of 
 them used to sing and dance in theatres. They were all very fond 
 of suppers after the theatre, and there was a great deal of singing 
 and laughing. They used to drive about in carriages, and they 
 went to races. I do not understand, very well, the pleasure of his 
 life.'
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 201 
 
 'Ah!' said Jack, ' he has forgotten the really important part 
 of it.' 
 
 They were at a part of the gallery where there was a door of 
 strong oak, studded with big square nails, under an arch of carved 
 stone. 
 
 ' Have you ever been into this place ?' he asked. 
 
 'Once I went in. But there is a dreadful tomb in it, with 
 carved skulls and the figure of a dead man. So I ran away.' 
 
 1 Come in with me. You shall not be frightened.' 
 
 He turned the great iron handle, and pushed open the heavy 
 door. 
 
 The room was lofty, with a pointed roof : it was lit by long 
 narrow windows, filled with painted glass. There were seats of 
 carved wood, with carved canopies on either side : there was the 
 figure of a brass eagle, with a great book upon it : and under the 
 three lights of the window at the end was a table covered with a 
 cloth which hung in rags and tatters, and was covered with dust. 
 It was, in fact, an ancient Chapel, shut up and suffered to fall 
 into decay. 
 
 ' This,' said the young man, ' is the Chapel where, in the old 
 time, they came to worship. They also worshipped in the great 
 place that is now the House of Life. But here some of them 
 worshipped also, though with less splendour.' 
 
 1 Did they,' asked the girl, ' worship the Beautiful "Woman of 
 their dreams ?' 
 
 'No; not the Beautiful Woman. They worshipped her, outside. 
 
 In this Chapel they worshipped the Maker of Perfect Man and 
 
 Perfect Woman. Come in with me, and I will tell you something 
 
 of what it meant.' 
 
 # # * * * 
 
 It was two hours and more before they came out of the Chapel. 
 The girl's eyes were full of tears, and tears lay upon his cheeks. 
 
 ' My dear — my love,' said Jack, ' I have tried to show you how 
 the old true love was nourished and sustained. It would not have 
 lived but for the short duration of its life : it was the heritage of 
 each generation, to be passed on unto the next. Only on one con- 
 dition was it possible. It is a condition which you have been 
 taught to believe horrible beyond the power of words. I have 
 tried to show you that it was not horrible : my love — my sweet 
 — fresh as the maidens who in the old time blossomed and 
 flowered, and presently — fulfilled that condition — the only woman 
 among us who is young in heart — let us agree to love — we two—
 
 202 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 after the old fashion, under the old conditions. Do not shiver, 
 dear. There is the old faith to sustain us. You shall go to sea 
 with me. Perhaps we shall be cast away and drowned : perhaps 
 we shall contract some unknown disease and die. We shall pre- 
 sently lie down to sleep, and awake again in each other's arms once 
 more, in a new life which we cannot now comprehend, Every- 
 thing must have an end. Human life must have an end, or it 
 becomes horrible, monstrous, selfish. The life beyond will be 
 glorified beyond all our hopes and beyond all our imagination. My 
 dear, are you afraid ?' 
 
 She laid her head upon his shoulder. 
 
 1 Oh ! Jack, with you I am afraid of nothing. I should not be 
 afraid to die this very moment, if we died together. Is it really 
 true ? Can we love now as men loved women long ago ? Oh I 
 can you love me so ? I am so weak and small a creature — so weak 
 and foolish. I would die with you, Jack — both together, taking 
 each other by the hand : and oh ! if you were to die first, I could 
 not live after. I must then die too. My head is swimming — my 
 heart is beating— lay your arm about me. Oh ! love, my love — 
 I have never lived before. Oh ! welcome Life — and welcome 
 Death, so that we may never — never more be parted !' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 It was in this way that the whole trouble began. There was an 
 inquisitive girl foolishly allowed to grow up in this ancient Museum 
 and among the old books, who developed a morbid curiosity for the 
 Past, of which the books and pictures and collections taught her 
 something ; yet, not all she wished to learn. She was uncon- 
 sciously aided by the old man, who had been approaching hig 
 Becond childhood even at the time of the Great Discovery, and 
 whose memory now continually carried him backwards to the days 
 of his youth, without the least recollection of the great intervals 
 between. Lastly, there had come to the town, in the pursuit of 
 his business, a sailor, restless and discontented, as is the case with 
 all his class ; questioning and independent ; impatient of authority, 
 and curiously unable to forget the old times. The sailor and the 
 girl, between them, at first instigated and pushed on the whole 
 business : they were joined, no doubt, by many others ; but these
 
 THE OPEN DOOR. 203 
 
 two were the first leaders. The Chief Culprit of all — the nominal 
 Leader — but you shall presently hear what kind of excuse could be 
 made for him by himself. As for those whom they dragged re- 
 luctantly out of the tranquillity of oblivion, they were at first 
 wholly drawn from the class which, at the outset, gave us so much 
 trouble— the so-called gentle class — who desired nothing so much 
 as to continue to live under the old conditions ; namely, by the 
 labour of others. It wanted, for these people, only the revival of 
 memory to produce the revival of discontent. When their minds 
 were once more filled with the thought of the things they had lost 
 — the leadership, the land, the wealth ; and with the memory of 
 the arts which they had formerly loved — music, painting, letters ; 
 and with the actual sight, once more restored to them, of their old 
 amusements — their dancing, their society, their singing, their 
 games : and when the foolish old idol — Love — was once more 
 trotted out, like an old-fashioned Guy Fawkes, decked in his silly 
 old rainbow tints : when, night after night, they actually began to 
 play, act, and to pretend these things — what could possibly follow 
 but revolt, with subsequent punishment and expulsion ? You 
 shall hear. Of course they would have been punished with expul- 
 sion, had not — but everything in its place. 
 
 Five or six weeks after the first evening, which I have described 
 at full length, the Museum was again occupied by the same com- 
 pany, increased by a good many more. The women came in more 
 readily, being sooner caught with the bait of fine dress, which had 
 such an attraction for them that the mere sight of it caused them 
 to forget everything that had been done for them — their present 
 tranquillity, their freedom from agitation and anxiety — and carried 
 them back to the old time, when they wore, indeed, those dainty 
 dresses. What they endured, besides, they do not so readily 
 remember. But the dresses carried back their minds to the society 
 which once filled up the whole worthless lives of these poor 
 creatures. I say, therefore, that it was easier to attract the 
 women than the men. For the latter, no bait at all corresponding 
 in power could be discovered. The company assembled were 
 engaged in much the same sort of make-believe and play-acting as 
 on the first evening. They were dressed in the old fashion : they 
 danced, they sang, they talked and laughed — actually they talked 
 and laughed — though what there is, from any view of life, to laugh 
 about, I never could understand. Laughing, however, belonged to 
 the old manners, and they had now completely recovered the old 
 manners : anything, however foolish, which belonged to that tim«
 
 304 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 would have been welcomed by them. So they laughed : for the 
 (same reason, tbey were full of animation ; and the old, old, un- 
 happy emotion which I had thought blotted out for ever — restless- 
 ness — had either broken out among them or was well simulated. 
 They were all young, save for the old man who sat in his chair 
 coughing, and sometimes talking. Christine had dressed him in a 
 velvet coat, which gave him great dignity, and made him look as if 
 he was taking part in the play. I say not that the acting was not 
 very good — of the kind. Acting of any kind could never have 
 served any Hseful purpose, even in the Past. Perhaps a company 
 of beautiful women, beautifully dressed, and of gallant men — I 
 talk their own foolish language — amusing themselves in this way 
 may have given pleasure to some, but not to those among whom I 
 was born. In the days when these things were done every night at 
 one part of the town, in another part the men were drinking, if 
 they had any money, and the women and children were starving. 
 And much they concerned themselves about dancing and laughing ! 
 Laughing, indeed ! My part of the town was where they starved. 
 There was mighty little laughing among us, I can promise 
 you. 
 
 In their masquerading they had naturally, as if it was a part of 
 the life they represented, assumed, as I have said, the old expres- 
 sion of eagerness, as if there was always something wanting. And 
 yet, I say, they laughed with each other. In the unreasonable, 
 illogical way of the Past, although everybody always wanted every- 
 thing for himself, and tried to overreach his neighbour, it was the 
 custom to pretend that nobody wanted anything ; but that every- 
 body trusted his friend, and that everybody lived for the sole pur- 
 pose of helping other people. Therefore, they shook hands con- 
 tinually, and grinned at each other when they met, as if they were 
 pleased to meet and . . . "Well, the hypocrisies of the Past were 
 as ridiculous as its selfishness was base. 
 
 But three of the party sat apart in the Picture Gallery. They 
 were Christine and the two cousins, Mildred and Jack Carera. 
 They were talking seriously and gravely. 
 
 'It comes then,' said Jack, 'to this : that to all of us the 
 Present has grown to be utterly hateful, and to one or two of ua 
 intolerable.' 
 
 ' Intolerable !' the other two repeated. 
 
 ' We are resolved, for our own selves at least, that we will have 
 no more of it, if we can help it. Are we not ? But, Cousin 
 Mildred, let us remember that we are only three. Perhaps, among
 
 THE OPEN DOOR. 205 
 
 our friends in the Museum, there may he half a dozen more 'who 
 have learned to feel as strongly as ourselves. Is half a dozen a 
 Party large enough to effect a Revolution? Remember, it is use- 
 less to think of remonstrance or petition with the College. No- 
 King, Council, or Parliament in the Past was ever half so auto- 
 cratic as the Collrg3 of Physicians. 
 
 ' I used to read,' he went on, • ages ago, about the Domination of 
 Priests. I don't think any Rule of Priests was ever half so in- 
 tolerant or so thorough as the Rule of the Physicians. They have 
 not only deprived us of the Right of Thought, but also of the 
 Power of Thought. The poor people cannot think. It is a truly 
 desperate state of things. A few years more and we, too, shall 
 sink into the same awful slough ' 
 
 ' Some of us were in it already, but Christine pulled us out,' said 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' Shall we ever get another chance of getting out ?' Jack asked. 
 'I think cot.' 
 
 1 Well, Jack, go on.' 
 
 'As for these evening meetings of ours, you may be very sure 
 that they will be found out before long, and that they will be 
 stopped. Do you think that Grout — Grout ! — will suffer his 
 beloved invention of the common dress to be trampled on ? Do 
 you imagine that Grout will suffer the revival of the old forms of 
 society ?' 
 
 ' Oh !' Christine replied. ' If we could convert Dr. Grout !' 
 
 'Another danger,' said Jack, 'is, that we may all get tired of 
 these meetings. Tou see, they are not the real thing. Formerly, 
 the evening followed the day : it was the feast after the fight. 
 "Where is now the fight ? And all the dancing, courting, pretty 
 speeches, and tender looks, meant only the fore-words of Love in 
 earnest. Now, are we ready again for Love in earnest ? Can the 
 men once more worship the women upon whom they have gazed so 
 long unmoved ? If so, we must brave the College and face the 
 consequences. I know of two people only who are at present so 
 much in earnest as to brave the College. They are Christine and 
 myself.' 
 
 He took the girl's hand and kissed it. 
 
 ' You may add one more, Jack,' said Mildred. ' If you go away 
 with Christine, take me with you. For the Present is more in- 
 tolerable than any possible Future.' 
 
 ' That makes three, then. There may be more. Geoffrey and 
 Dorothy are never tired of whispering and billing. Perhaps they,
 
 2o6 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 too, are strong enough to throw off the old terrors and to join Wk 
 But we shall see.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Mildred, ' it might depend partly on how the case 
 is put before them. If you made them see very clearly the 
 miseries of their present life, and made them yearn ardently for 
 the things which thay have only just remembered, some of them 
 might follow, at all costs. But for most, the College and what it 
 holds would prove too much.' 
 
 ' Yet you yourself — and Christine ' 
 
 ' As for me, it seems as if I remember more than anybody 
 because I think of the sorrows of the Past. I cannot tell now how 
 I ever came to forget those sorrows. And they are now grown so 
 dear to me, that for the very fear of losing them again, I would 
 give up the Gift of the College and go with you. As for Chris- 
 tine, she has never known at all the dread which they now pre- 
 tend used to fill all our minds and poisoned all our lives. How, 
 then, should she hesitate ? Besides, she loves you, Jack — and that 
 is enough.' 
 
 ' Quite enough,' said Christine, smiling. 
 
 'If you remember everything,' Jack went on gravely, 'you 
 remember, Mildred, that there was something in life besides play 
 and society. In a corner of your father's park, for instance, there 
 was an old gray building, with a small tower and a peal of bells. 
 The place stood in a square enclosure, in which were an old broken 
 cross, an ancient yew-tree, two or three head-stones, and the graves 
 of buried villagers. You remember that place, Mildred ? You 
 and I have often played in that ground : in week-days we have 
 prowled about the old building and read the monuments on the 
 walls ; on Sundays we used to sit there with all the people. Do 
 you remember ?' 
 
 Mildred clasped her hands. 
 
 'How could I ever forget ?' she cried. 'How could any of us 
 forget ?' 
 
 « Because Grout robbed you of your memory, my cousin. He 
 could not rob mine.' 
 
 'Alas!' she lamented, 'how can we ever get that back 
 again?' 
 
 ' By memory, Mildred. It will come back presently. Think of 
 that, and you will be less afraid to come with us. If that was 
 able to comfort the world formerly when the world was full of life 
 and joy and needed so little comfort, what should it not do for you 
 now, when the world is so dull and dismal, and the Awful Present
 
 THE OPEN DOOR. 207 
 
 is so long that it seems never to have had a beginning, just as it 
 promises never to have an end. Courage, Cousin Mildred.' 
 
 'And now,' he went on, after a pause, ' for my plan. My ship is 
 bound for any port to which the College may despatch her. She 
 must sail in about four or five weeks. I shall take you both on 
 board. Christine will be my wife — you shall be our companion. 
 Perhaps one or two more may go with us. We shall take certain 
 things that we shall want. I can procure all these without the 
 least suspicion, and we shall sail to an island of which I know, 
 where the air is always warm and the soil is fruitful. There the 
 sailors shall land us and shall sail away, unless they please to join 
 us. And there we will live out our allotted lives, without asking 
 anything of the College. The revival of that lost part of your 
 memory, Mildred, will serve you in place of what they could have 
 given you. You agree? Well, that is settled then. Let us go back.' 
 
 But, as you shall see, this plan was never carried out. 
 
 When all went away that evening, Mildred remained behind. 
 
 \ Christine,' she said, ' I have something to tell you. Take me 
 somewhere — to some dark place — where we can whisper.' 
 
 One might as well have talked at the top of his voice, just where 
 they were, for any chance of being heard. But guilt made the 
 woman tremble. 
 
 1 Come into the Picture Gallery,' said Christine, leading the way. 
 1 No one can hear what we say there. My dear, in the old days 
 when people were going to conspire they always began by going to 
 dark galleries, vaults, and secret places. This is quite delightful. 
 I feel like a conspirator.' 
 
 ' Don't laugh at me, dear,' said Mildred ; ' for indeed when you 
 have heard what I have to say, you will feel very much more like 
 a conspirator.' 
 
 The room was in darkness, but for the moonlight which poured 
 in through the windows of one side, and made queer work with the 
 pictures on which it fell. At the end the moonlight shone through 
 the door, hardly ever used, which led from the gallery into the 
 Garden of the College beyond. 
 
 « What is that ?' 
 
 Mildred caught Christine by the hand. 
 
 'Itis the door leadinginto the College Gardens. How came it open?' 
 
 1 Have you a key ?' 
 
 'I suppose there is a key on the old rusty bunch hanging up in 
 the Museum, but I do not know— I have never tried the keys. 
 Who could have opened it ?'
 
 2 o8 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 Christine walked down the gallery hastily, Mildred following. 
 The door was standing wide open. 
 
 ' Who has done this ?' asked Christine again. I cannot tell 
 who could have opened the door, or why. It has never been 
 opened before.' 
 
 Mildred shuddered. 
 
 •It is thrown open for some mischief,' she said: 'we shall find 
 out soon enough by whom.' 
 
 Then they looked out through the door into the Garden of the 
 College. The door faced a semicircular lawn run wild with rank 
 grass never shorn : behind the lawn were trees : and the moonlight 
 lay on all. 
 
 Suddenly the girls caught hands and shrank back into the door- 
 way. For a tall form emerged from the trees and appeared upon 
 the lawn, where he walked with hanging head and hands clasped 
 behind his back. 
 
 ' It is the Arch Physician !' Christine whispered. 
 
 'It is Harry Linister,' Mildred murmured. 
 
 Then they retreated within and shut the door noiselessly. But 
 they could not lock or fasten it. 
 
 ' I can see that part of the Garden from a window in the Library/ 
 said Christine. ' He walks there every morning and every evening. 
 He is always alone. He always hangs his head, and he always looks 
 fit to cry for trouble. What is the good of being Arch Physician 
 if you cannot have things done as you want ?' 
 
 1 My dear,' said Mildred, ' I am afraid you do not quite under- 
 stand. In the old days — I mean not quite the dear old days, but 
 in the time when people still discussed things and we had not been 
 robbed of memory and of understanding — it was very well known 
 that the Arch Physician was outvoted in the College by Grout and 
 his Party.' 
 
 ' By Dr. Grout ?' 
 
 'My dear, Grout was never a Doctor. He only caMs himself 
 Doctor. I remember when Grout was an ignorant man taken into 
 Professor Linister 's Laboratory to wash up the pots and bottles. 
 He was thin, just as he is now — a short, dark, and sour-faced man, 
 with bright eyes. Oh ! a clever man, I dare say. But ignorant, 
 and full of hatred for the class of culture and refinement. It was 
 Grout who led the Party which took away land and wealth from 
 individuals and transferred all to the State. It was Grout who 
 ordered the massacre of the Old. It was Grout who invented 
 the horrible cruelty of the Common Dress. It was Grout who
 
 THE OPEN DOOR. 209 
 
 made the College what it is — not what it was meant to be. It 
 was originally the Guardian of Life and Health. It has become 
 the Tyrant of the People. It has destroyed everything — everything 
 that makes life possible — and it tells the People to be happy be- 
 cause they live. It is Grout — Grout ! — who has done this. Not 
 the Arch Physician. Not Harry Linister.' 
 
 ' Why do you say " Harry Linister," Mildred ?' 
 
 ' My dear, I think that of all women living I have the greatest 
 cause to hate the Great Discovery, because it robbed me of my 
 lover.' 
 
 ' Tell me how, dear.' 
 
 ' I told you, Christine, that the revival of the Past was the re- 
 vival of sorrows that I would never again forget. Listen, then, 
 and I will tell you what they were. When the Great Discovery 
 was announced, Harry Linister was already a man well known in 
 Science, Christine ; but he was also well known in Society as well. 
 Science did not prevent him from falling in love. And he fell in 
 love with — me. Yes — with me. We met that fatal evening at the 
 Royal Institution, and we arranged, before the Lecture, where we 
 should meet after the Lecture. My dear, I knew very well what 
 he was going to say ; and — oh, my poor heart ! — how happy I was 
 to think of it ! There was nobody in London more clever, more 
 handsome, and more promising than Harry. He was rich, if that 
 mattered anything to me : he was already a Fellow of the Royal 
 Society, for some great discoveries he had made : everybody 
 said that a splendid career was before him — and he loved me, 
 Christine.' 
 
 ' Well ?' 
 
 1 Well : the news of the Great Discovery carried him out of him- 
 self. He forgot his love — and me — and everything. When his 
 eyes fell upon me again, I know not how long after, I was in the 
 hideous Common Dress, and he no more recognised me than a 
 stranger would recognise one out of a herd of sheep.' 
 
 ' How could he forget ? Do you think that Jack could ever for- 
 get me ?' 
 
 ' I am sure he will not, at any rate. Now, Christine, I am going 
 to try something serious. I am going to try to convert the Arch 
 Physician himself !' 
 
 1 Mildred !' 
 
 1 Why not ? He is still a man, I suppose. Nobody ever thought 
 that Grout was a man. But Harry Linister was once a man, and 
 should be still. And if he have a memory as well as eyes, why — 
 
 14
 
 210 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 then . . .' she sighed. 'But that would be too much, indeed, to 
 hope.' 
 
 'What if you win him, Mildred ?' 
 
 ' Why, child, he used to love me. Is not that enough ? Besides, 
 he Jcnoios the Great Secret. If we have him with us, we have also 
 with us all the people whom we can shake, push, or prick out of 
 their present miserable apathy. Why did we ever agree to the 
 stupid work day by day ? We began by fighting for the wealth, 
 and those who survived enjoyed it. Why did we not go on fight 
 ing ? Why did we consent to wear this hideous dress V Why did 
 we consent to be robbed of our intelligence, and to be reduced to 
 the condition of sheep ? All because the College had the Great 
 Secret, and they made the People think that to forego that one 
 advantage was worse than all other evils that could happen to 
 them. It was Grout — the villainy of Grout — that did it. Now, if 
 we can by any persuasion draw the Arch Physician over to our- 
 selves, we win the cause for all those who join us, because they will 
 lose nothing.' 
 
 ' How will you win him, Mildred ?' 
 
 ' Child, you are young : you do not know the history of Dalilah ; 
 of the Sirens ; of Circe ; of Cleopatra ; of Yivien ; of a thousand 
 Fair Ladies who have witched away the senses of great men, so 
 that they have become as wax in the hands of their conquerors. 
 Poor Harry ! His heart was not always as hard as stone : nor was- 
 it always as heavy as lead. I would witch him, if I could, for his 
 own happiness — poor lad ! — and for mine as well. Let him only 
 come with us, bringing the precious Secret, and we are safe !' 
 
 It has been observed that many hard things were said concerning 
 me — Grout — and that I have, nevertheless, written them down. 
 First, the things are all true, and I rejoice to think of the part that 
 I have always played in the conduct of the People since the Great 
 Discovery enabled me to obtain a share in that conduct. Next, it 
 may be asked how I became possessed of this information. That 
 you shall presently understand. 
 
 All that I have done in my public capacity — as for private life, I 
 never had any, except that one goes into a private room for sleep 
 — has been for the Advancement of Humanity. In order to effect 
 this advance with the greater ease, I found it necessary to get rid 
 of useless hands— therefore the Old were sacrificed: to adopt one 
 common standard in everything ; so that there should be the same 
 hours of w r ork for all ; the same food both in quantity and quality ;
 
 THE ARCH PHYSICIAN. 211 
 
 the same dress ; and the same housing. As by far the greater 
 number belong to what were formerly known as the lower classes, 
 everything has been a gain for them. Xow, a gain for the majority 
 is a gain for Humanity. As for the abolition of disturbing emo- 
 tions, such as Love, Jealousy, Ambition, Study, Learning, and the 
 like, the loss of them is, of course, pure gain. In short, I willingly 
 set down all that may be or has been said against myself, being 
 quite satisfied to let the truth speak for itself. I have now to tell 
 of the Daring Attempt made upon the Fidelity of the Chief — the 
 Arch Physician Himself. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ARCH PHYSICIAN. 
 
 The Arch Physician generally walked in the College Gardens for 
 an hour or so every forenoon. They are very large and spacious 
 Gardens, including plantations of trees, orchards, ferneries, lawns, 
 flower-beds, and shrubberies. In one corner is a certain portion 
 which, having been left entirely alone by the gardeners, has long 
 since become like a tangled coppice, rather than a garden, covered 
 with oaks and elms and all kinds of trees, and overgrown with thick 
 underwoods. It was in this wild and secluded part that Dr. Linister 
 daily walked. It lay conveniently at the back of his own residence, 
 and adjoining the Museum and Picture Gallery. No one came here 
 except himself, and but for the beaten path which his footsteps had 
 made in their daily walk, the place would have become entirely 
 overgrown. As it was, there were thick growths of holly and of 
 yew : tall hawthorn trees,wild roses spreading about among brambles : 
 ferns grew tall in the shade, and under the great trees there was a 
 deep shadow even on the brightest day. In this neglected wood 
 ihere were creatures of all kinds — rabbits, squirrels, snakes, moles, 
 badgers, weasels, and stoats. There were also birds of all kinds in 
 the wood, and in the stream that ran through the place there were 
 otters. In this solitary place Dr. Linister walked every day and 
 meditated. The wildness and the solitude pleased and soothed him. 
 I have already explained that he had always, from the outset, been 
 most strongly opposed to the policy of the majority, and that he 
 was never free from a certain melancholy. Perhaps he meditated 
 on the world as he would have made it, had he been able to have 
 his own way. 
 
 14—2
 
 3i2 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 I have beard that much was said among the Rebels about my 
 eonduct during these events, as wanting in Gratitude. In the first 
 place, if it is at all necessary for me to defend my conduct, let me 
 point out that my duty to the Authority of the House must come 
 before everything — certainly before the claims of private gratitude. 
 In the second place, I owe no gratitude at all to Dr. Linister, or to 
 anybody. I have made myself. "Whatever I have done, alone I 
 have cone it, and unaided. Dr. Linister, it is very true, received 
 me into his laboratory as bottle-washer and servant. Very good. 
 He paid me my wages, and I did his work for him. Much room 
 for gratitude there. He looked for the proper discharge of the 
 work, and I looked for the regular payment of the wages. "Where 
 does the gratitude come in? He next taught me the elements of 
 the science. To be sure : he wanted the simpler part of his experi- 
 ments conducted by a skilled, not an ignorant, hand. Therefore, 
 he taught me those elements. The better skilled the hand, the 
 more he could depend upon the successful coudnct of his research. 
 Therefore, when he found that he could depend upon my eye and 
 band, he taught me more, and encouraged me to work on my own 
 account, and gave me the best books to read. Very good. All for 
 bis own purposes. 
 
 "What happened next ? Presently, Grout the Bottle-washer be- 
 came so important in the laboratory that he became Grout the 
 Assistant, or Demonstrator ; and another Bottle-washer was ap- 
 pointed — a worthy creature who still performs that useful Function, 
 and desires nothing more than to wash tho bottles truly and 
 thoroughly. Next, Grout became known outside the laboratory : 
 many interesting and important discoveries were made by Grout ; 
 then Grout became too big a man to be any longer Dr. Linister's 
 Assistant : he had his own laboratory ; Grout entered upon his 
 own field of research. This was a practical field, and one in 
 which he quickly surpassed all others. 
 
 Remember that Dr. Linister never claimed, or looked for, grati- 
 tude. He was much too wise a man. On all occasions when it 
 was becoming in him, he spoke in the highest terms of his former 
 Assistant's scientific achievements. 
 
 There was, in fact, no question of Gratitude at all. 
 
 As for personal friendship, the association of years, the bond of 
 Onion, or work in common — these are mere phrases, the worn-out 
 eld phrases of the vanished Past. Besides, there never was any 
 personal friendship. Quite the contrary. Di. Linister was never 
 able to forget that in the old time I bad been the servant and he
 
 THE A RCH PII Y SIC I A N. 213 
 
 the master. Where equality has been so long established, the 
 continual reminder of former inequality is galling. 
 
 Dr. Linister, indeed, was always antipathetic from the beginning. 
 Except over a research, we could have nothing in common. In the 
 old days he was what they called a gentleman ; he was also a scholars- 
 he used to play music, and write verses : he would act and dance 
 and sing, and do all kinds of things ; he was one of those men 
 who always wanted to do everything that other men can do, and to 
 do it as well as other men could do it. So that, though he was a 
 great scientific worker, he spent half his day at his club, or at his 
 sports, or in Society ; that is to say, with the women — and mostly, 
 I think, among the games and amusements of the women. There 
 was every day, I remember, a great running to and fro of page-bo} s 
 with notes from them ; and he was always ready to leave any, even 
 the most important work, just to run after a woman's caprice. 
 
 As for me, I never had any school education at all : I never had 
 anything to do with Society : the sight of a woman always filled 
 me with contempt for the man who could waste time in running 
 after a creature who knew no science, never cared for any, and was 
 so wont to disfigure her natural figure by the way she crowded on 
 her misshapen clothes that no one could guess what it was like be- 
 neath them. As for music, art, and the rest of it, I never asked so 
 much as what they meant. After I began to make my way, I had 
 the laboratory for work, play, and all. 
 
 When, again, it came to the time when the Property question 
 became acute, and we attempted to solve it by a Civil War, although 
 Dr. Linister adhered to his determination not to leave his labora- 
 tory, his sympathies were always with individualism. Nay, he 
 never disguised his opinion, but was accustomed regularly to set it 
 forth at our Council meetings in the House of Life — that the 
 abolition of property and the establishment of the perfect Socialism 
 were the greatest blows ever inflicted upon civilization. It is not, 
 however, civilization which the College advances, but Science — 
 which is a very different thing— and the Scientific End of Humanity. 
 The gradual extinction of all the emotions — love, jealousy, ambi- 
 tion, rivalry — Dr. Linister maintained, made life so poor a thing 
 that painless extinction would be the very best thing possible for 
 the whole race. It is useless to point out, to one so prejudiced, the 
 enormous advantage gained in securing constant tranquillity of 
 mind. He was even, sometimes, an advocate for the revival of 
 fighting — fighting, the old barbarous way of settling disputes, in 
 ■which lives were thrown away by thousands on a single field. Nor
 
 2i4 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 would he ever agree with the majority of the House that the only 
 End of Humanity is mere existence, at which Science should 
 always aim, prolonged without exertion, thought, care, or emotion 
 of any kind. 
 
 In fact, according to the contention of my followers and myself, 
 the Triumph of Science is as follows : The Philosopher finds a 
 creature, extremely short-lived at the best, liable to every kind of 
 disease and suffering from external causes, torn to pieces from 
 within by all kinds of conflicting emotions ; a creature most eager 
 and insatiate of appetite, fiery and impetuous, quarrelsome and 
 murderous, most difficult to drive or lead, guided only by its own 
 selfish desires, tormented by intellectual doubts and questions which 
 can never be answered. The Philosopher works upon this creature 
 until he has moulded it into another so different, that no one would 
 perceive any likeness to the original creature. The new creature is 
 immortal ; it is free from disease or the possibility of disease ; it 
 has no emotions, no desires, and no intellectual restlessness. It 
 breathes, eats, sleeps. 
 
 Such is my idea of Science Triumphant. It was never Dr. 
 Linister's. 
 
 In manners, the Arch Physician preserved the old manners of 
 courtesy and deference which were the fashion when he was brought 
 up. His special work had been for many years the study of the 
 so-called incurable diseases, such as asthma, gout, rheumatism, and 
 so forth. For my own part, my mind, since I became Suffragan, 
 has always been occupied with Administration, having steadily in 
 view the Triumph of Science. I have, with this intention, made 
 the Social Equality real and complete from every point : I have 
 also endeavoured to simplify labour, to enlarge the production and 
 the distribution of food by mechanical means, and thus to decrease 
 the necessity for thought, contrivance, and the exercise of ingenuity. 
 Most of our work is so subdivided that no one understands more 
 than the little part of it which occupies him for four hours every 
 day. "Workmen who know the whole process are impossible. They 
 ask ; they inquire ; they want to improve : when their daily task 
 is but a bit of mechanical drudgery, they do it without thought 
 and they come away. Since labour is necessary, let it be as me- 
 chanical as possible, so that the head may not be in the least con- 
 cerned with the work of the hand. In this — my view of things — 
 the Arch Physician could never be brought to acquiesce. Had he 
 been able to have his own way, the whole of my magnificent 
 Bcheme would have been long ago destroyed and rendered iinpos-
 
 THE ARCH PHYSICIAN. 215 
 
 eible. I suppose it was this impossibility of having his own way 
 which afflicted him with so profound a melancholy. His face was 
 always sad, because he could never reconcile himself to the doctrine 
 of human equality, without which the Perfection of Man is im- 
 possible. 
 
 It will be seen, in short, that the Arch Physician and myselt 
 held hardly a single view in common. But he had been elected to 
 his post, and I to mine. We shared between us the Great Secret : 
 and if my views prevailed in our Council, it was due either to my 
 own power of impressing my views upon my colleagues, or to the 
 truth and justice of those views. 
 
 But as to gratitude, there was no room or cause for any. 
 
 As, then, Dr. Linister walked to and fro upon the open space 
 outside the Picture Gallery, his hands behind him, his head hang- 
 ing, and his thought I know not where, he became conscious of 
 something that was out of the usual order. When one lives as we 
 live, one day following another, each like the one which went be- 
 fore, little departures from the accustomed order disturb the mind. 
 For many, many years the Doctor had not given a thought to the 
 Picture Gallery or to the door. Yet, because it stood open, and he 
 had been accustomed to see it closed, he was disturbed, and pre- 
 sently lifted his head and discovered the cause. 
 
 The door stood open. Why ? What was the door ? Then he 
 remembered what it was, and whither it led. It opened into the 
 ancient Picture Gallery, the very existence of which he had for- 
 gotten, though every day he saw the door and the building itself. 
 The Picture Gallery ! It was full of the pictures paiuted in the 
 few years before the Great Discovery : that is to say, it was full of 
 the life which he had long ago lived — nay, he lived it still. As he 
 stood hesitating without the door, that life came back to him with 
 a strange yearning and sinking of the heart. He had never, you 
 see, ceased to regret it, nor had he ever forgotten it. And now he 
 was tempted to look upon it again. As well might a monk in the 
 old times look upon a picture of fair women years after he had 
 forsworn love. 
 
 He hesitated, his knees trembling, for merely thinking what was 
 within. Then he yielded to the temptation, and went into the 
 Gallery. 
 
 The morning sun streamed through the windows and lay upoa 
 the floor ; the motes danced in the sunshine ; the Gallery was quite 
 ■empty ; but on the walls hung, one above the other, five or six ia
 
 216 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 each row, the pictui'es of the Past. In some the pigments wera 
 faded : crimson was pale pink ; green was gray ; red was brown ; 
 but the figures were there, and the Life which he had lost one© 
 more flashed upon his brain. He saw the women whom once he 
 had loved so much ; they were lying on soft couches, gazing upon 
 him with eyes which made his heart to beat and his whole frame to 
 tremble ; they were dancing ; they were in boats, dressed in dainty 
 summer costume ; they were playing lawn-tennis ; they were in 
 drawing-rooms, on horseback, on lawns, in gardens ; they were 
 being wooed by their lovers. What more ? They were painted in 
 fancy costumes, ancient costumes, and even with no costume at all. 
 And the more he looked, the more his cheek glowed and his heart 
 beat. Where had they gone — the women of his youth ? 
 
 Suddenly, he heard the tinkling of a musical instrument. It was 
 a thing they used to call a zither. He started, as one awakened out 
 of a dream. Then he heard a voice singing. And it sang the same 
 song he had heard that night five or six weeks ago — his own song : 
 
 * The girls they laugh, the girls they cry, 
 
 " What shall their guerdon be ? — 
 
 Alas ! that some must fall and die ! — 
 
 Bring forth our gauds to see, 
 'Twere all too slight, give what we might." 
 Up spake a soldier tall, 
 "Oh ! Love is worth the whole broad earth : 
 Oh ! Love is worth the whole broad earth : 
 Give that, you give us all." ' 
 
 This time, however, it was another voice — a fuller and richer 
 voice— which sang those words. 
 
 Dr. Linister started again when the voice began. He changed 
 colour, and his cheek grew pale. 
 
 ' Heavens !' he murmured. ' Are there phantoms in the air ? 
 What does it mean ? This is the second time — my own song — the 
 foolish old song — my own air — the foolish, tinkling air that they 
 used to like ! And the voice — I remember the voice — whose voice 
 is it ? I remember the voice— whose voice is it ?' 
 
 He looked round him again, at the pictures, as if to find among 
 them the face he sought. The pictures showed all the life of the 
 Past ; the ballroom with the dancers ; the sports of the field ; the 
 drive in the afternoon, the ride in the morning ; the bevy of girls ; 
 the soldiers and the sailors ; the streets crowded with people ; the 
 vile slums and the picturesque blackguardism of the City— but nofc
 
 THE ARCH PHYSICIAN. 217 
 
 the face he -wanted. Then he left off looking for the singer, and 
 began to think of the faces before him. 
 
 'On every face,' he said, 'there is unsatisfied desire. Yet they 
 are the happier for that very dissatisfaction. Yes — they are the 
 happier.' He paused before a painted group of street children ; 
 some were playing over the gutter ; some were sitting on doorsteps, 
 carrying babies as big as themselves ; one was sucking a piece of 
 orange-peel picked up on the pavement ; one was gnawing a crust. 
 They were all ragged and half-starved. 'Yet,' said the Arch 
 Physician, ' they are happy. But we have no children now. In 
 those days they could paint and draw — and we have lost the Art. 
 Great Heavens !' he cried impatiently, ' we have lost every Art. 
 Cruel ! cruel !' Then from within there broke upon his ears a 
 strain of music. It was so long since he had heard any music, that 
 at first it took away his breath. Wonderful that a mere sound such 
 as that of music should produce such an effect upon a man of science ! 
 ' Oh !' he sighed heavily, ' we have even thrown away that ! Yet — 
 where — where does the music come from ? Who plays it ?' 
 
 While he listened, carried away by the pictures and by the music 
 and by his own thoughts to the Past, his mind full of the Past, it 
 did not surprise him in the least that there came out from the door 
 between the Gallery and the Museum — a young lady belonging 
 absolutely to the Past. There was no touch of the Present about 
 her at all. She did not wear the regulation dress ; she did not wear 
 the flat cap. 
 
 'It is,' said Dr. Linister, 'the Face that belongs to the Voice. 
 I know it now. Where did I see it last ? To whom does it 
 belong?' 
 
 She stood for a few moments in the sunshine. Behind her was 
 a great picture all crimson and purple, a mass of flaming colour, 
 before which her tall and slight figure, dressed in a delicate stuff of 
 soft creamy colour, stood clearly outlined. The front of the dress 
 — at least that part which covered the throat to the waist — was of 
 some warmer colour ; there were flowers at her left shoulder ; her 
 hair was braided tightly round her head : round her neck was a 
 ribbon with something hanging from it ; she wore brown gloves, 
 and carried a straw hat dangling in her hand. It was, perhaps, the 
 sunshine which made her eyes so bright, her cheek so glowing, her 
 rosy lips so quivering. 
 
 She stood there, looking straight down the Hall, as if she saw no 
 one. 
 
 Dr. Linister gazed and turned pale ; his cheeks were so whit©
 
 2i8 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 that yon might have thought him about to faint ; he reeled and 
 trembled. 
 
 ' Good God !' he murmured, falling back upon the interjection 
 of the Past, ' we have lost tbe Beauty of women ! Oh ! Fools ! 
 Fools ! We have thrown all away — all — and for wbat ?' 
 
 Then the girl came swiftly down the Hall towards bim. A smile 
 of welcome was on her lips ; a blush upon ber cheek : her eyes 
 looked up and dropped again, and again looked up and once more 
 dropped. 
 
 Then she stopped before him and held out both her hands. 
 
 ' Harry Linister !' she cried, as if surprised, and with a little 
 laugh, ' how long is it since last we met ?' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FIDELITY OF JOHN LAX. 
 
 That morning, while I was in my private laboratory, idly turning 
 over certain Notes on experiments conducted for the artificial 
 manufacture of food, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. 
 
 My visitor was the Porter of the House of Life, our most trusted 
 servant, John Lax. His duty it was to sleep in the House — his 
 chamber being that ancient room over the South Porch — to inspect 
 the furnaces and laboratories after the work of the day was closed, 
 and at all times to keep an eye upon the Fabric itself, so that it 
 should in no way fall out of repair. His orders were also to kill 
 any strangers who might try to force their way into the House on 
 any pretence whatever. 
 
 He was a stout, sturdy fellow, vigorous and strong, though the 
 Great Discovery had found him nearly forty years of age : his hair, 
 though his head had gone bald on the top, was still thick on the sides, 
 and gave him a terrifying appearance under his cap of scarlet and 
 gold. He carried a great halberd as a wand of office, and his coat 
 and cap matched each other for colour and for gold embroidery. 
 Save as representing the authority of the House and College, I would 
 never have allowed such a splendid appearance to anyone. 
 
 ' What have you come to tell me, John ?' I asked. 
 
 I may explain that I had always found John Lax useful in keep- 
 ing me informed as to the internal condition of the College and its 
 Assistants — what was said and debated — what opinions were ad- 
 vanced, by what men, and so forth.
 
 THE FIDELITY OF JOHN LAX. 219 
 
 'In the College itself, Suffragan,' he said, 'and in the House, 
 things are mighty dull and quiet. Blessed if a little Discontent or 
 a Mutiny, or something, wouldn't be worth having, just to shake up 
 the lot. There's not even a grumbler left. A little rising and a 
 few heads broken, and we should settle down again, quiet and con- 
 tented again.' 
 
 1 Don't talk like a fool, John.' 
 
 1 Well, Suffragan, you like to hear all that goes on. I wonder 
 what you'll say to what I'm going to tell you now ?' 
 1 Go on, John. What is it ?' 
 
 • It's irregular, Suffragan ; but your Honour is above the Law ; 
 and, before beginning a long story — mind you, a most important 
 
 story it is ' 
 
 1 What is it about ? Who's in it ?' 
 
 4 Lots of the People are in it. They don't count. He's in it, 
 now — come.' 
 'He?' 
 
 John Lax had pointed over his shoulder so clearly in the direc- 
 tion of the Arch Physician's residence, that I could not but under- 
 stand. Yet I pretended. 
 ' He, John ? Who is he ?' 
 
 'The Arch Physician is in it. There! Now, Suffragan, bring 
 out that bottle and a glass, and I can then tell you the story, with- 
 out fear of ill consequences to my throat, that was once delicate.' 
 
 I gave him the bottle and a glass, and, after drinking a tumbler- 
 ful of whisky (forbidden to the People) he began. 
 
 Certain reasons, he said, had made him suspicious as to what 
 went on at night in the Museum during the last few weeks. The 
 lights were up until late at night. Once he tried the doors, and 
 found that they were locked. He heard the playing of music 
 within, and the sound of many voices. 
 
 Now there is, as I told John Lax at this point, no law against 
 the assemblage of the People, nor against their sitting up, or sing- 
 ing and playing together. I had, to be sure, hoped that they had 
 long ceased to desire to meet together, and had quite forgotten how 
 to make music. 
 
 He remembered, John Lax went on to say, that there was a door 
 leading into the Picture Gallery from the College Garden— a door 
 of which he held the key. 
 
 He opened this door quietly, and then, night after night, he crept 
 into the Picture Gallery, and watched what went on through the 
 door which opened upon the Museum. He had found, in fact, a
 
 220 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 place close by the door, where, hidden behind a group of statuary, 
 he could watch and listen in almost perfect security. 
 
 I then heard, to my amazement, how a small company of the 
 People were every night carrying on a revival of the Past ; not 
 with the laudable intention of disgusting themselves with the 
 horrors of that time, but exactly the contrary. It was only the 
 pleasant side of that time — the evening life of the rich and careless 
 — which these foolish persons reproduced. 
 
 They had, in fact, gone so far, John Lax told me, as to fall in 
 love with that time, to deride the Present, and to pour abuse upon 
 my name — mine — as the supposed chief author of the Sodal 
 Equality. This was very well for a beginning. This was a start- 
 ling awakener out of a Fools' Paradise. True, the company was 
 small ; they might be easily dispersed or isolated ; means might be 
 found to terrify them into submission. Yet it gave me a rude 
 shock. 
 
 'I've had my suspicions,' John Lax continued, 'ever since one 
 morning when I looked into the Museum and see that young gai 
 dressed up and carrying on before the looking-glass, more like — - 
 well, more like an actress at the Pav, as they used to make 'em, 
 than like a decent woman. But now there's more.' He stopped, 
 and whispered hoarsely : ' Suffragan, I've just come from a little 
 turn about the Garden. Outside the Picture Gallery, where there's 
 a bit o' turf and a lot of trees all standin' around, there's a very 
 curious sight to see this minute ; and if you'll get up and go along 
 o' me, Suffragan, you'll be pleased — you will, indeed — astonished 
 and pleased you will be.' 
 
 I obeyed. I arose and followed this zealous servant. He led 
 me to a part of the Garden which I did not know ; it was the place 
 of which I have spoken. Here, amid a great thick growth of under- 
 woods, he took me into the ruins of an old garden or tool-house, 
 built of wood ; but the planks were decaying and were starting 
 apart. 
 
 ' Stand there, and look and listen,' whispered John Lax, grinning. 
 
 The open planks commanded a view of a semicircular lawn, 
 where the neglected grass had grown thick and rank. Almost 
 under my eyes there was sitting upon a fallen trunk a woman, 
 fantastically dressed — against the Rules — and at her feet lay none 
 other than the Arch Physician himself ! Then, indeed, I pricked 
 up my ears and listened with all my might. 
 
 'Are we dreaming, Mildred ?' he murmured — 'are we dreaming T 
 
 'Iso, Harry ; we have all been dreaming for a long, long time —
 
 THE FIDELITY OF JOHN LAX. 221 
 
 jaever mind how long. Just now we are not dreaming ; we are 
 truly awake. You are my old playfellow, and I am your old sweet- 
 heart,' she said, with a little blush. ' Tell me what you are doing 
 — always in your laboratory. I suppose, always finding some new 
 ■secrets. Does it make you any happier, Harry, to be always find- 
 ing something new ?' 
 
 'It is the only thing that makes life endurable— to discover the 
 secrets of nature. For what other purpose do we live ?' 
 
 ' Then, ITarry, for what purpose do the rest of us live, who do 
 not investigate those secrets ? Can women be happy in no other 
 way ? We do not prosecute any kind of research, you know.' 
 
 ' Happy ? Are we in the Present or the Past, Mildred ?' 
 
 He looked about him, as if expecting to see the figures of the 
 Pictures in the Gallery walking about upon the grass. 
 
 4 Just now, Harry, we are in the Past. We are back — we two 
 together — in the glorious and beautiful Past, where everything 
 was delightful. Outside this place there is the horrible Present. 
 You have made the Present for us, and therefore you ought to 
 know what it is. Let me look at you, Harry. Why, the old look 
 i.s coming back to your eyes. Take off that black gown, Harry, 
 and throw it away, while you are with me. So. You are now my 
 old friend again, and we can talk. You are no longer the President 
 of the Holy College, the terrible and venerable Arch Physician, the 
 Guardian of the House of Life. You are plain Harry Linister 
 again. Tell me, then, Harry, are you happy in this beautiful 
 Present that you have made ?' 
 
 ' No, Mildred ; I am never happy.' 
 
 ' Then why not unmake the Present ? Why not return to the 
 Past ?' 
 
 ' It is impossible. We might go back to the Past for a little ; 
 but it would become intolerable again, as it did before. Formerly, 
 there was no time for any of the fleeting things of life to lose their 
 rapture. All things were enjoyed for a moment, and then vanished. 
 Now,' he sighed wearily, ' they last — they last. So that there is 
 nothing left for us but the finding of new secrets. And for you, 
 Mildred ?' 
 
 ' I have been in a dream,' she replied. ' Oh ! a long, long night- 
 mare, that has never left me, day or night. I don't know how long 
 it has lasted ; but it has lifted at last, thank God !' 
 
 The Arch Physician started and looked astonished. 
 
 'It seems a long time,' he said, 'since I heard those words. I 
 thought we had forgotten '
 
 222 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 ' It was a dream of no change, day after day. Nothing happened. 
 In the morning we worked ; in the afternoon we rested ; in tho 
 evening we took food ; at night we slept. And the mind was dead. 
 There were no books to read ; there was nothing to talk about ; 
 there was nothing to hope. Always the same work — a piece of 
 work that nobody cared to do — a mechanical piece of work. Always 
 the same dress — the same hideous, horrible dress. We were all 
 alike ; there was nothing at all to distinguish us. The Past seemed 
 forgotten.' 
 
 ' Nothing can be ever forgotten,' said Dr. Linister ; 'but it may 
 be put away for a time.' 
 
 • Oh ! when I think of all that we had forgotten, it seems terrible. 
 Yet we lived — how could we live ? — it was not life. No thought, 
 no care, about anything. Everyone centred in himself, careless of 
 his neighbour. Why, I did not know so much as the occupants of 
 the rooms next to my own. Men looked on women, and women on 
 men, without thought or emotion. Love was dead — Life was Death ! 
 Harry, it was a most dreadful dream. And in the night there used 
 to come a terrible nightmare of nothingness ! It was as if I floated 
 alone in ether, far from the world or life, and could find nothing — 
 nothing — for the mind to grasp or think of. And I woke at the 
 point of madness. A dreadful dream ! And yet we lived. Rather 
 than go back to that most terrible dream, I would — I would ' 
 
 She clasped her forehead with her hand and looked about her 
 with haggard eyes. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' said Dr. Linister ; • I ought to have guessed your 
 sufferings — by my own. Yet I have had my laboratory.' 
 
 ' Then I was shaken out of the dream by a girl — by Christine. 
 And now we are resolved — some of us — at all costs and hazards — 
 yes, even if we are debarred from the Great Discovery — to — live — 
 again — to live — again !' she repeated slowly. ' Do you know, Harry, 
 what that means ? To go back — to live again ! Only think what 
 that means.' 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 'Have you forgotten, Harry,' she asked softly, 'what that 
 means ?' 
 
 ' No/ he said. ' I remember everything ; but I am trying to 
 understand. The accursed Present is around and above me, like 
 a horrible black Fog. How can we bft it ? How can we live 
 again ?' 
 
 ' Some of us have found out a way. In the morning we put 
 on the odious uniform, and do our allotted task among the poor
 
 THE FIDELITY OF JOHN LAX. 223 
 
 •wretches who are still in that bad dream of never-ending monotony. 
 We sit among them, silent ourselves, trying to disguise the new 
 light that has come back to our eyes, in the Public Hall. In the 
 evening we come here, put on the old dresses, and live the old 
 life.' 
 
 ' It is wonderful,' he said. ' I knew all along that human nature 
 would one day assert itself again. I told Grout so. He has always 
 been quite wrong !' 
 
 ' Grout ! What does Grout know of civilized life ? Grout ! 
 Why, he was your own bottle-washer — a common servant. He 
 thought it was justice to reduce everybody to his own level, and 
 happiness for them to remain there ! Grout ! Why, he has only 
 one idea — to make us mere machines. Oh, Harry !' she said, re- 
 proach in her eyes, ' you are Arch Physician, and you cannot alter 
 things 1' 
 
 ' No ; I have the majority of the College against me.' 
 
 ' Am I looking well, Harry, after all these years ?' 
 
 She suddenly changed her voice and manner and laughed, and 
 turned her face to meet his. Witch ! Abominable Witch ! 
 
 'Well, Mildred, was it yesterday that I loved you? Was the 
 Great Discovery made only yesterday ? Oh, you look lovelier than 
 ever !' 
 
 'Lovely means worthy of love, Harry. But you have killed 
 love.' 
 
 ' No, no. Love died ; we did not kill love. Why did the men 
 cease to love the women ? Was it that they saw them every day, 
 and so grew tired of them ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps it was because you took from us the things that might 
 have kept love alive : music, art, literature, grace, culture, society 
 — everything.' 
 
 ' We did not take them ; they died.' 
 
 * And then you dressed us all alike, in the most hideous costume 
 ever invented.' 
 
 ' It was Grout's dress.' 
 
 ' What is the good of being Arch Physician if one cannot have 
 his own way ?' 
 Harry sighed. 
 
 • My place is in the laboratory,' he said. ' I experiment and I 
 discover ; the Suffragan administers. It has always been the rule. 
 Yet you live againd, Mildre. Tell me more. I do not understand 
 how you contrive to live again.' 
 
 4 We have a little company of twenty or thirty, who meet to-
 
 224 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 getlier in the evening after the supper is over. No one else ever 
 comes to the Museum. As soon as it is dark, you know very well, 
 the People all creep home and go to bed. But my friends come 
 here. It was Christine who began it. She found or made the 
 dresses for us ; she beguiled us into forgetting the Present and 
 going back to the Past. Now we have succeeded in caring nothing 
 at all about the Present. We began by pretending. It is no 
 longer pretence. The Past lives again ; and we hate the Present. 
 Oh, we hate aDd loathe it !' 
 
 ' Yes — yes. But how do you revive the Past ?' 
 
 1 We have dances. You used to dance very well formerly, my 
 dear Harry. That was before you walked every day in a grand 
 Procession, and took the highest place in the Public Hall. I 
 wonder if you could dance again ? Natures' secrets are not so 
 heavy that they would clog your feet, are they ? We sing and 
 play : the old music has been found, and we are beginning to play 
 it properly again. We talk ; we act little drawing-room plays ; 
 sometimes we draw or paint ; and — oh, Harry ! — the men have 
 begun again to make Love — real, ardent Love ! All the dear old 
 passions are reviving. We are always finding other poor creatures 
 like ourselves, who were once ladies and gentlemen, and now are 
 aimless and soulless ; and we recruit them.' 
 
 ' What will Grout say when he finds it out ?' 
 
 ' He can never make us go back to the Present again. So far, I 
 defy Grout, Harry.' 
 
 The Arch Physician sighed. 
 
 ' The old life !' he said ; ' the old life ! I will confess, Mildred, 
 that I have never forgotten it — not for a day ; and I have never 
 -ceased to regret that it was not continued.' 
 
 ' Grout pulled it to pieces ; but we will revive it.' 
 
 ' If it could be revived ! But that is impossible.' 
 
 ' Nothing is impossible — to you, nothing — to you. Consider, 
 Harry,' she whispered. ' You have the Secret.' 
 
 He started and changed colour. 
 
 ' Yes— yes,' he said. ' But what then ?' 
 
 ' Come and see the old life revived. Come this evening— come, 
 dear Harry.' She laid a hand upon his arm. ' Come, for auld 
 lang syne. Can the old emotions revive again, even in the breast 
 •of the Arch Physician?' 
 
 His eyes met hers. He trembled : a sure sign that the old spirit 
 was reviving in him. Then he spoke, in a kind of murmur : 
 
 ' I have been living alone so long — so long — that I thought there
 
 THE ARCH TRAITOR. 32-5 
 
 ■was nothing left but solitude for ever. Grout likes it. He will 
 have it that loneliness belongs to the Higher Life.' 
 
 ' Come to us,' she replied, her hand still on his arm, her eyeg 
 turned so as to look into his. Ah ! shameless Witch ! ' We are 
 not lonely : we talk ; we exchange looks and smiles. We have 
 begun again to practise the old arts ; we have begun to read in 
 each other's souls. Old thoughts that we had long forgotten are 
 pouriug back into our minds. It i3 strange to find them there 
 again. Come, Harry ! Forget the laboratory for awhile and 
 come with us. But come without Grout. The mere aspect of 
 Grout would cause all our innocent joys to take flight and vanish. 
 Come 1 Be no more the Sacred Head of the Holy College, but 
 my dear old friend and companion, Harry Linister, who might 
 have been, but for the Great Discovery — but that is foolish. Corno, 
 Harry — come this evening.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE ARCH TRAITOR. 
 
 I dismissed John Lax, charging him with the most profound 
 secrecy. I knew, and had known for a long time, that this man, 
 formerly the avowed enemy of aristocrats, nourished an ex- 
 traordinary hatred for the Arch Physician, and therefore I wa* 
 certain that he would keep silence. 
 
 I resolved that I would myself keep watch, and, if possible, be 
 present at the meeting of this evening. What would happen I 
 knew not, nor could I tell what to do : there are no laws in our 
 community to prevent such meetings. If the Arch Physici;ir 
 chooses to attend such a play-acting, how is he to be prevented '.- 
 But I would myself watch. You shall hear how I was rewarded. 
 
 Dr. Linister was, as usual, melancholy and preoccupied at Supper. 
 He said nothing of what he intended. As for me, I looked about 
 the Hall to sec if there were any whom I could detect, from any 
 unnatural restlessness, as members of this dangerous company. 
 But I could see none, except the girl Christine, whose vivacity 
 might be allowed on the score of youth. The face of John Lax, 
 it is true, as he sat at the lowest place of our table, betokened an 
 ill-suppressed joy and an eagerness quite interesting to one who 
 understood the meaning of these emotions. Poor John Lax i 
 Never again shall we find one like unto him for zeal and strength 
 and courage ! 
 
 15
 
 226 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 I waited until half-past nine o'clock. Then I sallied forth. 
 
 It was a dark night and still. The moon was hidden ; the sky 
 was cloudy ; no wind was in the air, and from time to time there 
 were low rumblings of distant thunder. 
 
 I made my way cautiously and noiselessly through the dark 
 Garden to the entrance of the Picture Gallery, which the faithful 
 John Lax had left open for me. I ventured, with every pre- 
 caution, into the Gallery. It seemed quite empty, but at the end 
 there was a door opening into the Museum, which poured a narrow 
 stream of light straight down the middle of the Gallery. I crept 
 along the dark wall, and presently found myself at the end, close 
 to this door. And here I came upon the group of statuary of 
 which John Lax had told me, where I could crouch and hide in 
 perfect safety — unseen myself, yet able to see everything that went 
 on within. 
 
 I confess that even the revelations of John Lax had not pre- 
 pared me for the scene which met my eyes. There were thirty or 
 forty men and women present ; the room was lit up ; there were 
 flowers in vases set about ; there was a musical instrument, at 
 which one sat down and sang. When she had finished, everybody 
 began to laugh and talk. Then another sat down and began to 
 play, and then they went out upon the floor two by two, in pairs, 
 and began to twirl round like teetotums. As for their dresses, I 
 never saw the like. For the women were dressed in frocks of 
 silk — white, pink, cream-coloured — trimmed with lace; with 
 jewels on their arms and necks, and long white gloves, and flowers 
 in their hair. In their hands they carried fans, and their dresses 
 were low, exposing their necks, and so much of their arms as was 
 not covered up with gloves. And they looked excited and eager. 
 The expression which I had striven so long to impart to their 
 faces, that of tranquillity, was gone. The old unhappy eagerness, 
 with flashing eyes, flushed cheeks, and panting breath, was come 
 back to them again. Heavens ! what could be done ? As for the 
 men, they wore a black-cloth dress — all alike — why, then, did they 
 dislike the regulation blue flannel ? — with a large white shirt-front 
 and white ties and white gloves. And they, too, were full of the 
 restless eagerness and excitement. So different were they all from 
 the men and women whom I had observed day after day in the 
 Public Hall, that I could remember not one except the girl Christine, 
 and . . . and . . . yes, among them there was none other than the 
 Arch Physician himself, laughing, talking, dancing among the 
 restl
 
 THE ARCH TRAITOR. X*f 
 
 I could see perfectly well through the open door, and I was quite 
 certain that no one could see me. But I crouched lower behind 
 the marble group when they began to come out two by two, and to 
 talk together in the dark Gallery. 
 
 First came the girl Christine and the sailor, Jack Carera. Him 
 at all events I remembered. They took each other's hands and 
 began to kiss each other, and to talk the greatest nonsense im- 
 aginable. No one would ever believe that sane people could 
 possibly talk such nonsense. Then they went back and another 
 pair came out, and went on in the same ridiculous fashion. One 
 has been to a Theatre in the old time and heard a couple of lovers 
 talking nonsense on the stage ; but never on any stage did I ever 
 hear such false, extravagant, absurd stuff talked as I did when I 
 lay hidden behind that group in marble. 
 
 Presently I listened with interest renewed, because the pair 
 which came into the Gallery was none other than the pair I had 
 that morning watched in the Garden — the Arch Physician and the 
 woman he called Mildred, though now I should hardly have known 
 her, because she was so dressed up and disguised. She looked, 
 indeed, a very splendid creature : not in the least like a plain 
 woman. And this, I take it, was what these would-be great 
 ladies desired, not to be taken as plain women. Yet they were, in 
 spite of their fine clothes, plain and simple women just a much as 
 any wench of Whitechapel in the old time. 
 
 ' Harry,' she said, ' I thank you from my very heart for coming. 
 Now we shall have hope.' 
 
 ' What hope ?' he replied, ' what hope ? What can I do for you 
 while the majority of the College continue to side with Grout ? 
 What hope can I bring you ?' 
 
 ' Never mind the Majority. Consider, Harry. You have the 
 Great Secret. Let us all go away together and found a new colony, 
 where we will have no Grout ; and we will live our own lives. Do 
 you love me, Harry ?' 
 
 'Love you, Mildred? Oh 1' he sighed deeply, 'it is a stream 
 that has been dammed up all these years.' 
 
 ' What keeps us here ?' asked the girl. ' It is that in your hands 
 lies the Great Secret. Our people would be afraid to go without 
 it. If we have it, Jack will take us to some island that he knows 
 of across the seas. But we cannot go without the Secret. You 
 ■shall bring it with you.' 
 
 1 When could we go ?' he asked, whispering. 
 
 * We could go at any time — in a day — in a week — when you 
 
 15-2
 
 *28 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 please. Oh ! Harry, will you indeed rescue us ? "Will you come 
 •with us ? Some of us are resolved to go — Secret or not. I am 
 one of those. Will you let me go — alone V 
 
 'Is it impossible,' he said, 'that you should go without the 
 Secret ?' 
 
 'Yes,' she said, 'the people would be afraid. But, oh! To 
 think of a new life ; where we shall no longer be all the same, but 
 different. Everyone shall have his own possessions again — what- 
 ever he can win : everj'one his own profession : the women shall 
 dress as they please : we shall have Art— and Music — and Poetry 
 again. And — oh ! Harry,' — she leaned her head upon his shoulder 
 — ' we shall have Love again. Oh ! to think of it ! Oh ! to think 
 of it ! Love once more ! And with Love, think of all the other 
 things that will come back. They must come back, Harry — the 
 old Faith which formerly made us happy. . . .' Her voice choked, 
 and she burst into tears. 
 
 I crouched behind the statues, listening. What did she cry 
 about ? The old Faith ? She could have that if she wanted, I 
 suppose, without crying over it. No law whatever against it. 
 
 Dr. Linister said nothing, but I saw that he was shaking — 
 actually shaking — and trembling all over. A most remarkable 
 person ! Who would have believed that weakness so lamentable 
 could lie behind so much science ? 
 
 ' I yield,' he said — ' I yield, Mildred. The Present is so horrible 
 that it absolves me even from the most solemn oath. Lcve has 
 been killed — we will revive it again. All the sweet and precious 
 things that made life happy have been killed : Art and Learning 
 and Music, all have been killed — we will revive them. Yes, I will 
 go with you, my dear ; and — since you cannot go without — I will 
 bring the Secret with me.' 
 
 'Oh! Harry! Harry!' She flung herself into his arms. 'You 
 have made me more happy than words can tell. Oh ! you are 
 mine — you are mine, and I am yours.' 
 
 4 As for the Secret,' he went on, ' it belongs, if it is to be used at 
 all, to all mankind. Why did the College of Physicians guard ifc 
 in their own jealous keeping, save to make themselves into a 
 mysterious and separate Caste ? Must men always appoint sacred 
 guardians of so-called mysteries which belong to all ? My dear, 
 since the Great Discovery, Man has been sinking lower and lower, 
 He can go very little lower now. You have been rescued from the 
 appalling fate which Grout calls the Triumph of Science. Yeg 
 . . . yes . . .' he repeated, as if uncertain, 'the Secret belongs to
 
 THE ARCH TRAITOR. 229 
 
 mil or none. Let all have it and work out their destiny in freedom : 
 or let none have it, and so let us go back to the old times, when 
 Buch great things were done against the fearful odds of so short 
 and uncertain a span. Which would be the better ?' 
 
 ' Only come with us, my lover. Oh ! can a simple woman make 
 you happy ? Come with us ; but let our friends know— else they 
 will not come with us — that wherever we go, we have the Secret.' 
 
 ' It belongs to all,' he repeated. ' Come with me then, Mildred, 
 to the House of Life. You shall be the first to whom the Secret 
 shall be revealed. And you, if you please, shall tell it to all our 
 friends. It is the Secret, and that alone, which keeps up the 
 Authority of the College. Come. It is dark : but I have a key 
 to the North Postern. Come with me. In the beginning of this 
 new Life which lies before us, I will, if you wish, give the Secret 
 to all who share it. Come, my Love, my Bride.' 
 
 He led her by the hand quickly down the Picture Gallery and 
 out into the Garden. 
 
 I looked round. The silly folk in the Museum were going on 
 with their masquerade — laughing, singing, dancing. The girl 
 Christine ran in and out among them with bright eyes and eager 
 looks. And the eyes of the sailor, Jack Carera, followed her 
 everywhere. Oh ! yes. I knew what those eyes meant — the old 
 selfishness — the subjection of the Woman. She was to be his 
 Property. And yet she seemed to like it. For ever and anon she 
 made some excuse to pass him, and touched his hand as she passed 
 and smiled sweetly. I dare say that she was a beautiful girl — but 
 Beauty has nothing at all to do with the Administration of the 
 People. However, there was no time to be lost. The Arch 
 Physician was going to betray the Great Secret. 
 
 Happily he would have to go all the way round to the North 
 Postern. There was time, if I was quick, to call witnesses, and to 
 seize him in the very act. And then — the Penalty. Death I 
 Death 1 Death 1 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 The House of Life, you have already learned, is a great and 
 venerable building. We build no such houses now. No one but 
 those who belong to the Holy College — viz., the Arch Physician,
 
 230 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 the Suffragan, the Fellows or Physicians, and the Assistants — are 
 permitted to enter its doors or to witness the work that is carried 
 on within these walls. It is, however, very well understood that 
 this work concerns the prolongation of the Vital Forces first, the 
 preservation of Health next, and the enlargement of scientific 
 truth generally. The House is, in fact, the great laboratory in 
 which the Fellows conduct those researches of which it is not 
 permitted to speak outside. The prevention of disease, the cur© 
 of hereditary and hitherto incurable diseases, the continual lower- 
 ing of the hours of labour, by new discoveries in Chemistry and 
 Physics, are now the principal objects of these researches. When, 
 in fact, we have discovered how to provide food chemically out of 
 simple matter, and thereby abolish the necessity for cultivation, no 
 moro labour will be required, and Humanity will have taken the 
 last and greatest step of all — freedom from the necessity of toil. 
 After that, there will be no more need for labour, none for 
 thought, none for anxiety. At stated intervals food, chemically 
 prepared, 'will be served out : between those intervals man will lie 
 at rest — asleep, or in the torpor of unthinking rest. This will be, 
 as I have said before, the Triumph of Science. 
 
 The House, within, is as magnificent as it is without ; that is to 
 say, it is spacious even beyond our requirements, and lofty even, 
 beyond the wants of a laboratory. All day long the Fellows and 
 the Assistants work at their tables. Here is everything that 
 Science wants : furnaces, electric batteries, retorts, instruments of 
 all kinds, and collections of everything that may be wanted. Here 
 — behind the Inner House — is a great workshop where our glass 
 vessels are made, where our instruments are manufactured and re- 
 paired. The College contains two or three hundred of Assistants 
 working in their various departments. These men, owing to the 
 restlessness of their intellect, sometimes give trouble, either be- 
 cause they want to learn more than the Fellows think sufficient for 
 them, or because they invent something unexpected, or because 
 they become dissatisfied with the tranquil conditions of their life. 
 Some of them from time to time have gone mad. Some, who 
 threatened more trouble, have been painlessly extinguished. 
 
 Within the House itself is the Inner House, to enter which is 
 forbidden, save to the Arch Physician, the Suffragan, and the 
 Fellows. 
 
 This place is a kind of House within a House. Those who 
 enter from the South orcb see before them, more than half-way 
 up the immense building, steps, upon which stands a high screen
 
 IN THE INNER HOUSE. 231 
 
 of woodwork. This screen, which is very ancient, protects the 
 Inner House from entrance or observation. It runs round tho 
 whole enclosure, and is most profusely adorned with carved work 
 representing all kinds of things. For my own part, I have never 
 examined into the work, and I hardly know what it is that is 
 here figured. What does it advance science to carve bunches of 
 grapes (which everybody understands not to be grapes) in wood ? 
 All these things in the House of Life — the carved wood, the carved 
 stone, the carved marble, the lofty pillars, the painted windows — 
 irritate and offend me. Yet the Arch Physician, who loved to sit 
 alone in the Inner House, would contemplate these works of Art 
 with a kind of rapture. Nay, he would well-nigh weep at thinking 
 that now there are no longer any who can work in that useless 
 fashion. 
 
 As for what is within the Inner House I must needs speak with 
 caution. Suffice it, therefore, to say that round the sides of the 
 screen are ancient carved seats under carved canopies, which are 
 the seats of the Fellows ; and that on a raised stone platform, ap- 
 proached by several steps, is placed the Coffer which contains tho 
 Secret of the Great Discovery. The Arch Physician alone had the 
 key of the Coffer : he and his Suffragan alone possessed the Secret : 
 the Fellows were only called into the Inner House when a Council 
 was held on some new Discovery or some new adaptation of Science 
 to the wants of Mankind. 
 
 Now, after overhearing the intended treason of the Arch Physi- 
 cian, and witnessing his degradation and fall, I made haste to act ; 
 for I plainly perceived that if the miraculous Prolongation of the 
 Vital Force should be allowed to pass out of our own hands, and to 
 become public property, an end would at once be put to the Order 
 and Discipline now so firmly established : the Authority of the 
 College would be trampled under foot : everybody would begin to 
 live as they pleased : the old social conditions might be revived : 
 and the old social inequalities would certainly begin again, because 
 the strong would trample on the weak. This was, perhaps, what 
 Dr. Linister designed. I remembered, now, how long it was before 
 he could forget the old distinctions : nay, how impossible it was 
 for him ever to bring himself to regard me, though his Suffragan 
 — whom he had formerly made his serving-man — as his equal. 
 Thinking of that time, and of those distinctions, strengthened my 
 purpose. What I did and how I prevented the treachery will 
 approve itself to all who have the best interests of mankind at 
 heart.
 
 *3* THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 The House of Life after nightfall is very dark : the windows 
 are high, for the most part narrow, and, though there are a great 
 many of them, most are painted ; so that even on a clear and 
 bright day there is not more light than enough to carry on experi- 
 ments, and, if I had my way, I would clear out all the painted 
 glass. It is, of course, provided with the electric light ; but this 
 is seldom used except in the short and dark days of winter, when 
 work is carried on after nightfall. In the evening the place is ab- 
 solutely empty. John Lax, the Porter, occupies the south porch 
 and keeps the keys. But there is another and smaller door in the 
 north transept. It leads to a Court of Cloisters, the ancient use of 
 which has long been forgotten, the key of which is kept by the 
 Arch Physician himself. 
 
 It was with this key — at this entrance — that he came into the 
 House. He opened the door and closed it behind him. His foot- 
 step was not the only one : a lighter step was heard on the stones 
 as well. In the silence of the place and time the closing of the 
 door rumbled in the roof overhead like distant thunder, and the 
 falling of the footsteps echoed along the walls of the great building. 
 
 The two companions did not speak. 
 
 A great many years ago, in the old times, there was a Murder 
 done here — a foul murder by a band of soldiers, who fell upon a 
 Bishop or Saint or Angel — I know not whom. The memory of the 
 Murder has survived the name of the victim and the very religion 
 ■sdiich he professed — it was, perhaps, that which was still maintained 
 among the aristocracy when I was a boy. Not only is the memory 
 of the murder preserved, but John Lax — who, soon after the Great 
 Discovery, when we took over the building from the priests of the 
 old religion, was appointed its Porter and heard the old stories — 
 would tell all those who chose to listen how the Murderers came in 
 at that small door, and how the murder was committed on such a 
 spot, the stones of which are to this day red with the blood of the 
 murdered man. On the spot, however, stands now a great electrical 
 battery. 
 
 The Arch Physician, now about to betray his trust, led his com- 
 panion, the woman Mildred Carera, by the hand past this place to 
 the steps which lead to the Inner House. They ascended those 
 steps. Standing there, still outside the Inner House, Dr. Linister 
 bade the woman turn round and look upon the Great House of 
 Life. 
 
 The clouds had dispersed, and the moonlight was now shining 
 through the windows of the South, lighting up the coloured glass,
 
 IN THE INNER HOUSE. 233 
 
 painting bright pictures and patterns upon the floor, and pouring 
 white light through those windows, which are not painted, upon 
 the clustered pillars and old monuments of the place. Those who 
 were now gathered in the Inner House listened, holding their breath 
 in silence. 
 
 ' Mildred,' said Dr. Linister, ' long, long years ago we stood to- 
 gether upon this spot. It was after a Service of Praise and Prayer 
 to the God whom then the world worshipped. We came from town 
 with a party to see this Cathedral. When service was over, I scoffed 
 at it in the light manner of the time, which questioned everything 
 and scoffed at everything.' 
 
 ' I remember, Harry ; and all through the service my mind was 
 filled with — you.' 
 
 'I scoff no more, Mildred. We have Feen to what a depth men 
 can sink when the Hope of the Future is taken from them. The 
 memory of that service comes back to me, and seems to consecrate 
 the place and the time. Mildred/ he said after a pause — oh ! the 
 House was very silent — ' this is a solemn and a sacred moment for 
 us both. Here, side by side, on the spot once sacred to the service 
 of the God whom we have long forgotten, let us renew the vows 
 Tvhich were interrupted so long ago. Mildred, with all my heart, 
 with all my strength, I love thee.' 
 
 'Harry,' she murmured, 'I am thine— even to Death itself.' 
 
 'Even to Death itself,' he replied. 'Yes, if it comes to that. If 
 the Great Discovery itself must be abandoned: if we find that only 
 at that price can we regain the things we have lost.' 
 
 ' It was Grout who destroyed Religion — not the Great Discovery,' 
 said the girl. 
 
 We kept silence in the House. But we heard every word ; and 
 this was true, and my heart glowed to think how true it was. 
 
 'Nay, not Grout, nor a thousand Grouts. Without the certainty 
 of parting, Religion droops and dies. There must be something 
 not understood, something unknown, beyond our power of discovery, 
 or the dependence which is the ground of religion dies away in 
 man's heart. He who is immortal and commands the secrets of 
 Nature, so that he shall neither die, nor grow old, nor become 
 feeble, nor fall into any disease, feels no necessity for any religion. 
 This House, Mildred, is the expression of religion at the time of 
 man's greatest dependence. To the God in whom, short-lived, 
 ignorant, full of disease, he trusted he built this splendid place, 
 and put into it all the beauty that he could command of sculpture 
 and of form. But it speaks no longer to the People for whom it
 
 234 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 was built. When the Great Discovery was made, it would surely 
 have been better to have found out whither it was going to lead ua 
 before we consented to receive it.' 
 
 • Surely ' said Mildred, but the other interrupted her. 
 
 1 We did not understand — we were blind — we were blind.' 
 
 1 Yet — we live.' 
 
 'And you have just now told me how. Kemember the things 
 that men said when the Discovery was made. We were to advance 
 continually : we were to scale heights hitherto unapproached : we 
 were to achieve things hitherto unknown in Art as well as in 
 Science. Was it for the Common Meal, the Common Dress, the 
 Common Toil, the vacant face, the lips that never smile, the eyes 
 that never brighten, the tongue that never speaks, the heart that 
 beats only for itself, that we gave up the things we had ?' 
 
 * We did not expect such an end, Harry.' 
 
 'No — we had not the wit to expect it. Come, Mildred, I will 
 give you the Secret, and you may give it, if you please, to all the 
 world. Oh ! I feel as if the centuries had fallen away. I am full 
 of hope again. I am full of the old life once more : and, Mildred 
 — oh ! my sweet — I am full of Love.' 
 
 He stooped and kissed her on the lips. Then he led her into the 
 Inner House. 
 
 Now, just before Dr. Linister turned the key of the postern, the 
 door of the South Porch was softly closed, and a company of twenty 
 men walked lightly and noiselessly, in slippers, up the nave of the 
 House. Arrived at the Inner House, they ascended the steps and 
 entered that dark Chapel, every man making straight for his own 
 seat and taking it without a word or a breath. This was the College 
 of Physicians hastily called by me, and gathered together to witness 
 the Great Treachery of the Chief. They sat there silent and breath- 
 less, listening to their talk. 
 
 The Secret was kept in a cipher, intelligible only to the two who 
 then guarded it, in a fireproof chest upon the stone table which was 
 once the altar of the old Faith. 
 
 Dr. Linister stood before the chest — his key in his hand. 
 
 'It would be better,' he said, ' if the new departure could be made 
 without the Secret. It would be far — far better if we could start 
 again under the old conditions. But if they are afraid to go with- 
 out the Secret, why ' he unlocked the chest. Then he paused 
 
 again.
 
 IN THE INNER HOUSE. 335 
 
 'How many years have I been the guardian of tins Secret? 
 Mildred, when I think of the magnificent vistas which opened up 
 before our eyes when this Great Discovery was made: when I 
 think of the culture without bound or limit: the Art in which the 
 hand was always to grow more and more dexterous : the Science 
 which was to advance with gigantic strides — my child, I feel in- 
 clined to sink into the earth with shame, only to compare that 
 dream with the awful, the terrible, the disgraceful reality ! Let 
 us all go away. Let us leave this place, and let us make a new 
 beginning, with sadder minds, yet with this experience of the Pre- 
 sent to guide us and to keep us from committing worse follies. 
 See, dear — here is the Secret. The cipher in which it is written 
 has a key which is in this paper. I place all in your hands. If 
 accident should destroy me, you have the Secret still for yourself 
 and friends. Use it well— use it better than we have used it. Kiss 
 me, Mildred. Oh ! my dear !' 
 
 Then, as they lay in each other's arms, I turned on the electric 
 light and discovered them. The chest stood open: the papers, 
 cipher, key and all, were in the girl's hands: the Arch Physician 
 was caught in the very act of his supreme Treachery ! 
 
 And lo! the Fellows of the Holy College were in the Inner 
 House ; every man in his place ; every man looking on ; and every 
 man standing upright, with eyes and gestures of scorn. 
 
 ' Traitor !' they cried one and all. 
 
 John Lax appeared at the door, halberd in hand. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE COUNCIL IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 'Brothers of the Holy College!' I cried, 'you have beheld the 
 crime — you are witnesses of the Fact — you have actually seen the 
 Arch Physician himself revealing the Great Secret, which none of 
 yourselves, even of the College, hath been permitted to learn— the 
 Secret confined by the Wisdom of the College to himself and to his 
 Suffragan.' 
 
 ' We are witnesses,' they cried with one consent. To my great 
 satisfaction, even those who were of Dr. Linister's party, and 
 who voted with him against the Administration and Policy of 
 the College, spoke, on this occasion, for the plain and undeniable 
 truth.
 
 236 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 'What,' I asked, 'is the Penalty when one of the least amongst 
 us, even an Assistant only, betrays to the People any of the 
 secrets — even the least secret — of the work carried on in this 
 House ?' 
 
 'It is Death,' they replied with one voice. 
 
 ' It is Death,' I repeated, pointing to the Arch Physician. 
 
 At such a moment, when nothing short of annihilation appeared 
 in view, one would have expected from the guilty pair an appearance 
 of the greatest consternation and dismay. On the contrary, the 
 Arch Physician, with an insensibility — or a bravado — which one 
 would not have expected of him, stood before us all, his arms 
 folded, his eyes steady, his lips even smiling. Beside him stood 
 the girl, dressed in the ridiculous mummery of the nineteenth 
 •century, bowed down, her face in her hands. 
 
 'It is I,' she murmured — 'it is I, Harry, who have brought you 
 to this. Oh ! forgive me. Let us die together. Since I have 
 awakened out of the stupid torpor of the Present — since we 
 remembered the Past — and Love — let us die together. For I 
 could not live without you.' She knelt at his feet and laid her 
 head upon his arm. ' My Love,' she said, ' my Lord and Love ! 
 Let me die with you.' 
 
 At this extraordinary spectacle 1 laughed aloud. Love ? I 
 thought the old wives' tales of Love and Lordship were long, long 
 since dead and forgotten. Yet here was a man for the sake of a 
 woman — actually because she wanted to go away and begin again 
 the old pernicious life — breaking his most sacred vows : and here 
 was a woman — for the sake of this man — actually and truly for his 
 sake — asking for death — death with him ! Since, when they were 
 both dead, there could be no more any feeling one for the other, 
 why ask for death ? What good could that do for either ? 
 
 ' Your wish,' I said to this foolish woman, ' shall be gratified, in 
 case the Judges of your case decide that your crime can be 
 expiated by no less a penalty. Fellows of the College, let this 
 guilty pair be confined for the night, and to-morrow we will 
 try them solemnly in the College Court according to ancient 
 custom.' 
 
 I know not how many years had elapsed since that Court was 
 held. The offences of the old time were for the most part against 
 property — since there had been no property, there had been no 
 crimes of this kind. Another class of old offences consisted of 
 violence rising out of quarrels : since almost all these quarrels 
 originated in disputes about property — every man in the old time
 
 THE COUNCIL IN THE HOUSE. 337 
 
 who had property was either a thief or the son of a thief, so that 
 disputes were naturally incessant — there could be no longer any 
 such quarrels or any such violence. A third class of crimes were 
 caused by love, jealousy, and the like : these two had happily, aa 
 we believed, disappeared for ever. 
 
 The last class of crimes to vanish were those of mutiny. When 
 the People grew gradually to understand that the welfare of all 
 was the only rule of the governing body, and that selfishness, in- 
 dividualism, property, privilege, would no longer be permitted, 
 they left off murmuring, and mutiny ceased. You have seen how 
 orderly, how docile, how tranquil, is the life of the People as it 
 has been ordered by the Sacred College. Alas ! I thought that 
 this order, this sheep-like freedom from Thought, was going to be 
 henceforth universal and undisturbed. 
 
 Our prisoners made no opposition. John Lax, the Porter, bear- 
 ing his halberd of office, marched beside them. We closed in 
 behind them, and in this order we led them to the strong room 
 over the South Porch, which is provided with bars and a lock. It 
 is the sleeping chamber of John Lax, but for this night he was to 
 remain on the watch below. 
 
 Then, as Suffragan, I called a Council of Emergency in the 
 Inner House, taking the Presidency in the absence of the Arch 
 Physician. 
 
 I told my brethren briefly what had happened : how my atten- 
 tion had been called to the fact that a company of the People, headed 
 by the young girl called Christine, had begun to assemble every 
 night in the Museum, there to put on clothes which belonged to 
 the old time, and to masquerade in the manners, language, and 
 amusements (so called) of that time : that this assemblage, which 
 might have been innocent and even laudable if it led, as it should 
 have done, to a detestation of the old times, had proved mis- 
 chievous, because, strangely enough, it had exactly the opposite 
 effect : that, in fact, everybody in the company had fallen into an 
 ardent yearning after the Past, and that all the bad features of 
 that bad time — the Social inequality, the Poverty, the Injustice — 
 were carefully ignored . 
 
 Upon this, one of Dr. Linister's Party arose, and begged per- 
 mission to interrupt the Suffragan. He wished to point out that 
 memory was indestructible : that even if we succeeded in reducing 
 Mankind, as the Suffragan wished, to be a mere breathing and 
 feeding machine — the Ultimate Triumph of Science— any one of 
 these machines might ba at any time electrified into a full and
 
 238 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 exact memory of the Past : that, to the average man, the Emotion 
 of the Past would always be incomparably preferable to the 
 Tranquillity of the Present. What had just been done would be 
 done again. 
 
 I went on, after this interruption, to narrate how I set myself 
 to watch, and presently saw the Arch Physician himself enter the 
 Museum : how he exchanged his gown for the costume in which 
 the men disfigured themselves, play-acted, pretended, and mas- 
 queraded with them ; danced with them, no external respect what- 
 ever being paid to his rank ; and afterwards had certain love 
 passages —actually love passages between the Arch Physician and a 
 Woman of the People ! — which I overheard, and repeated as far as 
 I could remember them. The rest my brethren of the College 
 knew already : how I hastily summoned them, and led them into 
 the Inner House just before the arrival of the Criminals. 
 
 Thereupon, without any attempt of Dr. Linister's friends to the 
 contrary, it was Resolved that the Trial of the Arch Physician and 
 his accomplices should be held iu the morning. 
 
 I next invited their attention to the behaviour of the girl 
 Christine. She it was, I told them, who had instigated the whole 
 of the business. A culpable curiosity it was, no doubt, that first 
 led her to consider and study the ways of the ancient world : what 
 should be the ways of the Past to an honest and loyal person, 
 satisfied with the Wisdom which ruled the Present ? She read the 
 old books, looked at the old pictures, and lived all day long in the 
 old Museum. There were many things which she could not under- 
 stand : she wanted to understand these things ; and she conceived 
 a violent, unreasoning admiration for the old time, which appeared 
 to this foolish girl to be a continual round of pleasure and excite- 
 ment. Therefore she gathered together a company of those who 
 had belonged to the richer class in the days when property was 
 permitted. She artfully awakened them out of their contentment, 
 sowed the seeds of dissatisfaction among them, caused them to 
 remember the Past with a vehement longing to reproduce the 
 worse part of it — namely, the manners and customs of the richer 
 class — the people for whom the bulk of mankind toiled, so that 
 the privileged few might have nothing to do but to feast, dance, 
 sing, and make love. I asked the College, therefore, what should 
 be done with such a girl, warning them that one Penalty, and one 
 only, would meet the case and render for the future such outbreaks 
 impossible. 
 
 Again the Physician who had spoken before rose us and re-
 
 THE COUNCIL IN THE HOUSE. 239 
 
 marked that such outbreaks were inevitable, because the memory in 
 indestructible. 
 
 ' You have here,' he said, • a return to the Past, because a young 
 girl, by reading the old books, has been able to stimulate the 
 memory of those who were born in the Past. Other things may 
 bring about the same result : a dream, the talking together of two 
 former friends. Let the girl alone. She has acted as we might 
 have expected a young girl — the only young girl among us — to 
 have acted. She has found that the Past, which some of us have 
 represented as full of woe and horror, had its pleasant side : she 
 asks why that pleasant side could not be reproduced. I, myself, or 
 any of us, might ask the same question. Nay, it is well known 
 that I protest — and always shall protest, my friends and I — against 
 the Theory of the Suffragan. His Triumph of Science we con- 
 sider horrible to the last degree. I, for one, shall never be satisfied 
 until the Present is wholly abolished, and until we have gone back 
 to the good old system of Individualism, and begun to encourage 
 the People once more to cultivate the old happiness by the old 
 methods of their own exertion.' 
 
 I replied that my own recollection of the old time was perfectly 
 clear, and that there was nothing but unhappiness in it. As a child, 
 I lived in the street : I never had enough to eat : I was cuffed and 
 kicked : I could never go to bed at night until my father, who 
 always came home drunk, was asleep : the streets were full of 
 miserable children like myself. Where was the happiness 
 described by my learned brother ? Where was the pleasant side ? 
 More I said, but it suffices to recoi-d that by a clear majority it was 
 Resolved to arrest the girl Christine in the morning, and to try all 
 three prisoners, as soon as the Court could be prepared for them, 
 according to ancient usage. 
 
 Early in the morning I sought an interview with the Arch 
 Physician. I found him, with the woman Mildred, sitting in the 
 Chamber over the Porch. There was no look of terror, or even of 
 dejection, on the face of either. Rather there was an expression as 
 of exultation. Yet they were actually going to die — to cease 
 breathing— to lose consciousness ! 
 
 I told the prisoner that I desired to represent my own conduct 
 in its true light. I reminded him that, with him, I was guardian 
 of the Holy Secret. The power and authority of the College, I 
 pointed out, were wholly dependent upon the preservation of that 
 Secret in its own hands. By divulging it to the People he would 
 make them as independent of the Physician as the Great Discovery
 
 340 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 itself had made them independent of the Priest. The latter had, 
 as he pretended, the Keys of the After Life. The former did 
 actually hold those of the Actual Life. The authority of the 
 Physician gone, the People would proceed to divide among them- 
 selves, to split up into factions, to fight and quarrel, to hold 
 private property, and in fact would speedily return to the old 
 times, and all the work that we had accomplished would be 
 destroyed. Every man would have the knowledge of the Secret 
 for himself and his family. They would all begin to fight again — 
 first for the family, next for the Commune, and then for the tribe 
 or nation. All this would have been brought about by this 
 treachery had not I prevented it. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' doubtless you are quite right, Grout.' He spoke 
 quite in the old manner, as if I had been still his servant in the old 
 laboratory. It was not until afterwards that I remembered this 
 and became enraged to think of his arrogance. ' We will not 
 argue the matter. It is not worth while. You acted after your 
 kind, and as I might have expected.' Again it was not until after- 
 wards that I considered what he meant and was enraged. ' When 
 we allowed gentlehood to be destroyed, gentle manners, honour, 
 dignity, and such old virtues went too. You acted — for yourself — 
 very well, Grout. Have you anything more to say? As for. us, 
 we have gone back to the old times, this young lady and I — quite 
 to the old, old times.' He took her hand and kissed it, while his 
 eyes met hers, and they were filled with a tenderness which amazed 
 me. ' This lady, Grout,' he said, ' has done me the honour of 
 accepting my hand. You will understand that no greater happi- 
 ness could have befallen me. The rest that follows is of no im- 
 portance — none — not the least. My dear, this is Grout, formerly 
 employed in my laboratory. Unfortunately he has no experience of 
 Love, or of any of the Arts or Culture of the good old Time. But 
 a man of great intelligence. You can go, Grout.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE. 
 
 I was greatly pleased with the honest zeal shown by John Lax, the 
 Porter, on this occasion. When, after snatching three or four 
 hours' sleep, I repaired to the House, I found that, worthy creature 
 polishing at a grindstone nothing les3 than a great, heavy Execu-
 
 THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE. 241 
 
 tion Axe, which had done service many times in the old, old days 
 on Tower Hill, and had since peacefully reposed in the Museum. 
 
 'Suffragan,' he said, ' I am making ready.' His feet turned the 
 treadle, and the wheel flew round, and the sparks showered from 
 the hlunt old weapon. He tried the edge with his finger. "Tis 
 not so sharp as a razor,' he said, ' but 'twill serve.' 
 
 ' John Lax, rcethinks you anticipate the sentence of the Court.' 
 
 'Suffragan, with submission, it is Death to divulge any secret of 
 this House. It is Death even for me, Porter of the House, to tell 
 them outside of any Researches or Experiments that I may observe 
 in my service about the House. And if so great a Peua/ty is pro- 
 nounced against one who would reveal such trifles as I could divulge, 
 what of the Great Secret itself V 
 
 ' Lax, you are a worthy man. Know, therefore, that this Secret 
 once divulged, the Authority of the College would vanish ; and we, 
 even the Physicians themselves — to say nothing of the Assistants, 
 the Bedells, and you yourself — would become no better than the 
 Common People. You do well to be zealous.' 
 
 John Lax nodded his head. He was a taciturn man habitually ; 
 but now he became loquacious. He stopped the grindstone, laid 
 down the axe, and rammed his hands into his pockets. 
 
 ' When I see them women dressed up like swells ' he began, 
 
 grinning. 
 
 4 John, this kind of language belongs to the old days, when even 
 spsech was unequa 
 
 ' No matter ; you understand it. Lord ! Sammy Grout, the 
 brewer's boy — we were both Vv 7 hitechapel pets ; but I was an old 
 'nn of five-and-thirty, while you were on'y beginning to walk the 
 "Waste with a gal on your arm— p'r'aps — and a ha'penny fag in your 
 mouth. Hold on, now. It's like this ' 
 
 What with the insolence of Dr. Linister, and the sight of the old 
 dresses, and the sound of the old language, I myself was carried 
 away. Yes, I was once more Sam Grout : again I walked upon the 
 pavement of the Whitechapel Road : again I was a boy in the great 
 brewery of Mile End Road. 
 
 ' Go on, John Lax,' I said, with condescension. ' Revive, if it is 
 possible, something of the Past. I give you full leave. But when 
 you come to the Present, forget not the reverence due to the 
 Suffragan.' 
 
 ' Right, guv'nor. Well, then, it's like this. I see them men and 
 women dressed up in the old fallals, and goin'on like I've seen 'em 
 goin' ou long ago with thsir insolence and their haw-haws— damn 
 
 16
 
 242 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 'em — and all the old feelings came Lack to me, and I thought I way 
 spoutin' again on a Sunday mornin', and askin' my fellow-country- 
 men if they always meant to sit down and be slaves. And the 
 memory came back to me — ah ! proper it did — of a speech I made 
 'em one mornin' all about the French Revolution. " Less 'ave our 
 own Revolution," I sez, sez I. " Less bring out all the Bloomin' 
 Kings and Queens," I sez, " the Dooks and Markisses, the fat 
 Bishops and the lazy Parsons. Less do what the French did. Less 
 make 'em shorter by the 'ed," I sez. That's what I said that 
 mornin'. Some of the people laughed, and some of 'em went away. 
 There never was a lot more difficult to move than them White- 
 chapellers. They'd listen — and then they'd go away. They'd too- 
 much fine speeches given 'em — that was the matter with 'em — too 
 much. Nothing never came of it. That night I was in the Public 
 havin' a drop, and we began to talk. There was a row, and a bit of 
 a fight. But before we was fired out I up and said plain, for every- 
 body to hear, that when it came to choppin' off their noble 'eds I'd 
 be the man to do it — and joyful, I said. Well now, Sammy Grout, 
 you were in that Public Bar among that crowd — maybe, you've 
 forgotten it. But I remember you very well. You was standing 
 there, and you laughed about the choppin'. You've forgotten, 
 Sammy. Think. It was a fine summer evenin' : you weren't in 
 Church. Come now — you can't say you ever went to Church,. 
 Sammy Grout.' 
 
 'I never did. But go on, John Lax. Recall as much of the 
 Past as you wish, if it makes you love the Present more. I would 
 not say aught to diminish an honest zeal.' 
 
 ' Right, guv'nor. Well, I never got that chance. There was no- 
 choppin' of 'eds at all. When we had to murder the old people, 
 your Honour would have it done scientifically ; and there was as- 
 many old working men killed off as swells, which was a thousand 
 pities, an' made a cove's heart bleed. What I say is this. Here 
 we've got a return to the old Times. Quite unexpected it is. Now 
 we've got such a chance, which will never come again, let 'em just 
 see how the old Times worked. Have a Procession, with the 
 Executioner goin' before the criminals, his axe on his shoulder 
 ready to begin. If you could only be S:immy Grout again— but 
 that can't be, I'm afraid— what a day's outing you would have had 
 to be sure ! Suffragan, let us show 'em how the old Times worked. 
 And let me be the Executioner. I'll do it, I promiso you, proper. 
 I've got the old spirit upon me— ah ! and the old strength, too — 
 just as I had then. Oh 1 It's too much !' He sat down and
 
 THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE. 243 
 
 hugged the axe. I thought he would have kissed it. 'It's too 
 much ! To think that the time would ever come when I should 
 execute a swell — and that swell the Arch Physician himself. Damn 
 him ! He's always looked as if everybody else was dirt beneath 
 his feet.' 
 
 ' I know not,' I told him gently, ' what may bo the decision of 
 the Court. But, John Lax, continue to grind your axe. I would 
 not throw cold water on honest zeal. Your strength, you say, is 
 equal to your spirit. You will not flinch at the last moment ? Ah ! 
 we have some honest men left.' 
 
 The Court was held that morning in the nave of the House itself. 
 The Judges, who were the whole College of Physicians, sat in a 
 semicircle ; whereas the three prisoners stood in a row — the Arch 
 Physician carrying himself with a haughty insolence which did not 
 assist his chances ; clinging to his arm, still in her silk dress, with 
 her bracelets and chains, and her hair artfully arranged, was the 
 woman called Mildred. She looked once, hurriedly, at the row of 
 Judges, and then turned with a shudder — she found small comfort 
 in those faces — to her lover, and laid her head upon his shoulder, 
 while he supported her with his arm. The degradation and folly 
 of the Arch Physician, apart from the question of his guilt, as- 
 shown in this behaviour, were complete. 
 
 Beside Mildred stood the girl Christine. Her face was flushed ; 
 her eyes were bright ; she stood with clasped hands, looking steadily 
 at the Judges ; she wore, instead of the Regulation Dress, a frock 
 of white stuff, which she had found, I suppose, in the Museum — a3 
 if open disobedience of our laws would prove a passport to favour. 
 She had let her long fair hair fall upon her shoulders and down her 
 back. Perhaps she hoped to conquer her Judges by her beauty — 
 old time phrase ! Woman's beauty, indeed, to Judges who know 
 every bone and every muscle in woman's body, and can appreciate 
 the nature of her intellect, as well as of her structure ! Woman's 
 Beauty ! As if that could ever again move the world ! 
 
 Behind the President's Chair — I was the President — stood John 
 Lax, bearing his halberd of office. 
 
 The Doors of the House were closed ; the usual sounds of 
 Laboratory work were silent ; the Assistants, who usually at this 
 hour would have been engaged in Research and Experiment, were 
 crowded outside the Court. 
 
 I have been told, since, that there were omitted at the Trial 
 many formalities which should have been observed at such a Trial. 
 For instance, there should have been a Clerk or two to make notes of 
 
 16—2
 
 *44 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 the proceedings ; there should have heen a Formal Indictment, and 
 $here should have been Witnesses. But these are idle forms. The 
 guilt of the Prisoners was proved ; we had seen it with our own 
 eyes. We were both Judges and Witnesses, 
 
 I was once, however, in the old days, charged (and fined) before 
 a magistrate in Bow Street for assaulting a Constable, and, there- 
 fore, I know something of how a Criminal Court should proceed. 
 So, without any unnecessary formalities, I conducted the Trial 
 according to Common Sense. 
 
 ' What is your name ?' I asked the Arch Physician. 
 
 1 Harry Linister — once M.D. of Cambridge, and Fellow of the 
 iRoyal Society.' 
 
 1 What are you by trade ?' 
 
 ' Physicist and Arch Physician of the Holy College of the Inner 
 Bouse.' 
 
 ' We shall see how long you will be able to describe yourself by 
 Shose titles. Female Prisoner — you in the middle — what is your 
 fiame ?' 
 
 'I am the Lady Mildred Carera, daughter of the Earl of 
 Thordisa.' 
 
 ' Come — come — none of your Ladyships and Earls here. We 
 sfre now all equal. You are plain Mildred. And yours — you girl 
 in the white frock ? How dare you, either of you, appear before 
 B"s in open violation of the Rules ?' 
 
 ' I am named Christine,' she replied. ' I have put on the white 
 frock because it is becoming.' 
 
 At this point I was interrupted by a whisper from John Lax. 
 
 ' Christine's friends,' he said, ' are gathering in the Museum, and 
 ihey are very noisy. They threaten to give trouble.' 
 
 4 When the Trial and Execution are over,' I told him, ' arrest 
 them every one. Let them all be confined in the Museum. To- 
 morrow, or perhaps this afternoon, we will try them as well.' 
 
 The man grinned with satisfaction. Had he known what a fatal 
 mistake I was making, he would not have grinned. Rather would 
 His face have expressed the most dreadful horror. 
 
 Tnen the Trial proceeded. 
 
 ' Dr. Linister,' I said, ' it is a very singular point in this case that 
 we have not to ask you whether you plead " guilty " or " not guilty," 
 because we have all seen you with our own eyes engaged in the 
 »ery act with which you are charged. You are guilty.' 
 
 'I am,' he replied calmly. 
 
 'Your companion is also guilty. I saw her practising upon you
 
 THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE. 24$ 
 
 those blandishments, or silly arts, by which women formerly lured 
 men. We also saw her on the point of receiving from you the 
 Great Secret, which must never be suffered to leave this Building' 
 
 4 Yes,' she said, ' if he is guilty, I am guilty as well.' 
 
 'As for you ' (I turned to Christine), 'you have been so short a 
 time in the world — only nineteen years or so — that to leave it will 
 cause little pain to yon. It is not as if you had taken root with all 
 the years of life which the others have enjoyed. Yet the Court 
 would fail in its duty did it not point out the enormity of your 
 offence. You were allowed to grow up undisturbed in the old 
 Museum ; you spent your time in developing a morbid curiosity 
 into the Past. You were so curious to see with your own eyes what 
 it was to outward show, that you cast about to find among the tran- 
 quil and contented People some whose minds you might disturb 
 and lead back to the restless old times. This was a most guilty 
 breach of confidence. Have you anything to say ? Do you cou^ 
 fess ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I confess.' 
 
 'Next, yon, with this woman and a Company who will also be 
 brought to Justice before long, began to assemble together, and tc 
 revive, with the assistance of books, pictures, dress, and music, z 
 portion of the Past. But what portion ? Was it the portion of 
 the vast majority, full of disease, injustice, and starvation ? Did 
 you show how the old Times filled the houses with struggling 
 needlewomen and men who refused to struggle any longer? Did 
 you show the Poor and the Unemployed ? Not at all. Yoe 
 showed the life of the Rich and the Idle. And so you revived a 
 longing for what shall never — never — be permitted to return — the 
 Period of Property and the Reign of Individualism. It was your 
 crime to misrepresent the Past, and to set forth the Ext eption an 
 the Rule. This must be made impossible for the future. WhaA 
 have you to say, Christine ?' 
 
 'Nothing. I told you before. Nothing. I have confessed. 
 Why keep on asking me ?' 
 
 She looked round the Court with no apparent fear. I supposed 
 was because she was so young, and had not yet felt any apprehen- 
 sion of the Fate which was now so near unto her. 
 
 'Dr. Linister,' I said, 'before considering its sentence, the Court 
 will hear what you may have to say.' 
 
 'I have but little to say,' he replied. 'Everybod)' in the College 
 .knows that I have alwaj'S been opposed to the methods adopted bj- 
 the Suffragan and the College. During the last few days, however^
 
 246 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 I have been enabled to go back once more to the half -forgotten 
 Past, and have experienced once more the Emotions of which you 
 have robbed Life. I have seen once more, after many, many years, 
 the Fighting Passion, the Passion of Private Rights, and ' — his 
 voice dropped to a whisper — ' I have experienced once more the 
 Passion of Love.' He stooped and kissed the woman Mildred on 
 the forehead. ' I regret that we did not succeed. Had we not 
 been caught, we should by this time have been beyond your power 
 — the Secret with us, to use or not, as we pleased — with a company 
 strong enough to defy you, and with the old Life again before us, 
 such as we enjoyed before you robbed us of it. We should have 
 welcomed the old Life, even under the old conditions : we welcome, 
 instead of it, the Thing which, only to think of, makes your hearts 
 almost to stop beating with fear and horror.' 
 
 He stopped. That was a speech likely to win indulgence from 
 the Court, was it not ? 
 
 I turned to the woman Mildred. 
 
 ' And you ?' I asked. 
 
 ' What have I to say ? The Present I loathe — I loathe — I 
 loithe ! I would not go back to it if you offered me instant release 
 with that condition. I have found Love. Let me die — let me die 
 — let me die !' 
 
 She clung to her lover passionately, weeping and sobbing. He 
 Boothed her and caressed her. John Lax, behind me, snorted. 
 
 Then I asked the girl Christine what she wished to say. 
 
 She laughed — she actually laughed. 
 
 ' Oh !' she said, ' in return for the past weeks, there is no punish- 
 ment which I would not cheerfully endure. We have had — oh ! 
 the most delightful time. It has been like a dream. Oh! Cruel, 
 horrid, wicked men ! You found such a Life in the old Time, and 
 you destroyed it ; and what have you given us in return ? You 
 have made us all equal who were born unequal. Go, look at the 
 sad and heavy faces of the People. You have taken away every- 
 thing, deliberately. You have destroyed all — all. You have left 
 nothing worth living for. Why, I am like Mildred. I would not 
 go back to the Present again if I could ! Yes, for one thing I 
 Mould — to try and raise a Company of Men — not sheep — and 
 hound them on to storm this place, and to kill — yes, to kill ' — the 
 girl looked so dangerous that any thought of mercy was impossible 
 — ' everyone who belongs to this Accursed House of Life !' 
 
 Here was a pretty outcome of study in the Museum ! Here 
 was a firebrand let loose among us straight from the bad old Nine-
 
 THE TRIAL A A J) SENTENCE. 247 
 
 •teenth Century ! And we had allowed this girl actually to grow up 
 in our very midst. 
 
 Well, she finished, and stood trembling with rage, cheeks burn 
 ing, eyes flashing — a very fury. 
 
 I invited the Court to retire to the Inner House, and took their 
 opinions one by one. 
 
 They were unanimous on several points — first, that the position 
 -of things was most dangerous to the Authority of the College and 
 the safety of the People ; next, that the punishment of Death 
 alone would meet the case ; thirdly, that, in future, the Museum, 
 with the Library and Picture Galleries, must be incorporated with 
 the College itself, so that this danger of the possible awakening 
 of memory should be removed. 
 
 Here, however, our unanimity ceased. For the Fellow, of whom 
 I have already spoken as having always followed the Arch 
 Physician, arose and again insisted that what had happened to-day 
 might very well happen again : that nothing was more uncertain 
 in its action, or more indestructible, than human memory ; so 
 that, from time to time, we must look for the arising of some 
 Leader or Prophet who would shake up the people and bring 
 them out of their torpor to a state of discontent and yearning 
 after the lost. "Wherefore he exhorted us to reconsider our Ad- 
 ministration, and to provide seme safety valve for the active spirits. 
 As to the Death of the three criminals, he would not — he could 
 not — oppose it. He proposed, however, that the mode of Death 
 should be optional. So great a light of Science as tho Arch 
 Physician had many secrets, and could doubtless procure himself 
 sudden and painless death if he chose. Let him have that choice 
 for himself and his companions ; and, as regards the giil, let her 
 be cast into a deep sleep, and then painlessly smothered by gas, 
 without a sentence being pronounced upon her at all. This leni- 
 ency, he said, was demanded by her youth and her inexperience. 
 
 In reply, I pointed out that, as regards our Administration, we 
 were not then considering it at all : that as for the mode of punish- 
 ment, we had not only to consider the criminals, but also tho People, 
 .and the effect of the punishment upon them : we were not only to 
 punish, but also to deter. I therefore begged the Court to go back 
 to one of the former methods, and to one of the really horrible and 
 barbarous, yet comparatively painless, methods. I showed that a 
 mere report or announcement, made in the Public Hall, that the 
 Arch Physician had been executed for Treason, would produce little 
 or no effect upon the public mind, even if it were added that the
 
 248 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 two women, Mildred and Christine, had suffered with him : that 
 our people needed to see the thing itself, in order to feel its true 
 horror and to remember it. If Death alone were wanted, I argued, 
 there were dozens of ways in which Life might be painlessly ex- 
 tinguished. But it was not Death alone that we desired — it was 
 Terror that we wished to establish, in order to prevent auother 
 such attempt. 
 
 ' Let them,' I concluded, ' be taken forth in solemn Procession to 
 the open space before the Public Hall — we ourselves will form part 
 of that Procession. Let them in that place, in the sight of all 
 the People, be publicly decapitated by the Porter of the House, 
 John Lax.' 
 
 There was a good deal of opposition, at first, to this proposition, 
 because it seemed barbarous and cruel ; but the danger which had 
 threatened the Authority — nay, the very existence — of the College, 
 caused the opposition to give way. Why, if I had not been on the 
 watch, the Secret would have been gone : the College would have 
 been ruined. It was due to me that my proposals should be ac- 
 cepted. The sentence was agreed upon. 
 
 I am bound to confess that, on being brought back to receive the 
 sentence of the Court, the Prisoners behaved with unexpected 
 Fortitude. The male criminal turned pale, but only for a moment, 
 and the two women caught each other by the hand. But they 
 offered no prayer for mercy. 
 
 They were led back to their prison in the South Porch, until the 
 necessary Preparations could be made. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 THE REBELS. 
 
 It is useless to regret a thing that is done and over ; otherwise, one 
 might very bitterly regret two or three steps in these proceedings. 
 At the same time, it may be argued that what happened was the 
 exact opposite of what we had every reason to expect, and there- 
 fore we could not blame ourselves with the event. After uncounted 
 years of blind obedience, respect for authority, and unquestioning 
 submission, had we not a full right to expect a continuance of the 
 same spirit? What we did not know or suspect was the violence 
 of the reaction that had set in. Not only had these revolutionariea 
 gone back to the Past, but to the very worst traditions of the Past.
 
 THE REBELS. 249 
 
 They had not only become anxious to restore these old traditions ; 
 they had actually become men of violence, and were ready to back 
 up their new conviction?! by an appeal to arms. We ought to have 
 arrested the conspirators as soon as they assembled ; we ought to 
 have locked them up in the Museum and starved them into sub- 
 mission ; we ought to have executed our criminals in private ; in 
 short, we ought to have done just exactly what we did not do. 
 
 While the Trial was proceeding, the new Party of Disorder were, 
 as John Lax reported, gathered together in the Museum, consider- 
 ing what was best to be done. 
 
 They now knew all. When John Lax, in the morning, arrested 
 the girl Christine, by my orders, he told her in plaiu language what 
 had already happened. 
 
 ' The Arch Physician is a Prisoner,' he said. ' He has been locked 
 up all night in my room, over the South Porch. I watched below. 
 Ha ! If he had tried to escape, my instructions were to knock him* 
 on the head, Arch Physician or not. The woman Mildred is a 
 Prisoner, as well. She was locked up with him. They may hold 
 each other's hands and look into each other's eyes, in my room, as- 
 much as they please. And now, young woman, it is your tarn.' 
 
 ' Mine V 
 
 'Yours, my gal. So march along o' me.' 
 
 'Why, what have I done that I should be arrested ?' 
 
 'That you shall hear. March, I say. You are my Prisoner. 
 You will stand your Trial — ah !' He smacked his lips to show his 
 satisfaction, and wagged his head. He was a true Child of the 
 People, and could not conceal his gratification at the discomfiture 
 of traitors. ' You will hear what the Court has to say — ah !' 
 Again he repeated this sign of satisfaction. 'You will be tried, 
 and you will hear the Sentence of the Court — ah, ah ! Do you 
 know what it will be ? Death !' he whispered. ' Death for all f 
 I see the sentence in the Suffragran's face. Oh ! he means it.' 
 
 The girl heard without reply ; but her cheeks turned pale. 
 
 'You won't mind much,' he went on. ' You hardly know what 
 it is to live. You haven't been alive long enough to feel what it 
 means. You're only a chit of a girl. If it wasn't for the example, 
 I dare say they would let you off. But they won't — they won't. 
 Don't try it on. Don't think of going on your knees, or anything 
 else. Don't go weeping or crying. The Court is as hard as nails.' 
 
 The honest fellow said this in his zeal for justice, and in the 
 hope that nothing should be said or done which might avert just 
 punishment. Otherwise, had this girl, who was, after all, joung
 
 250 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 and ignorant, thrown herself fully and frankly upon our mercy, 
 perhaps — I do not say — some of us might have been disposed to 
 spare her. As it was — but you have seen. 
 
 ' "We waste time,' he said. ' March !' 
 
 She was dressed, as I have already related, in a masquerade white 
 dress of the old time, with I know not what of ribbon round her 
 waist, and wore her hair floating down her back. 
 
 The old man — her grandfather, as she called him — sat in his arm- 
 chair, looking on and coughing. John Lax paid no attention to 
 him at all. 
 
 'Good-bye, grandad,' she said, kissing him. 'You will not see 
 me any more, because they are going to kill me. You will find 
 your inhaler in its place ; but I am afraid you will have to manage 
 for the future without any help. No one helps anybody in this 
 beautiful Present. They are going to kill me. Do you under- 
 stand ? Poor old man ! Good-bye !' 
 
 She kissed him again and walked away with John Lax through 
 the Picture Gallery, and so into the College Gardens, and by the 
 North Postern into the House of Life. 
 
 "When she was gone, the old man looked about him feebly. Then 
 he began to understand what had happened. His grandchild, the 
 nurse and stay of his feebleness, was gone from him. She was 
 going to be killed. 
 
 He was reckoned a very stupid old man always. To keep the 
 cases in the Museum free from dust was all that he could do. But 
 the revival of the Past acted upon him as it had acted upon the 
 others: it took him out of his torpor and quickened his percep- 
 tions. 
 
 ' Killed ?' he cried. ' My grandchild to be killed V 
 
 He was not so stupid as not to know that there were possible 
 protectors for her, if he could find them in time. Then he seized 
 his stick and hurried as fast as his tottering limbs would carry him 
 to the nearest field, where he knew the sailor, named John, or Jack, 
 Carera, was employed for the time among the peas and beans. 
 
 'Jack Carera!' he cried, looking wildly about him and flourish- 
 ing his stick. 'Jack! they are going to kill her! Jack — Jack 
 Carera!— I say,' he repeated. 'Where is Jack Carera? Call 
 him, somebody. They are going to kill her ! They have taken my 
 child a prisoner to the House of Life. I say, Jack — Jack ! Where 
 is he ? Where is he ?' 
 
 The men were working in gangs. Nobody paid the least heed to
 
 THE REBELS. 251 
 
 the old man. They looked up, saw an old man— his hat blown off, 
 his long white hair waving in the wind — brandishing wildly his 
 Btick, and shrieking for Jack. Then they went on with their work ; 
 it was no business of theirs. Docile, meek, und unquestioning are 
 the People. 
 
 By accident, however, Jack was within hearing, and presently 
 ran across the field. 
 
 ' What is it ?' he cried. ' "What has happened ?' 
 
 ' They have taken prisoner,' the old man gasped, ' the — the — 
 
 Arch Physician — and — Lady Mildred They are going to try 
 
 them to-day before the College of Physicians. And now they have 
 taken my girl — my Christine — and they will try her too. They 
 will try them all, and they will kill them all.' 
 
 ' That shall be seen,' said Jack, a fierce look in his eyes. ' Go 
 back to the Museum, old man, and wait for me. Keep quiet, if you 
 can : wait for me.' 
 
 In half an hour he had collected together the whole of the com- 
 pany, men and women, which formed their Party. They were 
 thirty in number, and they came in from work in the Regulation 
 Dress. 
 
 The sailor briefly related what had happened. 
 
 'Now,' he said, 'before we do anything more, let us put on the 
 dress of the nineteenth century. That will help us to remember 
 that our future depends upon ourselves, and will put heart in us.' 
 
 This done, he made them a speech. 
 
 First, he reminded them how, by the help of one girl alone, the 
 memory of the Past had been restored to them ; next, he bade 
 them keep in their minds the whole of that Past — every portion of 
 it — and to brace up their courage with the thought of it — how 
 delightful and desirable it was. And then he exhorted them to 
 think of the Present, which he called loathsome, shameful, vile, 
 and other bad names. 
 
 'We are in the gravest crisis of our fortunes,' he concluded. ' On 
 our action this day depends our whole future. Either we emerge 
 from this crisis free men and women, or we sink back into the 
 Present, dull and dismal, without hope and without thought. Nay, 
 there is more. If we do not rescue ourselves, we shall be very 
 speedily finished off by the College. Do you think they will ever 
 forgive us ? Not *30. As they deal with the Arch Physician and 
 these two ladies, so they will deal with us. Better so. Better a 
 thousand times to suffer Death at once, than to fall back into that 
 wretched condition to which we were reduced. What ! You, who
 
 353 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 have learned once more what is meant by Love, will you give that 
 up ? Will you give up these secret assemblies where we revive the 
 glorious Past, and feel again the old thoughts and the old ambitions^ 
 Never — swear with me — never I never ! never !' 
 
 They shouted together ; they waved their hands ; they were 
 resolved. The men's eyes were alive again ; in short, they were 
 back again to the Past of their young days. 
 
 ' First,' said Jack, ' let us arm.' 
 
 He led them to a part of the Museum where certain old weapons 
 stood stacked. Thanks to the Curator and to Christine, they had 
 been kept bright and clear from rust by the application of oil. 
 
 'Here are swords, lances, rifles — but we have no ammunition — 
 bayonets. Let us take the rifles and bayonets. So. To every 
 man one. Now, the time presses. The Trial is going on. It may 
 be too late in a few minutes to save the prisoners. Let us resolve.' 
 
 Two plans suggested themselves at once. The first of these was 
 to rush before the House of Life, break open the gates, and tear 
 the prisoners from the hands of the Judges. The next was to 
 ascertain, somehow, what was being done. The former counsel 
 prevailed, and the men were already making ready for the attack 
 when the great Bell of the House began to toll solemnly. 
 
 'What is that ?' cried the women, shuddering. 
 
 It went on tolling, at regular intervals of a quarter of a minute. 
 It was the knell for three persons about to die. 
 
 Then the doors of the South Porch flew open, and one of the 
 Bedells came forth. 
 
 ' What does that mean ?' they asked. 
 
 The Bedell walked across the great Garden and began to ring the 
 Bell of the Public Hall— the Supper Bell. 
 
 Instantly the People began to flock in from the workshops and 
 the fields, from all quarters, in obedience to a summons rarely 
 issued. They flocked in slowly, and without the least animation, 
 showing not the faintest interest in the proceedings. No doubt 
 there was something or other — it mattered not what— ordered by 
 the College. 
 
 ' Go, somebody," cried Jack— ' go, Hilda,' he turned to one of the 
 girls: ' slip on your working dress ; run and find out what is being 
 done. Oh ! if we are too late, they shall pay— they shall pay f 
 Courage, men ! Here are fifteen of us, well armed and stout. We 
 are equal to the whole of that coward mob. Piun, Hilda, 
 run !' 
 
 Hilda pushed her way through the crowd.
 
 THE REBELS. 35.1 
 
 ' What is it ?' she asked the Bedell oagerly. ' What has hap- 
 pened ?' 
 
 'You shall hear,' he replied. 'The most dreadful that can 
 happen — a thing that has not happened since. . . . But }'ou will 
 hear.' 
 
 He waited a little longer, until all seemed to be assembled. 
 Then he stood upon a garden-bench and lifted up his voice : 
 
 ' Listen ! listen ! listen !' he cried. ' By order of the Holy College, 
 listen ! Know ye all that, for his crimes and treacheries, the Arch 
 Physician has been deposed from his sacred office. Know ye all 
 that he is condemned to die.' There was here a slight movement 
 — a shiver — as of a wood, on a still autumn day, at the first breath 
 of the wind. 'He is condemned to die. He will be brought out 
 without delay, and will be executed in the sight of the whole 
 People.' Here they trembled. ' There are also condemned with 
 him, as accomplices in his guilt, two women — named respectively 
 Mildred, or Mildred Carera in the old style, and the girl Christine. 
 Listen ! listen ! listen ! It is forbidden to any either to leave the 
 place during the time of punishment, or to interfere in order to 
 etay punishment, or in any way to move or meddle in the matter. 
 Listen ! Listen ! Long live the Holy College !' 
 
 With that he descended and made his way back to the House ; 
 but Hilda ran to the Museum with the news. 
 
 'Why,' said Jack, 'what could happen better? In the House, 
 no oue knows what devilry of electricity and stuff they may have 
 readj r to hand. Here, in the open, we can defy them. Nothing 
 remains but to wait until the prisoners are brought out, and then — 
 then,' he gasped, 'remember what we were. Geoffrey, you wear 
 the old uniform. Let the spirit of your old regiment fire your 
 heart again. Ay, ay, you will do. Now, let us drill a little and 
 practice fighting together, shoulder to shoulder. Why, we are 
 invincible.' 
 
 Said I not that we might, if we ever regretted anything, regret 
 that we did not lock these conspirators in the Museum before we 
 brought out our prisoners to their death ? 
 
 The great Bell of the House tolled ; the People stood about in 
 their quiet way, looking on, apparently unmoved, while the car- 
 penters quickly hammered together a scaffold some six feet high. 
 
 Well. I confess it. The whole business was a mistake ; the 
 People were gone lower down than I had ever hoped ; save for the 
 shudder which naturally seized them on mention of the word 
 Death, they showed no sign of concern. H, even then, I had gone
 
 254 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 forth to see how they took it, I might have reversed the order, and 
 carried out the execution within. They wanted no lesson. Their 
 Past, if it were once revived, would for the most part be a past of 
 such struggling for life, and so much misery, that it was not likely 
 they would care to revive it. Better the daily course, unchanged, 
 unchangeable. Yet we know not. As my colleague in the House 
 said, the memory is perhaps a thing indestructible. At a touch, at 
 a flash of light, the whole of their minds might be lit up again ; 
 and the emotions, remembered and restored, might again seem 
 what once they seemed, worth living for. 
 
 Still the great Bell tolled, and the carpenters hammered, and 
 the scaffold, strong and high, stood waiting for the criminals ; and 
 on the scaffold a block, brought from the butcher's shop. But 
 the People said not a single word to each other, waiting, like sheep 
 —only, unlike sheep, they did not huddle together. In the chamber 
 over the Porch the prisoners awaited the completion of the pre- 
 parations ; and in the Museum the fifteen conspirators stood 
 waiting, armed and ready for their Deed of Violence. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE EXECUTION. 
 
 As the clock struck two, a messenger brought the news that the 
 Preparations were complete. 
 
 The College was still sitting in Council. One of the Physicians 
 proposed that before the Execution the Arch Physician should be 
 brought before us to be subjected to a last examination. I saw no 
 use for this measure, but I did not oppose it ; and presently John 
 Lax, armed with his sharpened axe, brought the Prisoner before 
 the Conclave of his late brethren. 
 
 'Dr. Linister,' I said, 'before we start upon that Procession from 
 which you will not return, have you any communication to make 
 to the College ? Your Researches ' 
 
 ' They are all in order, properly drawn up, arranged in volumes, 
 and indexed,' he replied. ' I trust they will prove to advance the 
 Cause of Science— true Science— not the degradation of Humanity/ 
 
 'Such as they are, we shall use them,' I replied, 'according to 
 the Wisdom of the College. Is there anything else you wish to 
 communicate ? Are there ideas in your brain which you would 
 wish to write down before you die ? Remember, in a few minutes
 
 THE EXECUTION. 255 
 
 you will be a senseless lump of clay, rolling round and round the 
 •world for ever, like all the other lumps which form the crust of the 
 Earth.' 
 
 'I have nothing more to communicate. Perhaps, Suffragan, you 
 are wrong about the senseless lumps of clay. And now, if you 
 please, do not delay the end longer, for the sake of those poor girls 
 waiting in suspense.' 
 
 I could have wished more outward show of horror— prayers for 
 forgiveness. No : Dr. Liuister was always, in his own mind, aa 
 Aristocrat. The aristocratic spirit ! How it survives even after 
 the whole of the Past might have been supposed to be forgotten ! 
 Well : he was a tall and manly man, and he looked a born leader — 
 a good many of them in the old days used to have that look. For 
 my own part, I am short and black of face. No one would call 
 me a leader born. Bat I deposed the Aristocrat. And as for him 
 — what has become of him ? 
 
 ' What would you have done for the People ?' I asked him, • that 
 would have been better for them than forgetfulness and freedom 
 from pain and anxiety ? You have always opposed the Majority. 
 Tell us, at this supreme moment, what you would have done for 
 them.' 
 
 'I know not now,' he replied. 'A month ago I should have 
 told you that I would have revived the ancient order ; I would 
 have given the good things of the world to them who were strong 
 enough to win them in the struggle : hard work, bad food, low 
 condition should have been, as it used to be, the lot of the in- 
 competent. I would have recognised in women their instinct for 
 fine dress : I would have encouraged the revival of Love : I would 
 have restored the Arts. But now — now ' 
 
 ' Now,' I said, ' that you have begun to make the attempt, you 
 recognise at last that there is nothing better for them all than 
 forgetfulness and freedom from anxiety, struggle, and thought.' 
 
 1 No so,' he replied. ' Not at all. I understand that unless the 
 Spirit of Man mounts higher continually, the earthly things must 
 grow stale and tedious, and so must perish. Yea : all the things 
 which once we thought so beautiful — Music, Art, Letters, Philo- 
 sophy, Love, Society — they must all wither and perish, if Life be 
 prolonged, unless the Spirit is borne continually upwards. And 
 this we have not tried to effect.' 
 
 ' The Spirit of Man ? I thought that old superstition was 
 cleared away and done with long ago. I have never found the 
 Spirit in my Laboratory. Have you ?'
 
 256 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 ' No, I have not. That is not the place to find it.' 
 
 ' Well. Since you have changed your mind ' 
 
 ' With us, the Spirit of Man has been sinking lower and lower. 
 till it is clean forgotten. Man now lives for himself alone. The 
 Triumph of Science, Suffragan, is yours. No more death ; no 
 more pain ; no more ambition : equality absolute and the ultimate 
 lump of human flesh incorruptible, breathing, sleeping, absorbing 
 food, living. Science can do no more.' 
 
 ' I am glad, even at this last moment, to receive this submission 
 of your opinions.' 
 
 'But,' he said, his eye flashing, 'remember. The Spirit of Man 
 ouly sleeps : it doth not die. Such an awakening as you have 
 witnessed among a few of us will someday — by an accident, by a 
 trick of memory — how do I know? by a Dream ! — fly through the 
 heads of these poor helpless sheep and turn them again into Men 
 and Women who will rend you. Now take me away.' 
 
 It is pleasant to my self-esteem, I say, to record that one who 
 was so great an inquirer into the Secrets of Nature should at such 
 a moment give way and confess that I was right in my administra- 
 tion of the People. Pity that he should talk the old nonsense. 
 Why, I learned to despise it in the old days when I was a boy and 
 listened to the flery orators of the Whitechapel Road. 
 
 The Procession was formed. It was like that of the Daily 
 March to the Public Hall, with certain changes. One of them 
 was that the Arch Physician now walked in the middle instead of 
 at the end : he was no more clothed in the robes of office, but in 
 the strange and unbecoming garb in which he was arrested. Before 
 him walked the two women. They held a book between them, 
 brought out of the Library by (Jbnstine, and one of them read 
 aloud. It was, I believe, part jf t'a*i ir^antation or fetish worship 
 of the old time : and as they read the tears rolled down their 
 cheeks ; yet they did not s'-eru to be afraid. 
 
 Before the Prisoners matched John Lax, bearing the dreadful 
 axe, which he had now polished until it was like a mirror or a 
 laboratory tool for brightness And on his face there still shone 
 the honest satisfaction of one whose heart is joyed to execute 
 punishment upon traitors. He showed this joy in a manner 
 perhaps unseemly to the gravity of the occasion, grinning as he 
 walked and feeling the edge of the axe with his fingers. 
 
 Trie way seemed long. I, for one, was anxious to get the 
 business over and done with. I was oppressed by certain fears — 
 or doubts — as if something would happen. Along the way oa
 
 THE EXECUTION. 257 
 
 either side stood the People, ranged in order, silent, dutiful, stupicL 
 I scanned their faces narrowly as I walked. In most there was 
 not a gleam of intelligence. They understood nothing. Here 
 and there a face showed a spark of uneasiness or terror. For 
 the most part, nothing. I began to understand that we had made 
 a blunder in holding a Public Execution. If it was meant te 
 impress the People, it failed to do so. That was certain, so far. 
 
 What happened immediately afterwards did, however, impress 
 them as much as they could be impressed. 
 
 Immediately in front of the Public Hall stood the newly-erected 
 scaffold. It was about six feet high, with a low hand-rail round 
 it, aiid it was draped in black. The block stood in the middle. 
 
 It was arranged that the Executioner should first mount the 
 Scaffold alone, there to await the criminals. The College of 
 Physicians were to sit in a semicircle of seats arranged for them 
 on one side of it, the Bedells standing behind them ; the Assistant* 
 of the College were arranged on the opposite side of the scaffold,. 
 The first to suffer was to be the girl Christine. The second, the 
 woman Mildred. Last, the greatest criminal of the three, the 
 Arch Physician himself. 
 
 The first part of the programme was perfectly carried out- 
 John Lax, clothed in red, big and burly, his red face glowing, 
 stood on the scaffold beside the block, leaning on the dreadful 
 axe. The Sacred College were seated in their places : the Bedells 
 stood behind them : the Assistants sat on the other side. Tht 
 Prisoners stood before the College. So far all went well. Theu 
 I rose and read in a loud voice the Crimes which had been com- 
 mitted and the sentence of the Court. When I concluded I 
 looked around. There was a vast sea of heads before me. In th-' 
 midst I observed some kind of commotion as of people who wen 
 pushing to the front. It was in the direction of the Museurr. 
 But this I hardly noticed, my mind being full of the Exampk 
 which was about to be made. As for the immobility of the 
 People's faces, it was something truly wonderful. 
 
 ' Let the woman Christine,' I cried, ' mount the scaffold and meet 
 her doom !' 
 
 The girl threw herself into the arms of the other woman, and 
 they kissed each other. Then she tore herself away, and the next 
 moment she would have mounted the steps and knelt before the 
 block, but .... 
 
 Tne confusion which had sprung up in the direction of the 
 Museum increased suddenly to a tumult. Right and left the 
 
 17
 
 258 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 people parted, flying and shrieking. And there came running 
 through the lane thm formed a company of men, dressed in 
 fantastic garments of various colours, armed with ancient weapons, 
 and crying aloud, ' To the Rescue ! To the Rescue !' 
 
 Then I sprang to my feet, amazed. Was it possible — could it be 
 possible — that the Holy College of Physicians should be actually 
 defied ? 
 
 It was possible ; more, it was exactly what these wretched 
 persons proposed to dare and to do. 
 
 As for what followed, it took but a moment. The men burst 
 into the circle thus armed and thus determined. "We all sprang to 
 our feet and recoiled. But there was one who met them with 
 equal courage and defiance. Had there been — but how could there 
 be ? — any more, we should have made a wholesome example of the 
 Rebels. 
 
 John Lax was this one. 
 
 He leaped from the scaffold with a roar like a lion, and threw 
 himself upon the men who advanced, swinging his heavy axe 
 around him as if it had been a walking-stick. No wild beast de- 
 prived of its prey could have presented such a terrible appearance. 
 Baffled revenge — rage — the thirst for battle — all showed them- 
 eelveB in this giant as he turned a fearless front to his enemies and 
 swung his terrible axe. 
 
 I thought the rebels would have run. They wavered ; they fell 
 back ; then at a word from their leader — it was none other than 
 the dangerous man, the sailor called Jack, or John, Carera — they 
 closed in and stood shoulder to shoulder, every man holding his 
 weapon in readiness. They were armed with the ancient weapon, 
 called the rifle, with a bayonet thrust on at the end of it. 
 
 ' Close in, my men ; stand firm !' shouted the sailor. ' Leave 
 John Lax to me. Ho ! ho ! John Lax, you and I will fight this 
 out. I know you. You were the spy who did the mischief. 
 Come on. Stand firm, my men ; and if I fall, make a speedy end 
 of this spy and rescue the Prisoners.' 
 
 He sprang to the front, and for a moment the two men con- 
 fronted each other. Then John Lax, with another roar, swung his 
 axe. Had it descended upon the sailor's head, there would have 
 been an end of him. But — I know little of fighting ; but it is 
 certain that the fellow was a coward. For he actually leaped 
 lightly back and dodged the blow. Then, when the axe had swung 
 round so as to leave his adversary's side in a defenceless position, 
 the disgraceful coward leaped forward and took a shameful advan-
 
 THE EXECUTION. 259 
 
 tage of this accident, and drove his bayonet up to the hilt in the 
 unfortunate Executioner's body ! 
 
 John Lax dropped his axe, threw up his arms, and fell heavily 
 backwards. He was dead. He was killed instantaneously. Any- 
 thing more terrible, more murderous, more cowardly, I never 
 witnessed. I know, I say, little of fighting and war. But this, I 
 must always maintain, was a foul blow. John Lax had aimed his 
 stroke and missed, it is true, owing to the cowardly leap of his 
 enemy out of the way. But in the name of common fairness his 
 adversary should have permitted him to resume his fighting posi- 
 tion. As it was, he only waited, cowardly, till the heavy axe 
 swinging round exposed John's side, and then stepped in and took 
 his advantage. This I call murder, and not war. 
 
 John Lax was quite dead. Our brave and zealous servant was 
 dead. He lay on his back ; there was a little pool of blood on the 
 ground : his clothes were stained with blood : his face was already 
 white. Was it possible ? Our servant — the sacred servant of the 
 Holy House — was dead ! He had been killed ! A servant of the 
 Holy College had been killed! What next? What dreadful 
 thing would follow ? And the Criminals were rescued ! 
 
 By this time we were all standing bewildered, horrified, in an 
 undignified crowd, Fellows and Assistants together. Then I spoke, 
 but I fear in a trembling voice. 
 
 1 Men !' I said. ' Know you what you do ? Go back to the 
 place whence you came, and await the punishment due to your 
 crime. Back, I say !' 
 
 ' Form in Square !' ordered the murderer, paying no heed at all 
 to my commands. 
 
 The Rebels arranged themselves — as if they had rehearsed the 
 thing for weeks — every man with his weapon ready : five on a side, 
 forming three sides of a square, of which the scaffold formed the 
 fourth. Within the Square stood the three prisoners. 
 
 ' Oh ! Jack !' cried Christine. ' We never dreamed of this.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Harry !' murmured Mildred, falling into the arms of the 
 rescued Dr. Linister. At such a moment, the first thing they 
 thought of was this new-found love. And yet there are some who 
 have maintained that human nature could have been continued by 
 Science on the old lines ! Folly at the bottom of everything ! 
 Folly and Vanity 1 
 
 ' Sir,' the Sailor man addressed Dr. Linister, ' you are now our 
 Chief. Take this sword and the command.' 
 
 He threw a crimson sash over the shoulders of him who but a 
 
 17—2
 
 2 6o THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 minute before was waiting to be executed, and placed in bis hands 
 a drawn sword. 
 
 Then the Chief — I am bound to say that he looked as if he wa3 
 born to command — mounted the scaffold and looked round with 
 eyes of authority. 
 
 'Let the poor People be dismissed,' he said. 'Bid them dis- 
 perse — go home — go to walk, and rest or sleep, or anything that ia 
 left in the unhappy blank that we call their mind.' 
 
 Then he turned to the College. 
 
 ' There were some among you, my former Brethren,' he said, 
 ' who in times past were friends of my own. You voted with me 
 against the degradation of the People, but in vain. We have often 
 communed together on the insufficiency of Science and the un- 
 wisdom of the modern methods. Come out from the College, my 
 friends, and join us. We have the Great Secret, and we have all 
 the knowledge of Science that there is. Cast in your lot with mine.' 
 
 Five or six of the Fellows stepped forth — they were those who 
 had always voted for the Arch Physician — among them was the 
 man who had spoken on the uncertainty of memor}'. These were 
 admitted within the line of armed men. Nay, their gowns of 
 office were taken from them and they presently received weapons. 
 About twenty or thirty of the Assistants also fell out and were 
 admitted to the ranks of the Rebels. 
 
 ' There come no more ?' asked the Chief. ' Well, choose for 
 yourselves. Captain Heron, make the crowd stand back — clear 
 them away with the butt ends of your rifles, if they will not go 
 when they are told. So. Now let the rest of the College return 
 to the House. Captain Carera, take ten men and drive them back. 
 Let the first who stops, or endeavours to make the others stop, or 
 attempts to address the People, be run through, as you despatched 
 the man John Lax. Fellows and Assistants of the College — back 
 to the place whence you came. Back, as quickly as may be, or ifc 
 will be the worse for you.' 
 
 The ten armed men stepped out with lowered bayonets. We 
 saw them approaching with murder in their eyes, and we turned 
 and fled. It was not a retreat : it was a helter-skelter run — one 
 over the other. If one fell, the savage Rebels prodded him in 
 fleshy parts and roared with laughter. Fellows, Assistants, and 
 Bedells alike — we fell over each other, elbowing and fighting,, 
 until we found ourselves at last — some with bleeding noses, some 
 with black eyes, some with broken ribs, all with torn gowns— 
 within the House of Life.
 
 THE EXECUTION. 261 
 
 Tho Robols stood outside the South Porch, laughing at our 
 discomfiture. 
 
 ' Wardens of the Great Secret,' said Captain Carcra, 'you have 
 no longer any Secret to guard. Meantime, until the pleasure of 
 the Chief, and the Sentence of the Court is pronounced, REMEMBER. 
 He who endeavours to escape from the House will assuredly meet 
 his death. Think of John Lax, and do not dare to resist the 
 authority of the Army.' 
 
 Then he shut the door upon us and locked it, and we heard the 
 footsteps of the men as they marched away in order. 
 
 This, then, was the result of my most fatal error. Had we, as 
 we might so easily have done, executed our prisoners in the House 
 itself, and locked up the Rebels in the Museum, these evils would 
 not have happened. It is futile to regret the past, which can never 
 be undone. But it is impossible not to regret a blunder which 
 produced such fatal results. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PRISONERS. 
 
 Thus, then, were the tables turned upon us. "We were locked up, 
 prisoners — actually the Sacred College, prisoners— in the House of 
 Life itself, and the Great Secret was probably by this time in the 
 hands of the Rebels, to whom the Arch Traitor had no doubt 
 given it, as he had proposed to do when we arrested him. Lost to 
 us for ever ! What would become of the College, when the Great 
 Mystery was lost to it ? Where would be its dignity ? Where 
 its authority ? 
 
 The first question — we read it in each other's eyes without 
 asking it — was, however, not what would become of our authority, 
 but of ourselves. What were they going to do with us ? They 
 had killed the unfortunate John Lax solely because he stood up 
 manfully for the College. What could we expect ? Besides, we 
 Lad fully intended to kill the Rebels. Now we were penned up 
 like fowls in a coop, altogether at their mercy. Could one have 
 believed that the Holy College, the Source of Health, the Main- 
 tainer of Life, would ever have been driven to its House, as to a 
 prison, like a herd of swine to their sty ; made to run head over 
 Lecls, tumbling over one another, without dignity or self-respect ; 
 shoved, bundled, cuffed, and kicked into the House of Life, and 
 locked up, with the promise of instant Death to any who should
 
 362 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 endeavour to escape ? Cut did they mean to kill us ? That was 
 the Question before us. "Why should they not ? We should 
 have killed the Arch Physician, had they suffered it ; and now 
 they had all the power. 
 
 I confess that the thought of this probability filled my mind 
 ■with so great a terror, that the more I thought of it the more my 
 teeth chattered and my knees knocked together. Nay, the very 
 tears — the first since I was a little boy— came into my eyes in 
 thinking that I must abandon my Laboratory and all my Re- 
 searches, almost at the very moment when the Triumph of Science 
 was well within my grasp, and I was ready— nearly — to present 
 Mankind at his last and best. But at this juncture the Assistants 
 showed by their behaviour and their carriage — now greatly want- 
 ing in respect — that they looked to us for aid, and I hastily called 
 together the remaining Fellows in the Inner House. 
 
 We took our places, and looked at each other with a dismay 
 which could not be concealed. 
 
 'Brothers,' I said, because they looked to me for speech, 'it 
 cannot be denied that the Situation is full of Danger. Never 
 before has the College been in danger so imminent. At this very 
 instant they may be sending armed soldiers to murder us.' 
 
 At this moment there happened to be a movement of many feet 
 in the nave, and it seemed as if the thing was actually upon us. 
 I sat down, pale and trembling. The others did the same. It wa3 
 several minutes before confidence was so far restored that we could 
 speak coherently. 
 
 'We have lived so long,' I said, ' and we have known so long the 
 pleasure of Scientific Research, that the mere thought of Death 
 fills us with apprehensions that the common people cannot guess. 
 Our superior nature makes us doubly sensitive. Perhaps — let us 
 hope — they may not kill us— perhaps they may make demands upon 
 us to which we can yield. They will certainly turn us out of the 
 College and House of Life and install themselves, unless we find a 
 way to turn the tables. But we may buy our lives ; we may even 
 become their assistants. Our knowledge may be placed at their 
 disposal ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' they all agreed. ' Life before everything. We will 
 yield to any conditions.' 
 
 ' The Great Secret has gone out of our keeping,' I went on. ' Dr. 
 Linister has probably communicated it to all alike. There goes the 
 whole Authority, the whole Mystery, of the College.' 
 
 'We are ruined !' echoed the Fellows in dismay.
 
 PRISONERS. 265 
 
 'Half-a-dozen of onr Fellows have gone over, too. There i9 not 
 now a Secret, or a Scientific Discovery, or a Process, concerning 
 Life, Food, Health, or Disease, that they do not know as well as 
 ourselves. And they have all the Power. What will they do with 
 it ? What can we do to get it oat of their hands ?' 
 
 Then began a Babel of suggestions arid ideas. Unfortunately 
 every plan proposed involved the necessity of someone risking or 
 losing his life. In the old times, when there were always men 
 risking and losing their lives for some cause or other, I suppose 
 there would have been no difficulty at all. I had been accustomed 
 to laugh at this foolish sacrifice of one's self — since there is but one 
 life— for pay, or for the good of others. Now, however, I confess 
 that we should have found it most convenient if we could have 
 persuaded some to risk — very likely they would not actually have 
 lost — their lives for the sake of the Holy College. For instance, 
 the first plan that occurred to us was this. We numbered, even 
 after the late defections, two hundred strong in the College. This 
 so-called ' Army ' of the Rebels could not be more than seventy, 
 counting the deserters from the College. Why should we not 
 break open the doors and sally forth, a hundred — two hundred — 
 strong, armed with weapons from the laboratory, provided with 
 bottles of nitric and sulphuric acid, and fall upon the Rebel army 
 suddenly while they were unprepared for us ? 
 
 This plan so far carried me away that I called together the whole 
 of the College — Assistants, Bedells, and all — and laid it before them. 
 I pointed out that the overwhelming nature of the force we could 
 hurl upon the enemy would cause so great a terror to fall upon 
 them, that they would instantly drop their arms and fly as fast as 
 they could run, when our men would have nothing more to do but 
 to run after and kill them. 
 
 The men looked at one another with doubtful eyes. Finally, one 
 impudent rascal said that as the Physicians themselves had most to 
 lose, they should themselves lead the assault. ' We will follow the 
 Suffragan and the Fellows,' he said. 
 
 I endeavoured to make them understand that the most valuable 
 lives should always be preserved until the last. But in this I 
 failed. 
 
 The idea, therefore, of a sortie in force had to be abandoned. 
 
 It was next proposed that we should dig a tunnel under the 
 Public Hall and blow up the Rebels with some of the old explosives. 
 But to dig a tunnel takes time, and then who would risk his lifo 
 with the explosive ?
 
 264 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 It was further proposed to send out a deputation of two or three, 
 who should preach to the Rebels and point out the terrible con- 
 sequences of their continued mutiny. But this appeared impractic- 
 able, for the simple reason that no one could be found to brave the 
 threat of Captain Carera of death to any who ventured out. 
 Besides, it was pointed out, with some reason, that if our messen- 
 gers were suffered to reach the Rebels, no one would be moved by 
 the threats of helpless prisoners unable to effect their own release. 
 As for what was proposed to be done with electricity, hand 
 grenades, dynamite, and so forth, I pass all that over. In a word, 
 we found that we could do nothing. We were prisoners. 
 
 Then an idea occurred to me. I remembered how, many years 
 before, Dr. Linister, who had always a mind full of resource and 
 ingenuity, made a discovery by means of which one man, armed 
 with a single weapon easy to carry, could annihilate a whole army. 
 If war had continued in the world, this weapon would have put an 
 immediate stop to it. But war ceased, and it was never used. 
 Now, I thought, if I could find that weapon or any account or 
 drawing of its manufacture, I should be able from the commanding 
 height of the Tower, with my own hand, to annihilate Dr. Linister 
 and all his following. 
 
 I proceeded, with the assistance of the whole College, to hunt 
 among the volumes of Researches and Experiments. There were 
 thousands of them. "We spent many days in the search. But we 
 found it not. When we were tired of the search we would climb 
 up into the Tower and look out upon the scene below, which was 
 full of activity and bustle. Oh ! if we could only, by simply 
 pointing the weapon, only by pressing a knob, see our enemies 
 swiftly and suddenly overwhelmed by Death ! 
 
 But we could not find that Discovery anywhere. There were 
 whole rows of volumes which consisted of nothing but indexes. 
 But we could not find it in any of them. And so this hope failed. 
 
 They did not kill us. Every day they opened the doors and 
 called for men to come forth and fetch food. But they did not 
 kill us. 
 
 Yet the danger was ever present in our minds. After a week 
 the College resolved that, 9ince one alone of the body knew the 
 Great Secret, that one being the most likely to be selected for exe- 
 cution if there were any such step taken, it was expedient that the 
 Secret should be revealed to the whole College. I protested, but 
 had to obey. To part with that Secret was like parting with all 
 my power. I was no longer invested with the sanctity of one who
 
 THE RECRUITING SERGEANT. 265 
 
 held that Secret ; the Suffragan became a simple Fellow of the 
 College ; he was henceforth only one of those who conducted Re- 
 searches into Health and Food and the like. 
 
 This suspense and imprisonment lasted for three weeks. Then 
 'the Rebels, as you shall hear, did the most wonderf al and most un- 
 expected thing in the world. Why they did it, when they had the 
 House of Life, the College, and all in their own hands, and could 
 have established themselves there and done whatever they pleased 
 with the People, I have never been able to understand. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE RECnUITING SERGEANT. 
 
 "When the College had thus ignominiously been driven into the 
 House and the key turned upon us, the Rebels looked at each other 
 with the greatest satisfaction. 
 
 • So far,' said Jack, ' we have succeeded beyond our greatest 
 hopes. The Prisoners are rescued ; the only man with any fight 
 in him has been put out of the temptation to fight any more ; the 
 Holy College are made Prisoners ; ourselves are masters of the field, 
 and certain to remain so ; and the People are like lambs — nothing 
 to be feared from them — nothing, apparently, to be hoped.' 
 
 They had been reduced to terror by the violence of the Rebels in 
 pushing through them ; they had rushed, away, screaming : those of 
 them who witnessed the horrible murder of John Lax were also 
 seized with panic and fled. But when no more terrifying things 
 befell, tbey speedily relapsed into thfir habitual indifference, and 
 crept back again, as if nothing had happened at all, to dawdle 
 away their time in the sunshine and upon the garden benches — 
 ■every man alone, as usual. That the Holy College were Prisoners 
 — that Rebels had usurped the Authority — affected them not a 
 whit, even if they understood it. My administration had been 
 even too successful. One could no longer look to the People for 
 .anything. They were now, even more rapidly than I had thought 
 possible, passing into the last stages of human existence. 
 
 ' Ye Gods !' cried Dr. Linister, swearing in the language of the 
 Past and by the shadows long forgotten. 'Ye Gods ! How Btupid 
 they have become ! I knew not that they were so far gone. Can 
 nothing move them ? They have seen a victorious Rebellion— a 
 Revolution, not without bloodshed. But they pay no heed. Will 
 nothing move them ? Will words? Call some of them together
 
 266 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 Jack. Drive them here. Let us try to speak to thom. It may be 
 that I shall touch some chord, which will recall the Past. It was 
 thus that you — we — were all awakened from that deadly Torpor.' 
 
 Being thus summoned, the People — men and women — flocked 
 about the scaffold, now stripped of its black draperies, and listened 
 while Dr. Linister harangued them. They were told to stand and 
 listen, and they obeyed, without a gleam in their patient, sheep-like 
 faces to show that they understood. 
 
 ' I can do no more !' cried Dr. Linister, after three-quarters of an 
 hour. 
 
 He had drawn a skilful and moving picture of the Past ; he had 
 depicted its glories and its joys, compared with the dismal realities 
 of the Present. He dwelt upon their loveless and passionless 
 existence ; he showed them how they were gradually sinking lower 
 and lower — that they would soon lose the intelligence necessary 
 even for the daily task. Then he asked them if they would join 
 his friends and himself in the new Life which they were about to 
 begin : it should be full of all the old things— endeavour, struggle, 
 ambition, and Love. They should be alive, not half dead. 
 
 More he said — a great deal more— but to no purpose. If they 
 showed any intelligence at all, it was terror at the thought of 
 change. 
 
 Dr. Linister descended. 
 
 ' It is no use,' he said. ' Will you try, Jack ?' 
 
 'Not by speaking. But I will try another plan.' 
 
 He disappeared, and presently came back again, having visited 
 the cellars behind the Public Halls. After him came servants, 
 rolling barrels and casks at his direction. 
 
 ' I am going to try the effect of a good drink,' said Jack. ' In 
 the old days they were always getting drunk, and the trades had 
 each its favourite liquor. It is now no one knows how long since 
 these poor fellows have had to become sober, because they could no 
 longer exceed their ration. Let us encourage them to get drunk. 
 I am sure that ought to touch a chord.' 
 
 This disgraceful idea was actually carried out. Drink of all 
 kinds — spiritR, beer, and every sort of intoxicating liquor — was 
 brought forth, and the men were invited to sit down and drink 
 freely, after the manner of the old time. 
 
 When they saw the casks brought out and placed on stands, each 
 ready with its spigot, and, besides the casks, the tables and benches
 
 THE RECRUITING SERGEANT. 267 
 
 spread for them — on the benches, pipes and tobacco— gleams of 
 intelligence seemed to steal into their eyes. 
 
 'Come,' said Jack, 'sit down, my friends ; sit down, all of you. 
 Now then, what will you drink ? What shall it be ? Call for 
 what you like best. Here is a barrel of beer : here is stout ; here 
 are gin, whisky, rum, Hollands, and brandy. What will you have ? 
 Call for what you please. Take your pipes. Why, it is the old 
 time over again.' 
 
 They looked at each other stupidly. The very names of these 
 drinks had been long forgotten by them. But they presently 
 accepted the invitation, and began to drink greedily. At seven 
 o'clock, when the Supper Bell rang, there were at least three 
 hundred men lying about, in various stages of drunkenness. Some 
 were fast asleep, stretched at their full length on the ground ; some 
 lay with their heads on the table ; some sat, clutching at the 
 pewter mugs ; some were vacuously laughing or noisily singing. 
 
 4 What do you make of your experiment ?' asked Dr. Linister. 
 1 Have you struck your chord ?' 
 
 1 Well, they have done once more what they used to do,' said 
 Jack despondently ; ' and they have done it in the same old way. 
 I don't think there could ever have been any real jolliness about 
 the dogs who got druuk as fast as ever they could. I expected a 
 more gradual business. I thought the drink would first unloose 
 their tongues and set them talking. Then I hoped that they 
 would, in this way, be led to remember the Past ; and I thought 
 that directly they began to show any recollection at all, I would 
 knock off the supply and carry on the memory. But the experi- 
 ment has failed, unless ' — here a gleam of hope shone in his face — 
 ' to-morrow's hot coppers prove a sensation so unusual as to revive 
 the memory of their last experience in the same direction — never 
 mind how many years ago. Hot coppers may produce that result.' 
 
 He ordered the casks to be rolled back to the cellars. Tbat 
 evening the Rebels, headed by Dr. Linister — all dressed in scarlet 
 and gold, with swords — and with them the ladies (they were called 
 ladies now, nothing less — not women of the People any more) — 
 came to the Public Hall, dressed for the evening in strange gar- 
 ments, with bracelets, necklaces, jewels, gloves, and things which 
 most of the People had never seen. But they seemed to take no 
 heed of these things. 
 
 1 They are hopeless,' said Jack ; ' nothing moves them. We shall 
 have to begin our new life with our own company of thirty.' 
 
 'Leave them to us,' said Mildred. ' Remember, it was by dress
 
 268 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 that Christine aroused us from our stagnant condition ; and it waa 
 by us that you men were first awakened. Leave them to us.' 
 
 After the evening meal, the ladies went about from table to 
 table, talking to the women. Many of these, who had belonged to 
 the working classes in the old Time, and had no recollection at all 
 or fine dress, looked stupidly at the ladies' dainty attire. But 
 there were others whose faces seemed to show possibilities of other 
 things, and to these the ladies addressed themselves. First, they 
 asked them to look at their fine frocks and bangles and things ; and 
 next, if any admiration was awakened, they begged them to take 
 off their flat caps and to let down their hair. Some of them con- 
 sented, and laughed with new-born pride in showing oif their long- 
 forgotten beauty. Then the ladies tied ribbons round their necks 
 and waists, put flowers into their hair, and made them look in the 
 glass. Not one of those who laughed and looked in the glass but 
 followed the ladies that evening to the Museum. 
 
 They came — a company of Recruits fifty strong, all girls. And 
 then the whole evening was devoted to bringing back the Past. It 
 came quickly enough to most. To some, a sad Past, full of hard, 
 underpaid work ; to some, a Past of enforced idleness ; to some, a 
 Past of work and pay and contentment. They were shop-girls, 
 work-girls, ballet-girls, barmaids — all kinds of girls. To every one 
 was given a pretty and becoming dress ; not one but was rejoiced 
 at the prospect of changing the calm and quiet Present for the 
 emotions and the struggles of the Past. 
 
 But they were not allowed to rest idle. Next day these girls 
 a^ain, with the ladies, went out and tried the effect of their new 
 dress and their newly-restored beauty upon other women first, and 
 the men afterwards. As they went about, lightly and gracefully, 
 sinking, laughing, daintily dressed, many of the men began to lift 
 their sleepy eyes, and to look after them. And when the girls 
 saw these symptoms, they laid siege to such a man, two or three 
 together ; or perhaps one alone would undertake the task, if he was 
 more than commonly susceptible. As for those on whom bright 
 eves, smiles, laughter, and pretty dresses produced no effect, they 
 let them alone altogether. But still Recruits came in fast. 
 
 Every night they did all in their power to make the Past live 
 a^ain. They played the old Comedies, Melodramas, and Farces in 
 the Public Hall ; they sang the old songs ; they encouraged the 
 Recruits to sing ; they gave the men tobacco and beer ; they had 
 dances and music. Every morning the original company of Rebels 
 eat in Council. Every afternoon the Recruits, dressed like soldiers
 
 A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION. 269 
 
 of the Past, were drawn up, drilled, and put through all kinds of 
 bodily exercises. 
 
 We were Prisoners, I said, for three weeks. 
 
 One morning, at the end of that time, a message came to us 
 from the 'Headquarters of the Army.'' This was now their official 
 style and title. The Chief ordered the immediate attendance of 
 the Suffragan and two Fellows of the College of Physicians. 
 
 At this terrifying order, I confess that I fell into so violent a 
 trembling — for, indeed, my last hour seemed now at hand — that I 
 could no longer stand upright ; and, in this condition of mind, I 
 was carried — being unable to walk, and more dead than alive — out 
 of the House of Life to the Headquarters of the Ilebel Army. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION. 
 
 I confess, I say, that I was borne in a half-fainting condition from 
 the House of Life. 
 
 ' Farewell, Suffragan, farewell !' said my Brethren of the College, 
 gathered within the South Porch, where a guard of armed Rebe's 
 waited for us. 'Your turn to-day, ours to-morrow! Farewell 1 
 Yet if any concessions can be made ' 
 
 Yes — yes — if any concessions could be made, only to save life, 
 they might be certain that I should make them. The two Fellows 
 of the College upon whom the lot — they drew lots — had fallen, 
 accompanied me, with cheeks as pallid and hearts as full of terror 
 as my own. 
 
 A company of twenty men, armed, escorted us. I looked on the 
 way for lines of People to witness the Downfall of the College and 
 the Execution of its Heads. I looked for the scaffold which we 
 had erected, and for the executioner whom we had provided. I 
 listened for the Great Bell which we had caused to be rung. 
 
 Strange ! There were no People at all : the way from the 
 House was quite clear: the People were engaged as usual at 
 their work. I saw no scaffold, and no executioner. I heard no- 
 Great Bell. Yet the absence of these things did not reassure me 
 in the least. 
 
 But everything, even in these short three weeks, was changed. 
 Nearly the whole of the open space before the Public Hall was now 
 covered with rows of gay-colourtd tents, over which flew bright
 
 270 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 little flags. They were quite small tents, meant, I learned after- 
 wards, for sleeping. Besides these there were great tents open at 
 the sides, and spread, within, with tables and benches, at which sat 
 men smoking tobacco and drinking beer, though it was as yet only 
 the forenoon. Some of them were playing cards, some were read- 
 ing books, and some — a great many — were eagerly talking. They 
 were all dressed in tunics of scarlet, green, and gray, and wore 
 leathern belts with helmets — the costume seemed familiar to me. 
 Then I remembered : it was the old dress of a soldier. Wonderful ! 
 After Science had lavished all her resources in order to suppress 
 and destroy among the People the old passions — at the very first 
 opportunity, the Rebels had succeeded in awakening them again in 
 their worst and most odious form ! 
 
 There were also large open spaces upon which, regardless of the 
 flower-beds, some of the men were marching up and down in line, 
 carrying arms, and performing evolutions to the command of an 
 officer. 
 
 Some of the men, again, lay sprawling about on benches, merely 
 looking on and doing nothing — yet with a lively satisfaction in their 
 faces. They ought to have been in the fields or the workshops. 
 And everywhere among the men, looking on at the drill, sitting in 
 the tents, walking beside them, sitting with them on the benches, 
 were the girls, dressed and adorned after the bad old false style, 
 in which the women pretended to heighten and set off what they 
 are pleased to call their charms by garments fantastically cut, the 
 immodest display of an arm or a neck, hair curiously dressed and 
 adorned, coloured ribbons, flowers stuck in their hats, and ornaments 
 tied on wherever it was possible. And such joy and pride in these 
 silly decorations ! No one would believe how these girls looked at 
 each other and themselves. But to think that the poor silly men 
 should have fallen into the nets thus clumsily spread for them ! 
 And this, after all our demonstrations to show that woman bears 
 in every limb the mark of inferiority, so that contempt, or at least 
 pitj', and not admiration at all, to say nothing of the extraordinarily 
 foolish passion of Love, should be the feeling of man for woman ! 
 However, at this moment I was naturally too much occupied with 
 my own danger to think of these things. 
 
 One thing, however, one could not avoid remarking. The Re- 
 bellion must have spread with astonishing rapidity. It was no 
 longer a company of fifteen or sixteen men — it was a great Army 
 that we saw. And there was no longer any doubt possible as to 
 the movement. The Past was restored. In the faces of the young
 
 A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION. 271 
 
 men and the girls, as we passed through them, I remarked, sick 
 •with terror as I was, the old, old expression which I hoped we had 
 abolished for ever — the eagerness, the unsatisfied desire, and the 
 Individualism. Yes — the Individualism. I saw on their faces, 
 plain to read, the newly-restored Rights of Property. 
 
 Why, as I walked through one of the groups, composed of men 
 and women, one of the men suddenly rushed forward and struck 
 another in the face with his fist. 
 
 1 She's my girl !' he cried hoarsely. ' Touch her if you dare.' 
 
 They closed round the pair and led them off. 
 
 ' Going to fight it out,' said one of our Guards. 
 
 To fight it out! What a Fall! To fight it out! To call a 
 woman — or anything else— your own after all our teaching ! And 
 to fight it out ! And all this arrived at in three weeks ! 
 
 These things I observed, I say, as one observes things in a dream, 
 and remembers afterwards. 
 
 My heart failed me altogether, and I nearly fainted, when we 
 stopped at a long tent before which floated a great flag on a 
 flagstaff. 
 
 They carried me within and placed me in a chair. As soon as 
 my eyes recovered the power of sight, I saw, sitting at the head of 
 the table, Dr. Linister, dressed in some sort of scarlet coat, with a 
 gash and gold lace. Then, indeed, I gave myself up for lost. It 
 was the Court, and we were called before it to receive sentence. 
 At his side sat half a dozen officers bravely dressed. The tent was 
 filled with ethers, including many women richly dressed — I observed 
 the woman Mildred, clad in crimson velvet, and the girl Christine, 
 in white, and I thought they regarded me with vindictive eyes. 
 
 When we were seated, Dr. Linister looked up — his face was 
 always grave, but it was no longer melancholy. There was in it, 
 now, something of Hope or Triumph or Resolution — I know not 
 what. 
 
 ' Brothers,' he said gravely, ' once my brothers of the College, I 
 have called you before us in order to make a communication of the 
 greatest importance, and one which will doubtless cause you con- 
 siderable surprise. What is the matter, Suffragan ? Hold him up, 
 6omebody. We desire that you should hear from our own lips what 
 we propose to do. 
 
 ' First— will somebody give Dr. Grout a glass of wine or brandy, 
 or something ? Pray be reassured, gentlemen. No harm, I promise, 
 shall happen to any of you. First, in a day or two the doors of the 
 House will be thrown open, and you shall be free again to renew
 
 272 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 your old life— if you still feel disposed to do so. I repeat that no 
 violence is intended towards you. Grout, pull yourself together, 
 man. Sit up, and leave off shaking. You will be able without 
 opposition, I say, to carry on again your Administration of the 
 People on the old lines. I trust, however, that you will consider 
 the situation, and the condition to which you have reduced unfor- 
 tunate Humanity, very seriously. 
 
 ' In short, though we are absolute masters of the situation, and 
 now command a Force against which it would be absurd for you to 
 contend, we are going to abandon the Field, and leave everything 
 to you.' Were we dreaming ? ' The Present is so odious to our 
 People: the surroundings of this place are so full of the horrible and 
 loathsome Present, that we have resolved to leave it altogether. 
 We find, in fact, that it will be impossible to begin the new Life 
 until all traces of your Administration are removed or lost. And 
 we shall be so much clogged by your Public Halls, your houses, 
 your system, and the miserable lives to which you have reduced 
 most of the men and women, that we must either send them — and 
 you — away, or go away ourselves. On the whole, it will give us 
 less trouble to go away ourselves. Therefore, as soon as our Pre- 
 parations are ready, we shall go. 
 
 1 We shall carry with us from the Common Stores all that we 
 shall be likely to want in starting our New Community. We shall 
 leave you to work out, undisturbed, the Triumph of Science, as 
 you understand it, upon these poor wretches, already more than 
 half stupefied by your treatment. 
 
 'We shall take with us all those whom by any means — by the 
 beauty of woman, the splendour of arms, the ancient dresses, the 
 ancient music, the ancient dances — we have been able to awaken 
 from their torpor. They amount in all to no more than a thousand 
 or so of young men and as many maidens. As for the rest, they 
 are sunk in a lethargy so deep that we have been unable to rouse 
 them. They are already very near to the condition which you 
 desire. 
 
 ' Yet I know not. These poor dull brains may be swiftly and 
 suddenly fired with some contagion which may at any time ruin 
 your calculations and destroy the boasted Triumph. Do not rely 
 too much upon the Torpor of this apparently helpless herd. You 
 had at the beginning a grand weapon with which to enslave them. 
 You could keep them alive, and you could save them from disease 
 — if only they were obedient. If they once get beyond the recol- 
 lection or the fear of either, what will you do ?
 
 A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION. 273 
 
 'Wc go' — he paused, and looked round the room, filled with the 
 «ager faces which brought the Past back to me — futile eagerness I 
 ever pressing on, gaining nothing, sinking into the grave before 
 there was time to gain anything ! That had come back — that ! 
 
 * We go,' he repeated — his face had long been so melancholy that 
 one hardly knew him for the same man, so triumphant was it now ; 
 
 * we go to repair the mistakes of many, many years. We go to 
 lead Mankind back into the ancient paths. It was not altogether 
 you, my friends, who destroyed Humanity: it was mainly the un- 
 fortunate Discovery of the German Professor. We were working 
 admirably in the right direction: we were making life longer, which 
 was then far too short: we were gradually preventing diseases, 
 which had been beyond the control of our wisest men : we were, 
 "by slow degrees, in the only true way — through the Revelation of 
 Nature — feeling our way to Health and Prolongation of Life. 
 Yet, whatever happened — whatever we might discover, the First 
 Law of Life — which we did not understand — was that to all things 
 earthly there must come an End. 
 
 ' Then happened the event by which that End was indefinitely 
 postponed. 
 
 ' Again, I say, I blame not you so much as the current of events 
 which bore you along. It seemed logical that everybody, able or 
 imbecile, weak or strong, healthy or sickly, skilled or incompetent, 
 should alike r*«p the Fruits of the Great Discovery. If he did so, 
 he was also entitled to his equal share in the world's goods. This 
 was the Right of Man, put forward as if there could be no question 
 at all about it. Every child was to inherit an equal share of every- 
 thing. It was a false and mischievous claim. What every child 
 inherited was the right of fighting for his share, without danger of 
 injustice or oppression. And the next step, after the Slaughter of 
 the Old, was the forbidding of more births. What that has done 
 for the world, look round and see for yourselves in the torpor of 
 the women and the apathy of the men. 
 
 ' The People by this time had learned the great lesson that yon 
 •wished to teach them — that Death and Disease were the only two 
 •evils. Then the College of Physicians took the place of the former 
 Priesthood, with its own Mysteries to guard and its gifts to dis- 
 ■fcibute. I do not deny that you — we — have done the work well. 
 The Prevention of the old Diseases is nearly perfect. Yet, at any 
 moment, a new class of Disease may spring up, and baffle all your 
 JScience.' 
 
 He had of tea talked in this way before, but never with so much 
 
 18
 
 274 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 authority. Yet he was going to abandon the whole — all that he. 
 and his friends had gained ! Were we dreaming ? His talk about 
 my Administration affected me not one whit. I knew all his argu- 
 ments. But the thought that he was going away, that he would 
 actually leave us in Power and Possession, filled me with amazement. 
 
 The others looked and listened as if he was SDeaking for them. 
 
 ' The Plight of Man to an equal share in everything has bcca 
 carried out. Look around you, and ask yourselves if the result is 
 satisfactory. I have often asked you that question. You have 
 replied that the Present is only a stage in the Triumph of Science. 
 What is the next stage ? To that question also you have a reply. 
 
 'Well, we give it back to you — the whole of your Present ; your 
 People, so stupid, so docile, so sluggish ; your House ; your College ; 
 your Secrecy ; your Mystery ; your Authority. Take them. You 
 shall have them again, to do with them as seems fit to you.' 
 
 At these words my heart welled over with joy. Would he really 
 — but on what conditions ? — would he really give us back the 
 whole ? 
 
 There were no conditions. He meant exactly what he said. He 
 would give everything back to us. Were we dreaming ? Were we 
 dreaming ? 
 
 'As for me and my friends, he said, 'we shall sally forth to 
 found a new Settlement, and to govern it by the ideas of the Past. 
 No one in our Settlement will be obliged to work ; but if he does 
 not, he shall certainly starve. Nobody will inherit any share to 
 anything except what he may win by struggle. There will be no 
 equality at all, but every man shall have what he can honestly get 
 for himself. No women shall be compelled to work ; but they 
 may work if they please, and at such things as they please. Many 
 old and long-forgotten things have been already revived ; such as 
 Love : we are in love again — we, who actually forgot what love 
 was like for all the years which we have ceased to number or to 
 chronicle. It is impossible to describe to you, my former Brother 
 Suffragan, who never even in the old days felt the passion— the 
 intense joy, the ecstasy — of Love.' The other men murmured 
 approval. ' But Love is a plant which, while it is hardy to endure 
 many things, withers and dies under certain conditions. It was 
 found to flourish in the old time, through all the changes of life : it 
 survived the time of youth and beauty : it lasted through middle 
 age ; it lived through the scenes of old age ; it lasted beyond 
 the grave. It endured changes of fortune, decay of health, 
 poverty, sickness, and even helplessness. But one thing kills-
 
 A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION. 27; 
 
 Love. It cannot endure the dull monotony which has followed 
 the Great Discovery : it cannot live long while the face and 
 form know no change ; while the voice never changes ; while 
 the dress, the hours of work, the work itself, the food, know no 
 change. These are things which kill the Flower of Love. Now, 
 all things desirahle — this is a saying too hard for you, Suffragan — 
 depend upon Love. With Love, they have revived : the courtesy 
 of man to woman ; the deference of the stronger to the weaker ; 
 the stimulus of work ; hope and ambition ; self-sacrifice ; unsel- 
 fishness ; devotion ; the sweet illusions of imagination — all these 
 things have been born again within the last three weeks. They 
 have been born again, and, with them, the necessity of an End. 
 All things earthly must have an end.' The Chief looked round 
 him : the men murmured approval, and tears stood in the eyes of 
 the women. ' We cannot let them die. And since the First Law 
 of Love is change — and the Certain End — we have resolved, 
 Suffragan, on forgetting the Grand Discovery.' Could this be our 
 late Arch Physician? Were we dreaming? 'We shall forego 
 any share in it. Only the chiefs here gathered together know as 
 yet what has been resolved. Little by little the truth will get 
 possession of our people that an End is ordained.' 
 
 We made no reply to this extraordinary announcement. What 
 could we say ? We only gasped with wonder. 
 
 ' You cannot understand this, Grout. I do not expect that yoa 
 should. For long years past I have understood that the Great Dis- 
 covery was the greatest misfortune that ever happened to mankind. 
 For all things must have an End : else all that is worth preserving 
 will wither and die. 
 
 ' I have nearly done. You can go back to your House, and you 
 can carry on your Administration as you please. But there is a 
 warning which we have first to pronounce before we let you go. 
 Your Ultimate Triumph of Science is too great a degradation of 
 Humanity to be endured. In years to come, when our successors 
 rule in our place, they shall send an army here to inquire into the 
 conduct of your Trust. If we find the People more brutish, deeper 
 sunk in apathy and torpor, that army will seize the House of Life 
 and the College of Physicians, and will destroy your laboratories, 
 and will suffer all — men and women of the People and Fellows of 
 the Sacred College alike — to die. Never forget this warning. Yoa 
 shall surely die. 
 
 ' One more point and I have done. I mention it with diffiience. 
 Grout, because I cannot hope for your sympathy. Your own con- 
 
 18-2
 
 176 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 -fictions on the subject were arrived at — you have often told ns — 
 when you were a boy, and were based upon the arguments of a 
 Sunday-morning Spouter in the Whitechapel Road. I believe that 
 John Lax, deceased, was the Learned Authority who convinced 
 you. Therefore, you will not understand me, Grout, when I tell 
 you that we have found the Soul again — the long-lost Soul. All 
 «arthly things must have an End. But there are things beyond 
 that end. Most astonishing results are likely to follow from this 
 discovery. Long thought and great hopes have already begun to 
 spring up in our minds. Our people are reading again — the old 
 Literature is full of the Soul : they are reading the great Poets of 
 ©Id, and are beginning to understand what they mean. I cannot 
 make this intelligible to you, Grout. You will not understand all 
 that this discovery brings with it. You will never, never under- 
 stand that it is a Discovery ten times— a million times — greater and 
 better for mankind than the Great Discovery itself, of which you 
 and I alone held the Secret. 
 
 ' I take that Secret with me because I cannot forget it. But, I 
 repeat, we shall never use it. Soon, very soon, the new active life 
 will make men once more familiar with the old figure who carried 
 a scythe. There will be accidents ; new diseases will arrive ; age 
 will creep slowly on — the Great Discovery will be quietly forgotten 
 in minds which you had made so dull that they could not under- 
 stand when we rescued them what it meant. But we, the leaders, 
 shall know well that their happiness must have an End. All 
 earthly things,' he repeated, for the fifth time, ' must have an End. 
 That is all, Grout ; but when you hear from me again, unless the 
 Administration is changed indeed, the People — the College — and 
 you, my Suffragan — shall all die together. You shall die, Grout ! 
 You and your friends shall die ! And so, Farewell. Guard ! 
 Take them back to the House.' 
 
 We returned to the House relieved of our terror, but much 
 amazed. I had heard, in the old days, how men would be so 
 blockishly possessed by the thought of a woman — a creature in- 
 ferior to man — that they would throw away everything in the 
 world for her sake. And now Dr. Linister himself — with all those 
 who followed after him — had given up everything ; because if Life 
 goes, what is there left ? And for the sake of a woman I What 
 could it mean ? How to explain this madness on any scientific 
 theory ? We told our Colleagues, and they marvelled ; and some 
 euspected a trick. But Dr. Linister was not a man to play tricks. 
 As for the Soul and all that rubbish, if Dr. Linister was so mad as
 
 A MOST UNEXPECTED CONCLUSION. 277 
 
 to give up everything for a woman, he might just as well adopt all 
 the old Creeds together. That was no concern of ours. And aa 
 for this precious discovery about things earthly coming to an end, 
 what had that to do with the calm and tranquil state of pure 
 existence which we were providing for mankind ? Why should 
 that ever have an end ? 
 
 That threatened army has never come. For some time the 
 thought of it gave us considerable uneasiness. But it has never 
 come ; and I believe, for my own part, that now it never will 
 come. As for the People, there has been no such outbreak of 
 Memory as was prophesied. On the contrary, they have 
 approached more and more, in docility, meekness, mindlessness, 
 and absence of purpose, to the magnificent Ideal which I cherish 
 for them. I know not when it will arrive ; but the time is as 
 certain to come as the morrow's sun is to dawn, when the last stage 
 of Humanity will be reached — an inert mass of breathing, feeding, 
 sleeping flesh, kept by the Holy College — the Triumph of Science 
 — free from Decay and Death. 
 
 They went away in the afternoon, three or four days later. 
 They took with them everything from the Public Stores which 
 they thought would be useful : provisions of all kinds ; wine, 
 beer, and cider in casks ; stuff for clothing ; furniture ; everything 
 that they could think of. They took the pictures out of the 
 Gallery, the books from the Library, and nearly everything that 
 was in the Museum. From the laboratory in the House they took 
 a great number of volumes and a quantity of instruments. At the 
 last moment, nearly all the Assistants and the workmen agreed to 
 join them ; so that we were left with numbers greatly reduced. 
 It is impossible to enumerate the vast quantities of things which 
 they took with them. The waggons in which they were packed 
 covered a couple of miles of road : the drivers were taken from 
 the People, and ordered to discharge their duty ; and, as they never 
 came back, these poor wretches probably perished with the Rebels. 
 They went forth in perfect order : first, an advance guard of 
 mounted men ; then a portion of the main body, among whom 
 rode the Chief with his staff. After them came the women, some 
 riding on horseback, among whom were the woman Mildred and 
 the girl Christine, showing in their faces that foolish and excited 
 happiness which is so different from the sweet tranquillity which 
 we have introduced. Indeed, all the women [were beyond tbsnL-
 
 2 7 8 THE INNER HOUSE. 
 
 selves with this silly happiness. They sang, they laughed, they 
 talked. Some sat in carriages of all kinds, some in waggons ; 
 some walked ; and, what with their chatter and their dresses, one 
 would have thought them a company of monkeys dressed up. 
 After the women came the waggons, and, lastly, the rest of the 
 men. I forgot to say that they had bands of music with them — 
 drums, fifes, cornets, and all kinds of musical instruments — and 
 that they carried flags, and that the men sang as they marched. 
 
 Whither they went, or what became of them — whether they 
 carried out the desperate resolve of giving up the Great Discovery 
 —I know not. They marched away, and we returned to our 
 former life. 
 
 One thing more I must relate. 
 
 We— that is, the College— were seated, reassured as to our safety, 
 watching this great Departure. 
 
 Five minutes or so after the women had passed, I observed two 
 of my own friends— learned Fellows of the College, who had always 
 followed my lead and voted with me — eagerly whispering each 
 other, and plucking one another by the sleeve. Then they suddenly 
 rose and pulled off their black gowns, and fled swiftly in the 
 direction of the waggons and carriages where the women sat. 
 
 We have never seen or heard ofj these two unfortunate men 
 since. 
 
 I am now myself the Arch Physician.
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 I STOOD to-day beside the grave of my dear old friend Paul 
 
 (his name will be known by his friends, and for those who were 
 not bis friends his name may remain unknown). Tbe vicar read 
 the funeral service while the birds were singing on the trees, the 
 sun shone on the laburnum and the lilac, and from below tho cliff 
 came the roll of the waves along the shore. His remains were 
 laid beside those of his wife, and while the words of the solemn 
 service fell upon my ears, I was thinking how it would have fared 
 with Paul had it not been for his marriage. It will harm no one 
 now to tell the story of that marriage. 
 
 Paul died at the age of fifty-two, a time of life when most men 
 look forward to many more years of successful work. There was 
 only one reason why he should not have lived to three-score years 
 and ten — namely, that his wife was dead. She died twelve months 
 before him, and he could not endure life without her companion- 
 ship. He looked more than fifty-two, because he had gone com- 
 pletely gray, and he stooped and walked slowly, as one who is 
 drawing near to the grave. "When first he met his wife, in the 
 year 1857, he was— well, he was twenty-five years of age to begin 
 with. It seems as if merely to be twenty-five is enough, but I 
 suppose some other things are desirable as well. He had just been 
 called to the Bar ; he was a fellow of his college, a hard-headed 
 reader, and an athlete, such as athletes then were. That is to say, 
 he neither ran nor leaped, and took no heed of running or leaping, 
 but he tugged a manful oar in his college boat, went to Switzerland 
 after every 'long,' climbed high mountains, and made light of in- 
 accessible peaks, and at home took great walks. He was popular 
 because he possessed a pleasant voice, a pleasant face, and a 
 pleasant manner ; because he was not small and petty in speech 
 or thought ; and because he was strong. Nobody among under- 
 graduates is bo popular as the man who is strong. It was also
 
 a8o EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 known to Paul's friends that he was ambitious as well as strong. 
 In order to further his ambitious aims, he read mathematics, and 
 came out in the first half-dozen wranglers. Though he had no 
 real genius or love for that many-headed science, yet he knew that 
 a good degree and a fellowship are good things for a barrister to 
 begin with. They recommend a man. Further, in order to acquire 
 facility in speaking, he spoke regularly at the Union, and learned 
 to speak well. Whatever he attempted, he either did well or 
 abandoned altogether. 
 
 For instance, he played racquets admirably, but would never 
 play billiards ; he played whist well, but would not play chess % 
 and in conversation he spoke only about things in which he was 
 tolerably well ' posted.' There are in every generation of under- 
 graduates two or three men such as Paul, who have determined 
 beforehand for themselves that they have a great career before 
 them : it will generally be found that they are not mistaken. 
 
 I have said that in the year 1857 Paul was twenty-five years of 
 age. It was in that year that he took the step which subsequently 
 led to his early retirement. And it happened in this way. 
 
 In the month of September we started together upon a walking, 
 expedition. In those days we had a project for walking round the 
 coast of Great Britain, taking a fortnight here and another there, 
 according to season and opportunity, and reckoning that we should 
 complete the task — allowing for sinuosities and creeks — in three 
 hundred and seventy-three years exactly. We carried a white 
 round pebble. At the end of each walk, we buried it and marked 
 the place : at the beginning of a new walk we dug it up again. By 
 this method one was quite sure of passing over the whole ground 
 without the possibility of self-deception. We began very well, with, 
 capital weather and high spirits. On the afternoon of the third day 
 an accident happened of a very common and uninteresting nature. 
 Paul twisted his ankle on a loose stone. We were then about 
 a mile and a half distant from a certain small village through, 
 which we had to pass, but we had not intended to rest a night there- 
 When we reached it, however, the trouble of the ankle became 
 so bad that it was absolutely necessary to stop. Fortunately we. 
 found a decent inn, with better accommodation than might have 
 been expected. It was an old thatched and rustic village public- 
 house, to which had been built a new modern wing containing three 
 or four bedrooms, a coffee-room, and a billiard-room. 
 
 After laying my man upon the sofa in the coffee-room, I went 
 out to explore the place. It was more considerable than I had
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 23 r 
 
 expected ; there was a single long street running up a gentle hill 
 from the seashore ; on the top of the hill was a church with an 
 ancient square rubble tower and a square brick 'temple' of the 
 period of George II. ; beyond the church were two roads, and beside 
 them certain villas, which looked very pretty amid the woods and 
 trees and gardens. At the lower end of the town was the port. 
 Here the sea runs inland and makes a little creek for the recep- 
 tion of a stream ; they have built out a brick jetty and constructed 
 a wharf, along which are generally lying half a dozen small vessels \ 
 a few boats were hauled upon the beach, with two or three fishing- 
 Bmacks and a row of fisher-folk's cottage*, the women sitting at 
 work in the doors, the men leaning against posts, and the children 
 playing barefooted on the sand. Looking up the creek, one saw 
 trees and fields and houses behind the masts, producing effects 
 unusual in England ; you can see it on the Dart, and at Bridgwater, 
 and on the quay at Yarmouth. 
 
 There was not much to observe. I walked to the end of the 
 jetty, where three ancient mariners were sitting in a row, each with 
 a pipe in his mouth. Far out to sea, one saw a steamer, low down 
 on the horizon, the following of smoke looking as solid as the hull 
 and many miles long ; so that one wondered why the craft, with 
 this top-heavy gear, did not capsize. There was a gentle ripple on 
 the water, and a soft westerly breeze. On the right of the creek 
 there rose a bold headland, such as are so common on the white 
 coasts of Albion ; on the left the land was low for a mile or two, 
 and then rose gradually, and there was a great bay with a sweep of 
 cliff after cliff, very beautiful. As I looked there came swiftly 
 round the headland a little boat — not a common dingy or fisher- 
 man's boat, but a miniature yacht — quite a dainty little craft, flying 
 foresail and mainsail. A girl was steering her, and a boy sat beside 
 the mast, ready to lower sail. The boat ran merrily up the creek, 
 alongside the jetty. The boy lowered sail, unshipped mast and 
 rudder, and tied the painter with the quickness of him who under- 
 stands his work. Then both sprang out and ran up the steps of 
 the jetty, and one of the fishermen touched his hat, and went slowly 
 down to take the boat to her moorings. The pair were clearly 
 brother and sister ; he a lad of eighteen, she a year or two older, 
 perhaps twenty-one. They were curiously alike, and the girl's face 
 was her brother's, glorified. There is no other word which can ex- 
 press the difference between the two faces. She had the same face 
 as her brother, but glorified. Every face, if you come to think of 
 it, has its best and most delightful type in the womanly form ; in
 
 282 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 the old days every god bad a corresponding goddess, though, some- 
 times, so great became tbe admiration and love of the goddess, 
 that the god dropped out and was forgotten. Who remembereth the 
 male Astarte ? Now, you may buy a block of marble and commis- 
 sion almost any sculptor to carve out of it a boy's head, beautiful, 
 brave, and manly. But, if you want the girl's head corresponding 
 to this, you must find out a sculptor of poetic temperament, and 
 you will not get what you want unless you do find the right man. 
 This girl, then, had the same face as her brother, but it was different. 
 Tbus, the boy's hair was light and curly, hers was darker ; his eye8 
 were a light blue, and hers a dark blue and deeper ; his mouth was 
 weak, and hers was strong ; in her walk and bearing there was more 
 strength and character than seemed to belong to her brother. All 
 these things I did not observe at the moment when she passed 
 quickly up the pier, but I found them out afterwards. As for her 
 figure, she was nearly as tall as her brother, who was certainly five 
 feet eight, and in shape she resembled the goddess Artemis, who 
 was of thinner and slighter build, and had a more slender waist 
 than Aphrodite. Her admirers, in fact, invented the corset and the 
 practice of tight-lacing. 
 
 The girl passed me with just the slight glance of curiosity which 
 one bestows upon an unexpected stranger, and I presently left the 
 pier and walked slowly back to our inn, wondering why girls so 
 beautiful are so rarely seen in the world. Do they all live in the 
 country and blush unseen beside the hedges, like the wood- 
 anemones? Why, just to look upon such a face fills the mind 
 with all kinds of sweet fancies. But she passed before me and was 
 gone, and only the remembrance of her was left. 
 
 In the evening after dinner we took refuge in the billiard-room, 
 as there was nothing at all in the house to read. The only occu- 
 pant of the room was the young fellow whom I had seen in the 
 boat with the extraordinarily beautiful girl. He was knocking the 
 balls about for amusement. There was no marker. I observed 
 that he blushed violently when I invited him to play a game — more 
 violently, that is, than a boy of eighteen ought to blush. He ac- 
 cepted, however, and we played five games, Paul watching the 
 play in a chair. Presently we began to talk about the village. 
 The boy said that, partly because it was eight miles from a station, 
 aud partly because there were no lodgings except at the inn, visitors 
 very rarely found their way to the place. As for society, he said, 
 blushing crimson — we could not say why — a few people lived in 
 the villas beyond the church outside the little town — his own people
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 2S3 
 
 among them ; but it was a very dull and quiet place. For his own 
 part— but here he blushed again and did not complete bis sentence. 
 
 'For your own part,' said Paul, 'you do not desire to hear 
 anything but the beating of the waves on the shore and the cry of 
 the sea-birds all your life.' 
 
 'And yet,' the boy replied, with a touch of sadness in his voice, 
 *I do not know how I am to get anything else. But that does not 
 matter to you,' he added quickly. 
 
 Then, as if afraid of saying more than he desired to say, he 
 wished us good-night, and went away. 
 
 'Why can't he expect anything else?' Paul asked. 'The boy 
 wants to go to sea, I suppose, or on the stage, or into the army, or 
 to become a poet, or to do something which his father won't let him 
 do. He's a pretty pink and white sort of boy ; sometimes they 
 turn out well, that sort of make. And he's a gentleman. Well, I 
 shall go and put a compress on my ankle. Help me upstairs, old 
 man.' 
 
 He went upstairs and I returned to the coffee-room. It was then 
 about ten o'clock. The place was so quiet and still that the silence 
 oppressed me. There are times when one cannot bear a complete 
 silence. I even opened the door for the purpose of hearing the low 
 buzz of voices frcm the bar, where half-a-dozen men were slowly 
 and solemnly drinking and talking. 
 
 Then I heard steps outside the house and in the hall, and a man 
 appeared at the door. He peered round, saw me sitting beside a 
 couple of candles, hesitated for a moment, and then came in. It 
 was a public room, and I suppose he had a perfect right to use it if 
 he pleased ; but I resented his intrusion. When he took off his 
 hat I perceived by the light of my two candles that he was per- 
 fectly bald, that his whiskers and eyebrows were white, that his 
 eyes were red, his lips thick, his cheeks as fiercely red as his eyes, 
 and his nose swejen. I declare that the very first aspect of this 
 man made me tremble and shiver ; I cannot tell why — it may have 
 been a presentiment of mischief, yet he did no harm to me. Some- 
 times I have thought that this natural loathing was caused by the 
 inexpressible wickedness of the man's face. Why he looked so 
 wicked I cannot tell ; it may have been some evil thought lurking 
 like a devil in his eyes. I do not know what it is that betrays the 
 evil disposition of a man ; certain I am, however, that the man's 
 face was altogether most remarkably evil. Now you cannot, in the 
 coffee-room of an inn, say to a stranger, even if he carries hoofs 
 and a tail, ' Sir, your appearance impresses me with so unfavour-
 
 284 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 able an idea of your moral character that I must request von to 
 withdraw, or at least not to speak to me.' I did not say that to 
 him, and he did not withdraw, but opened a conversation with me. 
 
 'I think,' he said — his voice was raspy and grating — 'I think 
 that I saw young Robert Reeve leave the inn a little while ago.' 
 
 'There was a young gentleman here,' I replied, 'who played a 
 game of billiards with me, and is gone.' 
 
 ' Yes, the same, the same. Nice boy, sir, ain't he ?' 
 
 ' He appears to be so.' 
 
 ' Are you a friend of his — of the family, may I ask ?' He leaned 
 forward and grinned horribly. Why did he grin ? ' An old friend, 
 perhaps, of former and happier times? Yet not quite old enough, 
 I should say ' 
 
 ' I have not the pleasure of knowing them.' 
 
 1 Ah !' He leaned back in his chair and breathed another sigh, 
 apparently of satisfaction. ' Ah ! a thousand pities for him, poor 
 boy ; but of course it is worse, much worse, for the girl. But you 
 do not know the family yet. You would be interested ' 
 
 ' Not at all,' I said. ' Pray do not waste village scandals upon 
 me.' 
 
 ' Village scandals ? My dear sir, you are greatly mistaken — 
 greatly mistaken. It is a world-wide — why, I could tell scandals — 
 why, I could tell you things about this village which ' 
 
 ' Good-night, sir.' 
 
 I interrupted his confidences, not on account of dislike to village 
 gossip, which might be interesting, but because the fellow looked 
 so malignant that I could no longer"e*ndure his company. 
 
 ' You are wrong, sir,' he said. ' As a stranger you are wrong 
 to go ; I could have told you some very interesting things indeed 
 about the people in this town. Mary — Mary — I say. Some more 
 whisky, girl. Very interesting things indeed I could have told 
 you.' 
 
 I perceived then that the old fellow had been drinking, which 
 was perhaps the cause of his familiarity and his strange confidences. 
 However, I left him. 
 
 In the morning, Paul's ankle was still swollen, and I agreed to 
 leave him and go on with the walk alone. He, for his own part, 
 thought he would send to town for some books and stay where he 
 was. The place was quiet, the inn was comfortable, he should be 
 neither lonely nor dull. I thought of the boy — this Robert Reeve, 
 if that was the name — perhaps he would turn up at the inn ; and 
 then I thought of the girl. There was certainly one possibility
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 285 
 
 •which might make a stay at this place very far from dull. But I 
 «aid nothing about her. 
 
 After breakfast I strapped my knapsack and started for the 
 solitary walk of five-and twenty miles a day for a fortnight or so. 
 "When one is young so many friends are made at every halt that 
 there is no time to feel lonely. My way took me first over the 
 high headland of which I have spoken. Halfway up the hill I 
 passed, sitting on the grass, my acquaintance of the previous night. 
 He was sober, apparently, aud yet somehow he looked more malig- 
 nant than before. 
 
 ' Good morning, sir,' he said, without, apparently, bearing any 
 malice for my abruptness of the previous evening ; 'you are off ? 
 And alone, I see. Your friend remains behind, I suppose.' 
 
 ' He remains behind.' I pushed on, not caring to converse any 
 longer with the man. 
 
 ' Ah ! Don't be in a hurry, my good sir. Stop half a minute 
 cow. You wouldn't listen to me last night. Well, I forgive you ; 
 I always forgive people ; though I do think it is a bit rude to go 
 ■olE to bed when a gentleman offers to tell you all there is to be 
 told.' 
 
 'Pardon me, you offered to tell me the scandals of the town. I 
 am not fond of Paul Pry in a country village.' 
 
 ' There again,' he said, 'you do me an injury. Without inten- 
 tion, doubtless — without intention,' he smiled in a ghastly way. 
 * So your friend stays. It is to be hoped that young Robert Reeve, 
 as he calls himself, will not thrust himself upon your friend. 
 Otherwise, it will be my duty to warn your friend solemnly ; yes, 
 though I knew young Reeve's father at what I may call a very 
 critical period of his life, it will be my duty to warn him.' 
 
 ' It seems to me,' I said, with as much sternness as is possible at 
 five-aud-twenty — ' it seems to me that you are proposing to meddle 
 in what does not belong to you.' 
 
 1 You do me another injury, young man,' he replied, spreading 
 out his hands. ' You do me another injury. But I forgive you. 
 It is from ignorance. You do not know me, indeed you do not. 
 I forgive everybody ; I am accustomed to injury. People have all 
 my life been resolved to injure me, who never harmed a fly — not 
 a fly.' 
 
 I left this man and pushed on my way up the hill. Presently I 
 came to the top — not a very lofty eminence after all — and sat down. 
 PJelow uie was the little port up the creek, with the fishing boats, 
 and, if one could have seen them, the fishermen themselves. I re-
 
 286 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 member thinking that if one had to choose a profession, one might 
 think twice about becoming a fisherman. It is, to be sure, a hard 
 life ; a good many get drowned ; there is too much moaning of the 
 harbour bar, and more rolling up of the night rack than is pleasant j 
 and fish do certainly smell ; and it is very often horribly cold at 
 sea ; and nobody can pretend to dine in comfort in a tossing boat 
 on a rough sea ; probably, too, no other life offers so many facilitiea 
 for getting wet ; and yet, all deductions made, what other life 
 offers so many opportunities for repose, either sitting in the boat, 
 or leaning against a post, or standing, hands in pocket, gazing at 
 the sky ? In London we never see the sky. "We must never look 
 up at it, for fear of being run over. Besides, fishermen wear a most 
 convenient and picturesque costume ; a great woollen jersey, lying 
 in thick folds and rollers several inches thick, seems, when you 
 come to think of it, the only costume possible for all weathers, 
 except perhaps the simple dress of John Chinaman. 
 
 While I was meditating in this foolish fashion, I became aware 
 of a grating raspy voice. 
 
 'You are unjust, dear sir, you are indeed. If you knew all I 
 know ' 
 
 Here I sprang to my feet and fairly bolted. But this dreadful- 
 looking old person with the cringing manner, the raspy voice, and 
 the evil eyes, left a bad impression upon me. Not as regards PauL 
 If anybody in the world could take care of himself, it was Paul. 
 
 Three weeks later, having forgotten this person and, indeed, 
 the village itself, I found waiting for me, on my arrival at a certain 
 town which was on our proposed route, a letter from Paul. It was 
 short, and without explanation begged me to get back to him as 
 soon as I received the letter. This request gave me an unea?y 
 feeling. 
 
 "What should Paul— Paul the Self- Reliant— want with me or 
 with anyone ? If a man wanted counsel he generally went to 
 Paul for it, but Paul himself asked no man's counsel. It could 
 not be that Paul was in a scrape of any kind. 
 
 It was not till nine in the evening that I reached the place. 
 Paul was not in the inn. The landlord told me, however, that he 
 was quite well, and that he was most probably at Mr. Reeve's. 
 This he said with a meaning smile, and added that he would be 
 certainly back again before eleven o'clock. I went into the coffee- 
 room, and sat down to wait. 
 
 The old bald head again, the man with the red eyes and tha 
 white eyebrows ; he followed me into the coffee-room.
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 287 
 
 ' Back again, my dear 6ir ?' he began cheerfully. ' Back again ? 
 I hardly expected this. Yes ; I saw you drive down the street. 
 The horse and cart belong to old Poulton, the man who burned 
 down his own hay-ricks for the insurance. The fellow who drove 
 you is said to be reformed. A very violent character once, and in 
 prison many times.' 
 
 I paid no attention to these revelations. He took a chair, how- 
 ever, called for some brand-and-water, and went on talking. 
 
 * Strange doings !' he said—' strange doings, since you went away. 
 Your friend, sir — ah ! poor young man. Trapped, I am afraid, 
 trapped !' He drank half his glass of brandy-and-water and 
 drummed the table with his fingers, repeating with great satisfac- 
 tion that my poor young friend was trapped. 
 
 'Now'— I grew pretty hot at this interference — 'if you have 
 come here to tell me stories and made-up scandal, walk straight out 
 of the door— or, old as you are, I shall put you out.' 
 
 'Don't be violent, young man : pray don't be violent. "Why, 
 you are like your friend— I warned him a week ago — I thought it 
 my duty to warn him— and what was the consequence ? Language 
 more rude than I thought possible for a barrister and a gentleman 
 to employ.' 
 
 ' I dare say you deserved it.' 
 
 ' What ? For warning a young man on the edge of a precipice ? 
 Oh ! what a world is this ! What an ungrateful world !' 
 
 ' I think,' I said, ' that you are a very meddlesome and imperti- 
 nent person. Why do you speak to me at all ?' 
 
 'Because I must speak. Young man, if you have any friend- 
 ship for your friend— the other young man who swears — drag hi:n 
 away.' 
 
 He looked and spoke so much in earnest that I began to fear 
 there might be some danger of an unknown and unsuspected kind. 
 
 'What danger ?' I asked. 
 
 ' The danger ' — he leaned across the table and shook a warning 
 forefinger in my face, ' the danger of a most lamentable connection. 
 You do not know — how should you ? — the nature of this village 
 and its residents.' 
 
 I began to wonder if the man was mad, or if there was method 
 in his madness. ' This place, sir, is the refuge of those who can 
 no longer live among their fellow-men. Here, all alike have a 
 disgraceful past and can meet on equal terms ; in fact, it would 
 be in the highest degree unmannerly to speak of what may 
 have happened. Some words — such as detection, punishment
 
 288 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 justice, and the like — are never used here ; be careful not to 
 use them.' 
 
 ' Good heavens !' 
 
 4 Why not ? People must live somewhere. Surely it is best 
 when a man " comes out " to join a community of others who have 
 cither come out or been driven from society. Ah ! my young 
 friend, I have now been here six months and more, and I have as 
 yet regarded the possession of this knowledge as a sacred secret ; 
 but to see a young gentleman trapped— I cannot longer remain 
 silent, I cannot indeed.' 
 
 I wanted to ask him if he had recently ' come out,' but I forbore 
 
 'In the very first villa outside the town,' this agreeable person 
 went on, ' there lives a lady who was once tried for her life in 
 Scotland ; she got off because the verdict was Not proven. But 
 she did it, my dear sir, she did it. I have read the evidence, and 
 I think I may be allowed some experience in evidence. She 
 did it.' 
 
 ' Well ? 
 
 ' And on the other side of my house lives a man who was cashiered 
 — drummed out of the army, sir, and he a major — for cowardice. 
 Oh, yes ! My house is between them.' 
 
 'And what have you done?' I asked impudently. 
 
 He shook his head sadly, as if 1 was greatly to blame for asking 
 so indiscreet a question. 
 
 1 Opposite to us there lives an aged clergyman. Ask him — I am 
 not a libellous person — I say, only ask him why he holds no bene- 
 fice now — ash him that. To say of his neighbour that he is a 
 fraudulent bankrupt, and lives upon the profits, would not surprise 
 you, I suppose. And of the Honourable Mr. Arthur Mompesson, 
 another of our neighbour residents, that he was expelled all his 
 clubs for cheating at cards, would not strike you, perhaps, as at all 
 an unusual incident in a gentleman's career.' 
 
 ' But what did you do ?' For the man was reeling out these 
 accusations with a malignant joy which made one's brain turn. 
 ' What is it that you have done ?' 
 
 He shook his head again. 
 
 ' And there's another man, who made his fortune by wrecking 
 ships, over-insuring them and then overloading them. He is a 
 churchwarden now — Ho ! ho ! And as for old Reeve, as he calls 
 himself now, who wants to throw over his old friends, refuses to 
 speak to me if he meets me, and has forbidden me the house — why, 
 I defended him, 6ir, I defended him, and this is gratitude.'
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 289 
 
 'You — you defended him ? What were you, then ?' 
 
 ' What was I, sir ? I would have you to know, sir, that I was 
 a barrister, sir, and a Queen's Counsel, sir. What do you think of 
 that ?' 
 
 'You were a barrister and a Queen's Counsel. Then, why are 
 you no longer either? What did you do?' I asked again. 
 
 lie shook his head no longer, but sprang to his feet with a 
 fierce gesture, and for a moment I thought he would have made 
 for me. 
 
 ' Why,' I said, looking him steadily in the face, ' if you are no 
 longer a Q.C., what is it that you have done ?' 
 
 He made no reply, but actually fled from the room : he ran out 
 of it, and down the street, and I saw him no more. 
 
 At eleven Paul came home. He was evidently in a state of 
 high excitement. ' I sent for you,' he said, ' because I must tell 
 someone, and I know I can trust you. Sit down and listen to me 
 without speaking one word.' 
 
 As for the substance of his tale, it was what one might have 
 expected. He was in love, madly in love, and with the very girl, 
 the beautiful creature, whom 1 had seen on the river. Her name 
 was Isabel. The largest and finest house in the place belonged 
 to her father, who was, it appeared, a man of considerable wealth. 
 So far all seemed plain and easy sailing. 
 
 ' You love her, Paul,' I said. ' No occasion to repeat it. And 
 — if one may have the impertinence to ask — does the young 
 lady ' 
 
 ' She refuses me,' he replied. All this time he had been walking 
 about the room in a violent agitation. ' She refuses me.' 
 
 ' Refuses you ?' At twenty-five one knows little about women, 
 but one thing everybody knows — that when a clever, handsome, 
 and in every way eligible young man makes love to a girl — 
 especially to a girl in a dull country place — his chances of refusal 
 are not — well — not equal to the chances of acceptance. You can't 
 go beyond a man who is a gentleman, clever, hard-working, am- 
 bitious, and of good heart. They don't make young men any 
 better than that. ' Refused you, Paul ?' 
 
 ' Refused me. Mind, there is a reason. The dear girl owned 
 
 to-day that if it were not for this reason — she — she ' Here he 
 
 ehoked. 
 
 ' Is the reason insurmountable ?' 
 
 'Oh!' he replied. 'The reason is unreasonable; it is a mere 
 .trick of the brain ; it matters really nothing. I cannot tell you, 
 
 19
 
 20O EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 though she has told me the whole, God bless her ! and it tore- 
 her heart to tell it. She told me the whole story two days ago. 
 I wrote to you at once, because I felt that I must speak to some- 
 one or die. Yet I cannot tell you all of it — only this : there is 
 upon her past a cloud. Yes, I admit it is a very dreadful cloud. 
 Through no fault of her own — none, mind. No one can blame 
 her in the least ; no one would dare to throw it in her teeth. 
 By Heaven ! I would kill such a man where he stood. It is on 
 account of this cloud that she refuses. She says that she will 
 never consent to bring her burden of shame to weigh down the 
 
 life of a man she loved. O Isabel ! my dear ! ' Here again he 
 
 choked. 
 
 ' Yet, Paul, if you would take her — even with this — this ' 
 
 ' Even with this!' he said solemnly. 'Why it would be nothing 
 in the world to me; less than nothing; just a secret between 
 husband and wife ; just a painful reminiscence of the past, never 
 to be mentioned between us.' 
 
 'Is there,' I asked, ' anyone who knows the secret ?' 
 ' Her brother knows, of course, poor fellow ! Well for him if 
 he did not know, because the knowledge of it will poison hi3 life 
 wherever he goes. I am sorry, truly sorry, for the boy. But as 
 for Isabel, I can take her away from all of it.' 
 ' And does no one else know ?' 
 
 'There is a dreadful man who lives here — a most horrible- 
 beast. I threatened to cowhide him last week because he threw 
 out hints that he knew something about the previous history of 
 this family not altogether to their credit. He is a man named 
 Brandish ; he was formerly, it appears, in very good practice at 
 the Bar, and had taken silk, was a Q.C., and a bencher of Lincoln's- 
 Inn, and was then found out to have appropriated, embezzled, or 
 made away with certain trust-moneys. This was a horrible 
 scandal, and they disbenched and disbarred him. He is a man of 
 infamous private character, and drinks, I believe. Probably he 
 will drink himself into the grave before long. I am afraid he 
 knows something, but I do not know how much. What does that 
 creature signify ?' 
 
 I thought it unnecessary to tell Paul of my experience with 
 Mr. Brandish ; but I felt relieved to think that he had not told 
 me more. We went on talking of the young lady's perfections. 
 In fact, we talked half through the night. 
 
 The next morning he took me to the house. It was a beautiful 
 villa, furnished with admirable taste, heaped with books, pictures,,
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 291 
 
 and all kinds of pretty things. Isabel herself — I have always 
 called her, by gracious permission, by her Christian name — re- 
 ceived us, and presently her brother joined us. There was some 
 constraint upon the whole party, which was natural under the 
 circumstances, and I was glad when we all went out together and 
 climbed to the top of the headland. Here, presently, I found 
 myself — whether by accident or design I know not — standing 
 alone with Isabel, the other two slowly going on before us down 
 the hill. She looked grave and anxious, her cheek rather pale ; 
 I knew that her mind was full of her lover and her refusal. I 
 had no right to speak, yet I did speak to her about it. First, I 
 told her what Paul had told me, that he loved her and that she 
 would not accept him, for a reason. 
 
 'Did he tell you the reason?' she asked, her cheek flushing 
 suddenly. 
 
 ' No ; only in general terms. There is a cloud upon some part 
 of your past.' 
 
 ' A cloud indeed,' she replied. 
 
 1 Which would not in any way affect the life of the man you 
 married.' 
 
 ' But it would,' she said ; ' oh ! it would. You do not know 
 what it is, or you would say that I am right.' 
 
 ' Nay, I cannot think, Miss Reeve, that you are right, for you 
 make the man who loves you — the best man in the world — you do 
 not know what a clever, brave, and good-hearted man he is — you 
 make him wretched when you might make him happy.' And so I 
 continued, she shaking her head, though the tears came into her 
 eyes, and murmuring : 
 
 ' Oh ! I refuse him because I would not make him unhappy.' 
 
 Thea I said it all over again. The only way to agree with a 
 woman, especially with a woman who in her heart wishes to be 
 convinced, is to repeat your proposition until she gets it well into 
 her head. I said that, in the first place, nobody would know the 
 thing which she was afraid would injure Paul ; and secondly, that 
 if all the world knew it, nobody would care ; that in all cases of 
 this kind the real injury to one was in suspicion that there was 
 injury ; that it was like a man's being ashamed of low origin, a 
 thing which could not be prevented, and which no one, certainly, 
 would ever cast in a man's teeth. Then I begged her to put this 
 consideration out of her mind altogether, and, if she could, to 
 make Paul happy. 
 
 She shook her head with less firmness than before, and I saw 
 
 19—2
 
 2Q2 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 that she was shaken. When a lovely woman has thoroughly made 
 flp her mind, she does not keep on crying. Then we descended 
 the hill, and found Paul and Robert in the boat. I remember 
 that we went sailing in the pretty little boat. I do not know 
 where, or whither, or for how long. I was thinking over the 
 position of things, and admiring the sight of a man desperately in 
 love and a girl ready to receive his homage but for one thing that 
 seemed to stand in the way. Yet in every look, and in every 
 gesture, she said, so plainly that all could read, 
 
 ' Ask me no more, for at a touch I yield : 
 Ask me no more.' 
 
 "When we walked back to the house the boy came with me, and 
 Paul walked beside Isabel. 
 
 1 1 wish it may come off,' he said, blushing as usual. ' I say — 
 
 1 know I can talk freely with you, because Paul says so. He hag 
 told you something about us — hasn't he ? Not much, he says, but 
 
 2 dare say it is quite enough. Isabel wrote it all down, so that he 
 should not think he had been deceived — all, she says — everything. 
 Crood God !' here he gasped. 'If Paul likes to show it to you, he 
 may. But I hope he will not. As for me, I am done for ; I can 
 do nothing, the history is round my neck like a millstone ; I must 
 git in the background all my life, and make myself as little con- 
 spicuous as I can. I cannot go into the army or the university. I 
 have not been to a public school. I have no friends and I can 
 make none. I can never marry.' Here he stopped for a while, and 
 Walked on at a great rate, swinging his arms. 
 
 ' As for Isabel,' he went on, ' it really cannot matter to her 
 when once she is married. Paul will take her away : no one will 
 trouble their heads to ask who she was. She swears that nothing 
 Would ever induce her to spoil a man's life, but I don't think it 
 Would hurt his career. Let Paul persevere ; if she can once be 
 got to think that it will not do him mischief, I think she will give 
 in. And, oh ! I cannot bear to think that she should stay on here, 
 Wasted, her life spoiled ; living in vain.' 
 
 She had already given in, though we did not know it. The 
 Word was spoken, and she was promised. I saw it in her blushing 
 face and softened eyes, when we reached the house : I saw it in 
 Paul's absurdly triumphant air when we walked away. 
 
 ' It is settled,' he said, pressing my arm. ' She has accepted 
 me. My dear boy ! I am the happiest man in the world.' 
 
 He went on to explain at great length how very happy he wa3
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 29$ 
 
 already, and how very much happier he meant to be in the imme- 
 diate future. They were to be married at once — in a few weeks \ 
 there was no need to wait ; and so on. Meantime there was a 
 small dinner-party at the house that evening, and I was invited by 
 Isabel. 
 
 In the nature of things, it was impossible that I could avoid 
 being interested not only in the love-affair of my friend, and 
 that most beautiful girl, Isabel, but also in her father. From. 
 Paul I learned that Something had been done which must be 
 concealed ; from the boy, that Something had been done which 
 would make it impossible for him to go into any kind of public 
 life ; from the wicked old man, Mr. Brundish, that he had himself 
 ' defended ' the father of this interesting pair at a critical juncture, 
 when he himself had been a Q.C. All this, put together, did not 
 inform one of much ; yet it made me curious, not so much to 
 know more, as to see, in the flesh, the man who had caused this 
 terrible cloud to hang over his children's lives, the man who had 
 'done something.' 
 
 Well, I was introduced to him : I saw him ; he was a singularly 
 handsome man, portly, dignified, well dressed, and possessed of & 
 manner perfectly charming ; not only at ease with himself, but able 
 to set his guests at their ease. He was apparently about sixty 
 years of age ; his abundant hair was of a splendid creamy white ; 
 his features were sharp and clear ; his eyes singularly bright^- 
 they were of a deep blue, like those of his daughter ; he not only 
 looked, but he was, a perfectly polished and delightful man. At 
 the very sight of him, all the injurious suspicion and doubts one 
 had entertained of him vanished ; as he talked, one was lifted out 
 of one's self and carried into circles and among people one had 
 never thought to know. Perhaps he talked too continuously, but 
 nobody else present could have talked half so well, and I, for one, 
 was content to listen. He seemed to know, or to have met — 
 because he did not profess friendship with any of them — all the 
 great men of the day ; he knew the secret history of everything 
 that had taken place ten, twenty, thirty years before — such as the 
 Reform Bill of 1832, or the great railway bubble of 184G ; he knew 
 the great men of the City ; he knew, as well, the best literary 
 men and artists of the day, and even the great statesmen. He 
 talked, in fact, through the whole dinner, and we neither grew 
 tired of him, nor did the dinner languish. 
 
 There were six or seven guests, besides Paul and myself ; it 
 was an excellent dinner, admirably served, and with admirable
 
 294 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 wine. At first I gave myself up entirely to the enjoyment of the 
 delightful talk, and thought of nothing else. But a strange thing 
 happened : in the very middle of the dinner I caught a sharp and 
 curiously suggestive glance from Isabel. It seemed to ask me 
 what I thought, now, of her father, and if I really knew that 
 
 I felt myself blushing like her brother, and my mind suddenly 
 went back to what I had heard. Of what nature was the 'cloud'? 
 Had the ex-Q.C. really defended our host? and if so, on what 
 occasion ? And all the other scandalous statements returned to 
 my brain : why had the venerable clergyman opposite to me no 
 longer a cure of souls ? Why had the gallant major next to him 
 left the army ? Was it true that the Honourable Arthur Mom- 
 pesson had been expelled his club for cheating at cards ? And 
 this middle-aged lady, whom I had taken in to dinner, could she 
 really have poisoned her lover ? And while I pondered these 
 things our host's pleasant genial voice went flowing on, so that 
 one felt the strangest incongruity between these absurd questions 
 and the place, the talk, and the people. 
 
 Three weeks later the pair were quietly married, without any 
 party, bridesmaids, or ceremony at all. What Paul said to Isabel's 
 father I know not, but at the wedding the old man seemed 
 strangely shaken and agitated, trembling at every footfall. He 
 had become aged, one knew not why. The bride and bridegroom 
 drove from the church to the nearest station. Mr. Reeve went 
 home, and I went back to the inn. I found there the man 
 Brundish, who had been drinking already, though it was not yet 
 toon. 
 
 'I told the old man I would interrupt the ceremony,' he said 
 with a grin, 'and make him marry the girl under her true name, 
 tut he begged me not. I am to dine with him to night instead. 
 Ha ! now that the girl is gone, he says, he does not care who 
 comes to his house. Wanted to keep his own children from their 
 father's old friends, you see. There's gratitude ! Why, who 
 defended him ? Who made such a speech that all England rang 
 with it— eh ?' 
 
 • Well,' I said, ' now that Mr. Reeve's daughter has married, you 
 have done with her, at any rate, and with me, too.' 
 
 I I don't know, young man, I don't know,' he replied. ' I am, 
 it is true, a forgiving person, which is lucky for the happy bride- 
 groom. But then he once shook a cane over my shoulders. I 
 don't know if I have done with them. And I wasn't good enough 
 to be invited to the house. Respectable company you met there,
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 295 
 
 'wasn't it ? The man drummed out of his regiment ; the man 
 •expelled from the clubs ; the woman tried ' 
 
 ' Go to the devil !' I said, and left him. 
 
 A month or two later I heard from Paul that his father-in-law 
 had been found dead in his bed. It appeared that he had no money 
 of his own, but was living on his late wife's fortune, which had 
 been settled upon herself, and was held in trust. The share of it 
 which now came to Isabel put the newly-married pair at onco into 
 a position of great material comfort, if not wealth. But Paul was 
 -already making way in his profession. 
 
 'I must be a judge by forty-five,' he paid to me, laughing; 
 * otherwise I shall think that I have failed.' 
 
 ' And then, Paul ?' asked Isabel. 
 
 ' Then I must be made Lord Chancellor, find I shall pas? great 
 measures for the law of the land, and shall become immortal,' 
 
 I never knew any couple so entirely happy as they were during 
 the first twelve months of their marriage. They had very few 
 friends, and these were all Paul's own friends ; they lived on 
 Campden Hill — remember that it was long before Campdon Hill 
 was covered with houses — and they were just as selfishly and as 
 completely happy as love could make them. Gradually the pensive 
 and troubled look vanished from Isabel's eyes : the ' Cloud,' the 
 ' Thing,' the Secret, whatever it had been, was wholly put away 
 and forgotten. As for me, I sometimes thought of it involuntarily. 
 Was the malignant old man truthful in his account of the village 
 and its residents ? Could they really be all of them outcasts by 
 reason of having been found out in something disgraceful ? Had 
 Isabel's father really been 'defended' by the man Brandish in a 
 speech that made all England ring ? One would not pry into the 
 matter, but the doubt remained which it was impossible tc kill. In 
 Isabel's society, however, it vanished completely. She wis one of 
 those rare women whose friendship is a great possession for a man, 
 and whose love is a gift of the gods ; a woman whom one regarded 
 with a daily increasing respect and admiration ; a woman to whom 
 goodness of all kinds came by nature. 
 
 Isabel's brother came to town soon after his father's death, and 
 called upon me. 
 
 4 I have made up my mind,' he said to me soon after his sister's 
 marriage, ' what I shall do. So long as I remain in this country, 
 Isabel will always have somebody to remind her of the past. If I 
 once go away she will belong entirely to her husband. While I 
 am here I shall always be in terror of the Thing being found out.
 
 296 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 I shall go away, then, and travel. After a year or two I shall con- 
 vey to Isabel the news that I am dead. Then she will have broken 
 altogether with the past. I shall settle down somewhere, perhaps, 
 some day. I am not sure where or when, and if I am quite sura 
 that I can never be identified, I shall marry, perhaps. But never r 
 never will I come back to England.' 
 
 So we shook hands and we parted. Six months afterwards there 
 came a note to Isabel in pencil from her brother, saying that he 
 was dying of fever on the African coast, and that the letter would 
 be sent on after his death. Isabel wept over the letter, but she 
 dried her tears soon, and I think it was better that the last link 
 which reminded her of the shame of her childhood should have 
 been broken. 
 
 As for their happiness, however, it was rudely shaken. 
 
 One day, Paul, the junior counsel in a case of no apparent im- 
 portance, found himself unexpectedly called upon to maintain a 
 legal position against the opinion of the Court ; he displayed, in 
 his argument, so much ability and knowledge of the law as to 
 call forth an expression of admiration from the judge himself. I 
 was myself present in my quality of briefless barrister. On the 
 termination of the case we came out, and stood for a few minutes 
 talking over the point which had been raised. Paul's senior joined 
 us, and congratulated him, prophesying that his table would never 
 be without briefs after that morning's work. Others came to shake 
 hands with him, and there was quite a little scene of congratula- 
 tion and triumph. In the midst of our talk I saw, bearing straight 
 down upon us, with the evident intention of speaking, no other 
 than that terrible ex-Q.C. He was clearly half-drunk. One of 
 the men among us whispered in disgust : ' Good heavens ! here's 
 that miserable man Brundish !' Everybody stood aside to make 
 way for him, as one makes way for a leper. Worse than a leper, 
 in the courts of Lincoln's Inn, is a man who has been disbarred. 
 As well should a man who has been stripped of his commission 
 and drummed out of his regiment for cowardice, show himself 
 again upon parade. 
 
 This man, then, with a half-drunken laugh, walked straight to 
 Paul and held out his hand. 
 
 ' How are you, Paul, my boy ?' be cried, addressing him inde- 
 pendently by his Christian name ; ' Isabel quite well ?' 
 
 Paul turned perfectly white. 
 
 ' How dare you,' he cried, ' how dare you speak to me ? How 
 dare you address me by my Christian name ?'
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 297 
 
 1 How dare I ? Ho ! ho ! Xot use his Christian name to the 
 man who married my dear old friend's only daughter ? How do 
 you do, Sir John ?' He addressed one of the group, a well-known 
 counsel of very high standing and ex-Solicitor-General, who made 
 no reply. 'Gentlemen, you know me, all of you. I have been 
 in Court to-day, and I declare I never heard a better argument 
 than my young friend's here. Why, I never put a point better 
 myself.' 
 
 1 Your friend ! Yours !' cried Paul, with a gesture of loathing. 
 
 ' Come, come !' cried the man. ' This is rather too much. 
 Why, Paul, you forget that you married the only daughter of my 
 old friend, Sir Robert Reeve Byrne, baronet, whom I defended. 
 You remember my famous defence, gentlemen. I am sure it nearly 
 pulled him through, but not quite, for he got his five years' penal 
 servitude.' 
 
 Then there was a dead silence, and nobody dared to look at his 
 neighbour. As for me, I understood it all. The case of Sir Robert 
 Byrne was a cause celebre. He had been, I remembered, defended 
 by Mr. Brundish, Q.C., with marvellous skill and ingenuity. My 
 delightful host was, then, no other than that famous baronet, then ! 
 and the rest of his guests — were they also what the ex-Q.C. had 
 described them ? 
 
 Paul recovered himself. 
 
 ' It is quite true,' he said proudly ; ' I married the daughter of 
 Sir Robert Byrne, but this man I know nothing of, except that he 
 is a rogue.' 
 
 Mr. Brundish looked round him ; he saw on every face loathing 
 clearly written. Half -drunk though he was, he was cowed. He 
 said no more, but slunk away. 
 
 It was Sir John himself who laid his hand upon Paul's shoulder 
 and said, kindly : 
 
 'We are all sorry you should have been troubled by this 
 scoundrel, whom once I called my friend. As for your private 
 affairs — but of them we need not speak.' 
 
 They all murmured something, the group broke up, and I took 
 Paul by the arm and walked with him to his chambers. He threw 
 his papers upon the table, and sank into a chair. 
 
 ' It is all over,' he groaned ; ' my career is finished.' 
 
 ' Paul, this is absurd.' 
 
 'No,' he said. 'I have already made up my mind what will 
 happen. These men are my private friends — they are part of our 
 social circle ; for Isabel, poor child, had no friends of her own.
 
 298 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 They are good fellows, and at first they will say that it doesn't 
 make any difference, and think it too. But then, you see, there 
 are the women. They will resent the thing, and show their resent- 
 ment, too. Isabel must be spared this, at any cost. Go away now, 
 my dear fellow, and leave me to think.' 
 
 'For heaven's sake, Paul,' I said, 'do nothing rash. Think of 
 your profession first.' 
 
 ' No,' he replied. ' Isabel must be first thought of.' 
 
 I lingered awhile, unwilling to leave him. 
 
 'Now you know all,' he said. 'It is something like a cloud, 
 isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Is it possible that the courtly and polished ?' 
 
 'Quite possible. Sometimes I tried to think what he would 
 look like in prison dress, but I never could. There was another 
 side to him, though. I saw it on the day when I asked him for 
 his daughter. " Do you," he said, "know the story of my past?" 
 I assured him that he need not open a painful chapter, because I 
 knew everything. And then — then he broke down, burst into a 
 fit of weeping like any woman, and thanked God solemnly that I 
 had come to take his daughter away from him. " For myself," he 
 said, "I suppose I am sorry. That matters nothing. But for my 
 children's sake, and especially for my daughter's sake, I am — some- 
 times I am mad." I think that when he was left alone after our 
 marriage he was really mad, and I am nearly sure that he killed 
 himself. However, that is done with. Isabel must not know 
 what has happened. And she must not be made to suspect that 
 our friends, her new friends, know her secret. Women are not 
 always considerate towards each other. I must think — I must 
 think what is best to do.' 
 
 Next morning, I was not surprised to receive a note from 
 Isabel. She said that her husband was suddenly prostrated with 
 sme kind of nervous breakdown, though he looked very well, and 
 that the doctor ordered him to give up all work, break off all engage- 
 ments, and go away for three months at least. They were going 
 the same day. 
 
 The three months became six, and the six became twelve : they 
 were travelling about in unfrequented places, where Paul's health 
 would not suffer from noise and talk of travellers : they stayed only 
 in towns t here there were no English residents, and so on. Then 
 Paul wrote to me that he had given up his chambers and bought a 
 cottage in the country, where he proposed to stay, his health, he 
 said, being too wretched to think of his practising any more.
 
 EVEN WITH THIS. 299 
 
 I made many visits to the cottage. It was three or four miles 
 from any village or house. It was on the seaside, and they had a 
 boat. They had no children, and the only people who ever visited 
 them were the family of the nearest clergyman, who came often to 
 them. Isabel was their friend, unpaid governess, adviser, everything. 
 
 Remark, here, a very strange thing. This man, my friend Paul, 
 to whom at the outset life without success would have seemed in- 
 tolerable, who gave up the most promising prospects solely on his 
 wife's account, who was endowed with every quality which success 
 requires, was perfectly happy in this obscure retreat. lie wanted 
 no other kind of life : to sail in his boat, to wander on the sands, 
 to meditate in his garden, alwayR with Isabel beside him, was 
 enough for him. His love for Isabel was absorbing and sufficient 
 for both. Other married people continue to pay each other the 
 attentions of their first love : but this pair seemed to live wholly 
 for each other. As for me, who knew their secret, it seemed to 
 me as if Paul spent his life in a perpetual care to ward off from 
 bis wife the danger of being reminded of that dreadful story. It 
 bad destroyed his career — that mattered nothing. It had driven 
 him from the world — that mattered nothing, provided his wife was 
 never reminded of it, never made to feel it. Needs must that so 
 terrible a thing should bring a burden and a curse upon the 
 children— Paul accepted it and bore the burden without a murmur 
 or a sigh. And as they lived together among books, and nourish- 
 ing thoughts sacred and lofty, their home became as a church in 
 which one might fitly meditate, and the conversation was unlike 
 what one heard outside. 
 
 They lived in this way for five-and-twenty years. Then the 
 greatest possible misfortune fell upon Paul. For Isabel caught a 
 fever and died. Then Paul began to break up. He was only just 
 past fifty, and should have been in the vigorous enjoyment of his 
 manhood ; but he began to fail. In the last months of his life I 
 stayed a great deal with him, and be talked freely about bis old 
 ambitions and their sudden end. 
 
 ' I am sure,' be said, ' that I did right in giving all up. Sooner 
 or later Isabel would have found out — would have been made to 
 feel, somehow— that other people knew the truth. In such a case 
 the only safety lies in flight.' 
 
 ' But if you had stayed, your own career was certain.' 
 
 'Perhaps: with the explanation, whenever my name was men- 
 tioned, "You know, I suppose, that he married Sir Rohert Byrne's 
 daughter." And she would have heard it.'
 
 300 EVEN WITH THIS. 
 
 'Tell me,' I said, *who were the residents of the village — the 
 people we met at dinner ' 
 
 ' I do not know. Why do you ask ?' 
 
 Evidently Isabel knew nothing of them. Perhaps, after all, the 
 wicked old man lied about them. 
 
 'I am glad to think,' Paul went on, ' that we never met any of 
 them afterwards, because perhaps they knew. Thank God ! never, 
 never for a moment after the marriage did Isabel feel that her 
 father's sins were visited upon her.' 
 
 'Why, Paul,' I said, 'they were ; but you shifted the burden to 
 your own shoulders and bore it for her. Did Isabel ever learn why 
 you left London ?' 
 
 'No, she never knew and she never suspected. The man 
 Brundish died a very little while after — of drink, I believe.' 
 
 * And you never regretted all that you lost ?' 
 
 'Never — not for a moment. What is it that I gave up for 
 Isabel's sake ? Why, she has done far, far more for me than I ever 
 did for her. There is something better than ambition, my friend- 
 Isabel gave me that, in return for the burden which, as you say, I 
 shifted to my own shoulders. It pleases me now to think of what 
 I might have become ; but if all were to be done over again, I 
 would have it as it has been.' 
 
 What it was that Isabel gave him and did for him I do not 
 know, for I did not ask, and now I shall never learn, because he is 
 dead.
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 
 
 * On ! you silly boy,' she said, but not withdrawing her hand, which 
 he held, enraptured : nor refusing her sunny brow when he 
 ventured to stoop and kiss that feature. ' You silly boy ! You 
 only fancy you love me.' 
 
 ' Fancy ? Camilla ! You cannot guess the depth and the — the — 
 constancy — and — oh ! Camilla, who could help falling in love with 
 such an angel of goodness ?' 
 
 ' M — m — m !' she murmured softly, accepting the character. 
 
 * How noble it is — Mr. — well — then — Harry — how truly noble it is 
 to see good qualities in others ! And ah ! how generous to love a 
 woman for her qualities and not for her looks or her fortune !' 
 
 1 For her looks ? Camilla — you are as lovely as you are good. 
 Oh! Camilla— Heaven framed your face to show the angelic soul 
 behind it.' 
 
 This was the beginning of it — that is to say, not quite the be- 
 ginning, but near it. The Rev. Mr. Estill took one pupil only, at 
 £250 a- year, to prepare for the University. Mr. Harry Ambrose 
 Strange was then this fortunate pupil. He was better at loafing, 
 playing croquet — the middle-aged reader understands that we are 
 now in the sixties, which to the young are like unto the year before 
 the Deluge for remoteness — cricket, shooting, riding, and dancing, 
 than he was at books. At this time he was eighteen years of age. 
 Camilla, the Yicar's only child, was, as she candidly confessed, 
 already past twenty. She had made the same confession to six 
 pupils before Harry : when a girl so long persists in a statement 
 there is generally some truth in it. 
 
 'Yes, Harry,' she said, 'I will wait for you, though you are only
 
 3 02 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 
 
 eighteen, and I am — alas ! — past twenty. Since I have suffered 
 you to — to take my hand' — that is how she put it. He had, in 
 fact, kissed that hand, fondled it, knelt to it, and mumbled over it 
 — 'it is because I feel that you are worth waiting for if I am worth 
 working for.' 
 
 'Worth working for ! Oh ! good Heavens !' 
 
 'Every girl,' said Camilla calmly, ' has her own ideal in the kind 
 of man to whom she would consent to surrender herself. Miue 
 is, I confess, a lofty ideal. My favoured lover, Harry, must be a 
 Galahad for perfect purity, a Lancelot for bravery, an Arthur for 
 wisdom ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Harry meekly. 
 
 'For such a man — you will make yourself such a man, dear 
 Harry — only for such a man would I consent to enter into the 
 union which shall confer upon him earthly happiness.' 
 
 She was short in figure and dumpy — quite one of Leech's girls — 
 she wore a lovely great crinoline, which made her lower half like a 
 large football : her light, even sandy, hair was in a bag : her cheeks 
 wanted colour, her eyes were a light blue, her eyebrows were faint 
 indications, her nose was uncertain, and her mouth a little too 
 large. Otherwise, as Sancho Panza said, she was doubtless a 
 miracle of beauty. She read great quantities of poetry, sang senti- 
 mental songs, with a reedy voice, and played ' pieces ' such as 
 L'Hirondelle, L' Invitation a la valse, Weber's last waltz, the Copen- 
 hagen, the Blue Danube, and other choice pieces. She also interested 
 herself in the village choir. To the youths who succeeded each 
 other year after year in her father's study she was a fairy, an angel, 
 a wood nymph, everything that the romance of eighteen is able to 
 imagine. We have all been young once, I suppose. If we are of 
 the fairer sex, we have found it pleasing to be worshipped and 
 called all kinds of lovely names : if of the other, we do not blushin 
 thinking of the time when every young woman clearly belonged to 
 that now unknown land called Heaven. 
 
 'My dear,' said the Vicar's wife, that evening, 'I think you 
 should put a question to that young man as to his future prospects. 
 I suspect that he and Camilla ' 
 
 * For the sixth time, Maria, or is it the seventh ? Mind, I cannot 
 countenance any engagement. It shall not be said that any young 
 man under my charge ' 
 
 ' You need countenance nothing, my dear. But you may, for all 
 that, ascertain what his position really is. So far, all you know i» 
 that he is a ward and that he pays rather less than you are accus- 
 tomed to take.'
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 
 
 303 
 
 'It is, I am certain, the seventh engagement, and nothing ever 
 comes of it. The road to Church might be paved with Camilla's 
 broken engagements.' 
 
 'Well, dear, it is the poor girl's only chance, and it's another 
 string to her bow, even if it prove the last. And besides, my dear, 
 something may come out of all these affairs, and I never heard of 
 Camilla breaking off any of her engagements. She is still, for 
 aught we know, engaged to all the young gentlemen. Of course, 
 that's nonsense — but still ' 
 
 The Vicar blew out the light. 
 
 Next day, however, he had quite a fatherly conversation with 
 his pupil. 
 
 ' Seriously,' he said in conclusion, ' if your fortune will do little 
 more for you than complete your course at Oxford, I should advise 
 you to give up the University. There are other careers open to 
 youth. We cannot all of us become country clergymen and private 
 tutors. Some of us must be content with lesser ambitions. Your 
 degree — even an ordinary degree — is to you, my dear boy, a dubious 
 — a very dubious matter. I strongly advise you to devote your — 
 your energies, which are undoubted — to something practical. Think 
 it over.' 
 
 ' My dear,' he said to his wife, ' the boy has only two or three 
 thousand pounds for all his fortune. His guardians are paying 
 for his education out of the principal. They want him to go into 
 the Church because they think it's a safe profession. Safe starva- 
 tion, I call it, and the boy is a fool, too, about books. You will 
 tell Camilla whatever you think best.' 
 
 His wife sighed. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' she said. ' A fool he may be, but an honourable 
 fool is sometimes a better catch than a clever man. Some of the 
 happiest women are married to the greatest fools. After all, it may 
 still be another string to her bow. Who knows? Let us leave it to 
 Camilla.' 
 
 Harry turned things over in his mind. The immediate result 
 was a tearful leave-taking in the Vicarage garden. It was a largo 
 garden full of retired corners, arbours, and retreats, which always 
 gave an opportunity for the exchange of confidences with Camilla 
 — every successive pupil, if he had been asked, could have testified 
 to the convenience of the garden. 
 
 'You will really wait for me?' he asked, with the tears in his 
 eyes. ' Oh ! angel ! Oh ! Camilla ! I never dared to think ' 
 
 She laid her hand on his arm and smiled sweetly, pensively, 
 tenderly.
 
 3 o4 CAMILLAS LAST STRING. 
 
 ' You poor boy !' she said. ' It seems so hard to part, doesn't it ? 
 You will work for me?' 
 
 ' Oh ! to work for you, Camilla— to work— to work for you !' 
 
 The prospect was too much — he could not find words — he only 
 caught her hand and began to kiss it. 
 
 ' You shall work for me, Harry. We must not correspond— but, 
 remember, I am waiting for you.' 
 
 II. 
 
 The Sixties have gone, and the Seventies. Alas! what a multitude 
 of youthful faces have gone with them ! Only to think of the poor 
 things who were then in the twenties and are now in the fifties, 
 brings tears into the eyes, especially when one looks into the glass. 
 As for the other poor things who were already in their fifties and 
 their sixties, where are they now ? Perhaps they have by this time 
 recovered their youth and their beauty. I am sure I hope so, for 
 all our sakes. 
 
 It was in the summer of 1884, which was a long hot summer, 
 .such as dries up rheumatism and makes the old people so strong 
 again that they fee their way clear to another summer. And it was 
 at Broadstairs, which that year was so full that the children on the 
 beach could not paddle without jostling each other, and in bathing 
 the ranks were so thick that those who wero behind got no water. 
 It was also the middle of August, when the place is at its fullest. 
 Therefore, those who came down by the evening train were rash 
 in expecting room at any of the hotels. I believe there are three 
 hotels at Broadstairs, without counting the Tartar Frigate. No 
 beds were to be had. All the lodgings in the town were also said 
 to be quite full. Some of the baffled voluptuaries, who had been 
 looking for a comfortable room after a toothsome dinner at the 
 table d'hote, began wandering from house to house. Others, more 
 artful, confided their case to the hotel porters, the head waiter, and 
 the manager. 
 
 Amonc t>"3 latter was a gentleman whose appearance revealed 
 nothing at ail about his antecedents, his age, his temper, his habits, 
 or his profession. Formerly, there was generally something in the 
 appearance, habits, or dress of a man which told a tale. Now there 
 is nothing Anybody, at and above a certain level, is exactly alike. 
 All we can say of a man is that he appears to have reached that 
 level. It is one where the clothes are well made and the bearing 
 -of the man who wears them is quiet ; where the age may be any- 
 ■wheie between five-a/id- thirty and fifty, and the man's profession
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 305 
 
 may be anything you please ; but if it is a shop it must be a large 
 shop. For this man was big and well set up ; he wore a moustache 
 but no beard ; he was quite quiet and well-bred ; and he looked a* 
 if he was accustomed to be obeyed ; there was the look in his face, 
 not only of the master, but also of the hereditary master, one 
 whose forefathers had been accustomed to command. We belong 
 to a democratic age, but we must not deny heredity. 
 
 He had his portmanteau set down in the hall of the hotel and 
 informed the hall porter that good largesse would be his on the 
 finding of a room. Very shortly, while the other houseless wretches 
 were beginning to beat their bedless heads against the street-doors 
 in despair, and to ask what price for bathing machines, his port- 
 manteau was carried to a lodging-house hard by. 
 
 He was shown into a room on the ground-floor by the landlady, 
 a middle-aged woman, dressed in the rusty black which is the 
 uniform of her profession ; she was small and thin ; her face was 
 worn and anxious, and she wore an obvious front of very light 
 hair. This was just a little pushed out of place, which gave the 
 poor woman something of a rakish air. 
 
 4 My ground-floor,' she began, 'left this morning. I can let it 
 till the 1st of September ; not longer, nor for less ; not for a single 
 night or two.' 
 
 ' Very good. I will take it until the 1st of September.' 
 When her new lodger spoke the landlady started. Then sht 
 looked quickly at the portmanteau on which was written his name 
 in large letters — ' Mr. H. Ambrose Strange ' — and she_suddenly 
 turned quite white and dropped into a chair. 
 ' You are ill ?' asked the man. 
 
 She jumped up and ran — fluttering like a scared hen — ran a* 
 quickly as she could. He looked after her, wondering what hornc - . 
 had stung her, and where, that she should thus scuttle away, leaving 
 her bargain only half concluded. 
 
 Then there appeared a girl who seemed to be three or four and 
 twenty years of age. The lodger observed that she carried her 
 head with great haughtiness, and that she was deeply resentful, as 
 all daughters of lodging-house keepers are, at having to do or to 
 say anything to the lodgers. What little services they are obliged 
 to render to the establishment are done in the privacy of the 
 kitchen or in the bedrooms, where, being unseen, they do not affect 
 the social status of the young ladies. 
 
 1 Mother isn't very well,' she said. Mr. Strange observed further 
 that she really was a very pretty girl, with something of the 
 
 20
 
 3o5 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 
 
 Spanish darkness, not being in the least like the lady with the 
 flaxen front. ' Mother has sent me. The rent, she says, is three 
 guineas. Kitchen fire, gas, and attendance extra. She will let the 
 rooms for a fortnight, no more and no less.' 
 
 ' I take them,' he said, 'and I pay in advance.' 
 
 He counted out six pounds and six shillings and laid them on 
 the table. 
 
 ' Mother will give you a receipt.' She swept up the money 
 scornfully. ' Mother told me to ask you if you are the Mr. Harry 
 Strange who was a pupil of the Rev. Mr. Estill at Hilsea Vicarage 
 twenty years ago.' 
 
 ' Pupil ? At Hilsea Vicarage ? Twenty years ago ? Oh ! old 
 Estill's. Yes, yes ; I believe it must be about that time. Yes, I 
 was. Why ?' 
 
 'I don't know. I was told to ask. What time do you take 
 dinner ?' 
 
 ' I am going to dine at the hotel.' 
 
 ' Oh ! the attendance and the kitchen fire will be charged all the 
 same.' 
 
 ' Very good,' said the lodger. 
 
 And the young lady withdrew. 
 
 ' Pupil at Hilsea Vicarage,' he repeated. * Of course. Who's 
 the old woman, and why did she ask that question ? It was the 
 last place where I wasted time and money over Latin and Greek 
 before I went out. Old Estill. Old Estill. I remember, with his 
 infernal grammar. And Mother Estill and Camilla. Yes, Camilla ; 
 6he had sandy hair, I remember, and light blue eyes, without any 
 eyebrows ; and she had a squeaky voice. She was romantic and 
 sentimental. I believe I fancied myself in love with her. Camilla. 
 Yes. Oh ! yes. Camilla.' 
 
 Then the girl came back again. 
 
 ' Mother's compliments,' she said, presenting an envelope. 
 
 He opened it. Within the envelope was a carte-de-visite, re- 
 presenting a dumpy young lady in a very wide crinoline, carrying 
 a hat with ribbons, her hair in a bag. Time, the destroyer, had 
 made sad work of this portrait. The Alps among which the young 
 lady was standing (as is customary in English villages) still reared 
 their snowy peaks an inch or so above her head ; the hands were 
 visible, though ghostly ; and the hat remained ; the graceful curve 
 of the crinoline still bulged out ; but the face — the face — where 
 was that ? Two pale cavities for eyes ; the faintest indication of 
 a nose ; and a mouth which had lost not only its north and south 
 outlines, but had also widened from ear to ear.
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 307 
 
 1 What is this ?' he asked, looking at it in astonishment. 
 
 ' It is mother, I believe, as she was twenty years ago. She says 
 bo, but nobody would know it.' 
 
 'What the — I mean why, child, does your mother send thig 
 thing to me ? 
 
 'She says, ask him if he remembers the likeness.' 
 
 ' Remember the likeness ? What likeness ?' He looked again. 
 Then a glimmer shone upon his brain. It was a ray of light struck 
 by the crinoline — as by a Bryant and May. • By George I' ho 
 laughed, ' I believe it is Camilla.' 
 
 'That,' said the girl, 'is my mother's Christian name. Am I 
 to tell her that you do remember it ?' 
 
 4 Good Lord !' cried Mr. Strange. ' She said she would wait for 
 me ! la she waiting still ?' 
 
 III. 
 
 Camilla herself appeared to answer the question. She had put 
 off her robe of stuff, and, like a barrister, had taken silk. She was 
 now dressed in her best frock, that in which she went ti evening 
 church ; she had a gold chain — it had been her husband's — round 
 her neck, and a lace shawl over her shoulders : she had also put 
 her front straight, washed her hands and got rid of the lodging- 
 house keeper. She was once more, as she was fond of telling her 
 children when the season was over, ' the lady.' She stood at the 
 door smiling sweetly, quite in her old style, with her head on one 
 side, as if pondering piously on the poetry and the beauty of every- 
 thing, and she put out both her hands with a modest uplifting and 
 then a more modest depression of the eyes that was most maidenly, 
 and reminded the man ridiculously of the past. 
 
 'Harry !' she said. 'At last ! Is it possible ?' 
 
 He took one of the proffered hands. 
 
 'Miss Estill,' he remarked coldly, without note of interrogation 
 or of admiration. 
 
 ' Oh ! after so many years ! not Camilla — as of old ?' 
 
 ' After so many years,' he replied coldly, ' one hardly ventures 
 on names once familiar.' 
 
 ' You mean that I have changed. Perhaps even more than you. 
 From eighteen to thirty-eight is indeed a great jump.' 
 
 He remembered, at this point, that unless she was out in her 
 dates in the old days she must be credited with two more years at 
 least. 
 
 ' It is indeed a great jump,' he said, still coldly. 
 
 20-2
 
 308 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 
 
 1 The heart of a woman wears out her frame,' she sighed pen- 
 sively. ' We live and die by our affections.' She clasped hei 
 hands and inclined her head in the old sentimental way which 
 brought back the old time. 'It is a great price to pay, but who 
 would wish it otherwise ? You are still young at thirty-eight. I 
 am old. Don't say that I am not,' she put up her hands also in 
 the old manner. ' Don't, Harry — because I feel that I am old. 1 
 
 look old. The heart may still be fresh, but when one looks old ' 
 
 she paused to be assured that she did not look old. 
 
 Her lodger did not respond in the expected manner. He only 
 bowed, still with great coldness. He was asking himself how in 
 the world he could ever have found this poor little withered 
 ■creature pretty ? The little affectations of speech and carriage 
 were the same ; she had not forgotten the old tricks : they were 
 now so feeble and so old and so ridiculous ; yet they recalled the 
 past. He remembered the Camilla whom for twenty years he had 
 ©lean forgotten ; he remembered how he had once heard that she 
 was six-and-twenty, fully struck, in the days of his flirtation ; he 
 also remembered, vaguely, that someone had told him somewhere 
 how all the pupils had to fall in love with Camilla — she expected 
 it — that was before he went to read with old Estill. All these 
 thoughts crossed his mind as the little woman smiled and played 
 off her poor, faded old-fashioned graces before him. I do not know 
 what she was saying to him, but when she finished he bowed again, 
 replying nothing, because he had heard nothing, his mind having 
 wandered back to twenty years before. She coloured, and was 
 silent for a brief space, rebuffed at his coldness. 
 
 Then she began again, with an assumption of brightness. 
 'But tell me — to what happy accident do I owe your arrival, 
 Harry ? Oh ! if I had only known that you were arriving I 
 would have had my two boys home to be presented to you — my 
 step-daughter you have already seen — my Isabel. But I know, it 
 was a little device of your own. You would have your little 
 romance. It was like my Harry. You heard I was living at Broad- 
 stairs — you came down, you asked my address at the hotel, you 
 walked over suddenly without sending in your name, thinking to 
 surprise me. You would catch me at home, just as the children 
 play at hide-and-seek. It was pretty of you, Harry. It was 
 delicate, nobly delicate.' 
 
 ' On the contrary,' he said, ' my coming here was a pure acci- 
 dent.' 
 
 ' Then it was Providential. Everything, as you should know 
 who have been my father's pupil, is Ordered. As for me, Harry, I
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 309 
 
 have been waiting — you remember bow you went away — I have 
 been waiting, as I promised. I said to my children : he has gone 
 away to work for me ' 
 
 Harry began to feel as if the round world was really turning, but 
 the wrong way. Was she married ? Was she a widow ? How 
 could a married woman wait for her old lover ? 
 
 'Oh !' she clasped her hands, 'to work for me ! I knew not in 
 what far off island of the ocean. Papa told me that you — that he 
 bad gone abroad. " He is working for me," I said. Papa is dead. 
 He had but one more pupil after you. I think he pined when you 
 went away. " He is working for me," I told the children.' 
 
 ' Why ?' said Harry ; ' considering everything ' 
 
 The woman rose with great dignity. 
 
 ' We exchanged a solemn promise,' she said. ' I undertook to wait 
 for you. I have been waiting for you. For your part you promised 
 to work for me. Is that true, Mr. Strange ? Is that true, Harry ?' 
 she dropped her voice and laid her hand upon his arm. ' Oh ! 
 Harry, have you forgotten ?' 
 
 ' Forgotten ? No. You make me remember that some such 
 foolery was exchanged.' 
 
 1 Then it is true — it is true. Say only that it is true ?' 
 
 ' Of course it is true — if you come to that.' 
 
 ' Then — Harry — Oh ! my Harry ' She threw herself upon 
 
 his shoulder, though she had to stand on tiptoe, being so much 
 shorter. But she did not mind that, so great was her resolution. 
 ' I am yours at last. Oh ! oh ! oh !' She burst into the tears 
 proper for the occasion. ' I am yours at last.' 
 
 ' Oh ! get off — get off, I say.' He hitched this fair burden off his 
 shoulder by a movement, neither graceful nor polite, but effective. 
 She fell back upon the sofa, where she lay murmuring thanks to 
 Heaven for thus bringing back to her the only man she had ever 
 really loved — and for whom she had waited so long. 
 
 He, for his part, stood over her with perplexed face. Anyone 
 will understand that when a man comes home, unmarried, still 
 under forty, with a really fine thing out in New Zealand, he does 
 not wish to marry a lodging-house keeper of Broadstairs, a widow 
 •close upon fifty, her personal attractions wholly gone, and with three 
 children. 
 
 'I am too much overcome, Harry,' she said, rising, 'to continue 
 this interview any longer. The o'erwrought heart may break its 
 fragile cell ; the strings may snap. Oh ! Harry. Are we young 
 again? To-morrow we will renew this talk. It is my greatest 
 happiness to feel that I have to do with a man of the strictest
 
 3io CAMILLAS LAST STRING. 
 
 honour. You have worked for me — oh !' She clasped her hand* 
 and turned her eyes to Heaven. ' You have worked for me. You 
 will tell me to-morrow — how well — and I — Oh ! Harry — have, 
 waited — Oh ! with what constancy have I waited — for you ' 
 
 She disappeared. 
 
 He looked after her with bewildered face. Then he clutched 
 his portmanteau and put on his hat. Then he put down his port- 
 manteau again. 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' never shall it be said that I ran away— even from 
 a woman.' 
 
 IV. 
 
 He went over to the hotel, dined there, spent the evening on the 
 Cliff listening to the band, watching the people as they walked 
 about, and wondering whether at eight-and-thirty he too could 
 begin again the charming amusement which seemed to please so 
 many of the young people. And at the thought of the widow he 
 laughed. 
 
 At eleven o'clock he walked back to his lodgings, and went to 
 bed. In the dead of night he thought he heard the lady weeping 
 and blessing Heaven on the landing outside his door. It might 
 have been the wind in the chimney, but the lodger crept out of bed 
 and made sure that the bolt was fast. 
 
 In the morning he rang the bell for hot water, and on dressing 
 found that his breakfast was spread for him by invisible hands and 
 with evident desire to gratify him. Broadstairs is not a city of 
 luxury ; in fact, at crowded times there are stories of stand-up 
 fights over a neck of mutton or an ornamental block, but this table 
 groaned, actually groaned, with the unwonted load of fried fish, 
 ham, eggs, shrimps, toast, marmalade and jam. 
 
 ' Camilla !' he murmured. ' Thus she thinks to soften my heart.' 
 
 He made an excellent breakfast, and then he lit a pipe and sat 
 at the open window looking over the terrace. He was a self-reliant 
 person, and was quite at ease as regards the lady, being, in fact, only 
 anxious to put things right by personal explanation. 
 
 Presently the door opened and the girl — Camilla's Isabel- 
 appeared. ' I'm to ask if there is anything more that you want V 
 she asked ungraciously. 
 
 'Nothing — only — stay. Shut the door, child, and come here* 
 Now, sit down and let us talk.' 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 'If you will not, go and tell your mother that I want to speak 
 to her at once.'
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 311 
 
 1 She cannot see you now. She is busy. She isn't dressed. You 
 are not the only lodger to be looked after. Mother is upstairs 
 helping to do the rooms. Then there's the early dinners to get 
 
 ready — and ' 
 
 'Well, then, sit down and talk for her.' 
 The girl obeyed, but with suspicion. 
 
 'What is your name ?' he began, 'and who was your father ?' 
 ' My name is Isabel Pendlebury and my father was in Orders.' 
 'Pendlebury ! I know now — he was one of my predecessors — 
 two between him and me — at old Estill's. There he met Camilla 
 and became engaged to her.' 
 
 ' I do not know. He married her after my mother died.' 
 ' Yes — yes. You have no resemblance to Camilla. You are her 
 step-daughter,' he said. ' Now tell me more.' 
 
 In a few minutes he was master of the leading facts ; that the 
 Rev. Pendlebury, deceased, was one of tbose brilliantly successful 
 clergymen who arrive at a district church in a poor quarter at 
 £300 a year ; that Isabel herself had been educated by a kindly 
 maiden aunt, who unfortunately forgot to make a new will in 
 Isabel's behalf before she died ; that when her father died, there 
 was left for his widow, his daughter, and the two boys of the 
 second marriage, exactly £500, the amount of his insurance. Tho 
 Pendlebury relations, it appeared, belonged, as mostly happens, to 
 the class which never has any money for the luxury of helping other 
 people; they therefore applauded strenuously when the widow con- 
 sented to 'sink the lady,' as she nicely put it, and bought the fur- 
 niture and good will of a Broadstairs lodging, which she was still 
 conducting with the sunshine and shower, the good season and tha 
 bad season, the fat time and the lean time, which attend on those 
 who thus wait upon fortune. But Isabel, constrained to assist, or 
 else to join the ranks of the nursery governess, or the shop-girl, 
 remembered the maiden aunt's house and was unhappy. 
 
 So much Harry learned from her lips, or judged from her 
 manner, which gradually softened as she perceived the sympathy 
 which he felt. Perhaps instinct itself whispered in her ear that 
 .sympathy flows more easily towards a lovely damsel in distress 
 than towards an elderly widow who wears a front, and this feeling 
 may have given her freedom of speech. 
 
 ' And you don't like your share in the business ?' said Mr. Strange, 
 at this point. 
 
 It certainly helped Isabel to larger utterance that he was one of 
 those men who by reason of a soft voice, a kindly eye, and of a
 
 3 i2 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 
 
 right feeling as to the proper moment for interruption, Bpeedily 
 win the confidence of those with whom they talk. 
 
 ' Like it ! oh !' she answered with infinite meaning in the long 
 drawn breath. ' Like it ! It is horrible— horrible.' She dropped 
 her voice to a whisper. ' Think ! the lodgers are always cheated, 
 and I've got to draw out their bills. They must be cheated— you'll 
 be cheated. Otherwise, what with the rent and taxes, we couldn't 
 live out of the three months' season.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that is very bad— very bad. And all the time you would 
 like— what would you like?' 
 
 ' I don't know. We have always been poor. While father lived, 
 we were honest— at least, I suppose so. Now ' she got up im- 
 patiently. ' What is the use? I have never had time even to wish 
 for anything except for more money. What does mother mean ?' 
 she changed her manner suddenly. 'She says you have been 
 working for her.' 
 
 ' She is mistaken. I have been working for myself.' 
 ' Oh ! but she came out yesterday crying, and she said that her 
 troubles were over, because you had been working for her.' 
 
 ' She shall understand presently,' said the lodger, ' that she is 
 quite mistaken.' 
 
 1 May I go now ?' she asked, chilled by the sudden coldness of 
 his voice. 
 
 In the afternoon, when the tea was off her mind, Camilla was 
 once more able to dress herself in order to resume her conversation 
 with her old lover. Harry — who looked much more like Mr. 
 Strange— rose politely and offered her a chair. But his face was 
 stony. The widow sat down and shivered. All night she had 
 been glowing under the rosy sunshine of hope and imagination. 
 Now she watched his stony face and she shivered. 
 
 ' Harry,' she said, smiling, as if in the sunshine of welcome, 
 ' were you able to sleep at all last night ? For myself, feeling that 
 
 I was once more under the same roof after twenty years ' 
 
 1 Mrs. Pendlebury,' he said, calling her by her married name, 
 * will you have the goodness at once, and without further rigmarole, 
 to descend to common sense ?' 
 
 She turned her eyes, those blue eyes once so fatal, upon him , 
 she tried to smile ; she laughed feebly ; but she encountered a 
 hard fixed face ; she trembled again, and a tear stole down her 
 cheek. 
 
 ' No more nonsense,' he said. ' It is by the purest accident that 
 I am here. I did not know you were living. I have clean--long
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 313 
 
 eince — forgotten your very existence. I have thought nothing 
 about you ever since I sailed for New Zealand.' 
 ' But your promise, Harry, your promise !' 
 
 'Good Lord ! How dare you speak of my promise — you — who 
 are a widow — actually a widow, with three children ?' 
 
 ' Cruel !' she folded her hands and raised streaming eyes to 
 Heaven. 'He reproaches me with my marriage. And yet it was 
 bat an Incident in my life — only an Incident. Nothing but an 
 Incident.' 
 
 ' Only an Incident ? What in the name of wonder do you 
 mean V 
 
 'And there were not three children but two — only two. Isabel 
 is not my own. I have only Cyril and Augustine — Ril and Gus— 
 dear children 1' 
 
 'It is really too good 1' he laughed aloud and remained totally 
 unmoved by her tears. ' Besides, I know all about you, now. I 
 had forgotten until after you left me. Shall I recall to you your 
 own history ? Jack Bolder told me — surely you remember Jack 
 — if he were to drop in casually you would send him your faded 
 photograph and ask if he was still working for you.' 
 'Cruel! Cruel!' 
 
 ' You were twenty when you were engaged to the first of the 
 pupils. You were still twenty when you were engaged, a year 
 after, to the third. That was Jack Bolder. He's a Colonial 
 Bishop now, and outside his ecclesiasticums he's a very good 
 fellow. You were twenty when you were engaged to Pendlebury, 
 the fourth or fifth. And you were twenty when you were engaged 
 to me, the seventh.' 
 
 She shook her head sorrowfully. 
 
 'When Pendlebury met you after his first wife died, it was 
 thirteen years since he had gone away and forgotten you. You 
 reminded him that you were still waiting. Your fidelity touched 
 him. But I believe that even he had not the courage to pretend 
 that he was still waiting for you.' 
 
 ' If you only knew ! If I could only tell you ! But the heart 
 knows its own secrets — even when I stood at the altar with that 
 good man. The heart knew, Harry — I mean Mr. Strange — and it 
 never faltered in its allegiance— never — never.' 
 
 Harry quoted something incongruous about a man's heart being 
 true to Poll in spite of many similar Incidents. 
 
 ' And — and — when I saw you again — Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! — my memory 
 carried me back and I thought I was once more young and beau- 
 tiful and loved by the only man in the world who ever touched
 
 3H CAMILLAS LAST STRING. 
 
 my heart. Oh ! and I thought I had found a friend at last. Oh \ 
 and I am so poor and friendless. Oh ! and I have my two boys — 
 my Ril and my Gus— and no one to help.' There was no mockery 
 in the tears that she shed now, or in the disappointment which 
 filled her heart. 
 
 ' I shall be here for a fortnight, Mrs. Pendlebury,' he said ; ' we 
 need have no more interviews. If I can help you — perhaps ' he- 
 rose and opened the door. 
 
 ' You were always truth and honour itself. What that villain 
 Jack Bolder— Oh ! I could almost turn Primitive Methodist to- 
 think that such a man is a Bishop ! — what he told you about all 
 those pupils is dreadful lying and slandering. To think that a 
 Bishop should condescend to slander a weak, helpless, unhappy 
 woman !' 
 
 4 Good-morning, Mrs. Pendlebury,' he said, opening the door 
 wider. 
 
 * Isabel,' said the widow presently, ' Mr. Strange is an old friend. 
 He will not go away without helping us, I am quite sure of that. 
 Let us make him as comfortable as we can. I only wish he would 
 dine at home. I remember that he was fond of roast veal when I 
 stuffed it with my own hands — and he would lose himself in plum 
 tart if he thought I had made it. I would give him, Isabel, just 
 to recall the happy past, a knuckle of veal roasted, with a delicious 
 stuffing, and a plum tart — plums are cheap now — beautifully 
 browned.' 
 
 V. 
 
 It was the last day of the fortnight. Mr. Strange was to go on the 
 morrow in order to make room for the new comers. In the even- 
 ing he walked on the cliff, but not alone. With him walked 
 Isabel Pendlebury. The band finished : the people began to 
 disperse and to go home : there were left only a few couples 
 strolling up and down ; the moon shone on the waters and the air 
 was balmy. 
 
 They walked to the far end, where there was no one but them- 
 selves ; and they sat down on the very last bench, on the very edge 
 of the cliff. 
 
 1 Isabel,' said the lodger, • I have had a most delightful fortnight. 
 
 So had she. For her the fortnight had been like a little breath 
 of Heaven. For it had been wholly spent in the society of a man 
 who had nothing to do, apparentby, but to make her happy. 
 
 Was it not the moat natural thing in the world ? This man,
 
 CAMILLA'S LAST STRING. 315 
 
 twenty years from home, who had long since broken from his old 
 ties, with no mother or sisters, and possessed of a tender heart, 
 found a truly beautiful damsel in great unhappiness. Of course he 
 pitied her ; of course he began to devise means to make her happy ; 
 therefore he gave her gloves — which is a safe way to begin when 
 you are rich and nearly forty, and can always fall back, in case of 
 misunderstanding, upon a fatherly interest. Then he took her for 
 drives — Broadstairs lends itself to drives ; then to larger excursions, 
 with little dinners, to Canterbury, Dover, Deal, Sandwich, Rams- 
 gate, Westgate, even Margate. And, quite naturally, the girl being 
 clever, sympathetic, beautiful, and easily pleased, he began to ask 
 himself what sort of a wife he should like to have at his finehoute 
 in New Zealand. 
 
 As for the girl, I don't think she cared so much for the things he 
 showed her, as for the thoughts that now filled her brain. For she 
 began, after two or three days of this fine pleasuring, to recognise 
 a. certain gleam or ray, as of half understood perception ; this 
 kindled into tumultuous hope, which fired her brain and kept 
 her awake all night and lit up her eyes, naturally very good, and 
 put colour into her cheek, and then, in its turn, changed into a 
 quaggy slough of despond, which, once passed, gave place to hope 
 again, and finally rose to certainty. And then, like the glass, it 
 was set fair. This evening it was certainly absolute. For 6he 
 was not blind ; she could not but see — the most innocent girl ever 
 created could not but see — that Mr. Strange regarded his com- 
 panion with greater admiration than he bestowed even upon the 
 Cathedral of Canterbury, or upon the quaint old streets of Sand- 
 wich. It was not on the scenery that he gazed when he walked 
 beside this interesting damsel left so friendless with a stepmother 
 in a lodging-house. 
 
 ' Thanks to you,' he went on. He was now much too old and 
 experienced to fall a-trembling over any woman. His voice was 
 quite steady, and his words were measured. Yet he was thinking 
 all the time how well this girl would look at the head of his table 
 attired in crimson velvet. 'I think,' he said, 'I am quite sure, 
 Isabel, that your father must have been the best of men. Perhaps 
 also the loveliest.' 
 
 She laughed. She expected something much more sentimental. 
 Her saintly parent may have been quite the best, but certainly he 
 was not the loveliest of mankind. 
 
 ' Then it was your mother. Isabel, child,' at this point he laid an 
 affectionate hand round a willing and a yielding waist, ' I am going
 
 316 CAMILLAS LAST STRING. 
 
 back to New Zealand. If you will come with me, I will do my best 
 to make you happy.' 
 
 Go with him ? Leave the dingy lodging-house and the cheating 
 bills ? Go to a land of plenty, with horses and carriages, and 
 silk frocks and kid gloves? Go with a real man, strong enough to 
 have made his own way, and sweet-tempered as well ? Of course- 
 she would go. But she did not express all the joy she felt. Not 
 so. She only murmured faintly — though she would have liked to 
 jump up and shout and dance for joy — that she would go with him. 
 
 They went home together hand-in-hand. Harry took his 
 betrothed into his own room and rang the bell. Camilla herself 
 obeyed the call. 
 
 ' Mrs. Pendlebury,' he said, 'pray sit down. "We agreed a fort- 
 night ago not to return to the old familiar names. We may now 
 do so, however. You shall henceforth be once more Camilla to 
 me, and I will be Harry to you in future, if you like.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' She was now quite subdued. There was 
 hardly any jealousy even in her mind, though it is not in human 
 nature to stand by and look on quite unmoved when such a comedy 
 is played under your very eyes. ' What am I to understand ? Will 
 you explain, Isabel ?' 
 
 ' We will be friends again. In short, Camilla, you may hence- 
 forth regard me as one of the family, because I am going to marry 
 your step-daughter. Isabel has consented to become my wife. 
 And all we have to arrange now is to make up to you, somehow, for 
 the loss of her assistance. I daresay we can do something for the 
 boys, you know — your Gus and Ril.' 
 
 That is a happy moment — too rare — too seldom vouchsafed to 
 mortals — when all misunderstandings are cleared up and all hearts 
 made to rejoice. 
 
 ' My Ril and Gus, Harry — dear Cyril and dear Augustine ! Oh \ 
 when I saw you, the moment I saw you, though the past was for- 
 gotten, I knew — I felt — I recognised, that a crisis in my life was at 
 hand. Isabel, dear child — I said a crisis was at hand. It came with 
 your arrival. I knew that in a consecrated and a holy sense, Harry, 
 not in the low and earthly sense — no — no — that was gone — I knew, 
 I say, and I told you, that I was waiting for you— my dear futurer 
 stepson-in-law— and that you were working for me.' 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
 
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 Mr. Jervls. 
 
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 Deacon Brodie. 
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 Archie Lovell. I A PJactsr Saint. 
 
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 Robin Gray. 
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 Patricia Kemball 
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 Dundas. 
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 Dulcie Everton. 
 Rebel of the Family. 
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 Llnley Rochford. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 Camiola. 
 
 Waterdale Neighbours. 
 
 My Enemy s Daughter. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
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 Red Diamonds. 
 
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 Mononia. 
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 W. H. MALLOCK — The New Republic. 
 
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 Dr. Rumsey's Patient. 
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 On Brink of a Chasm. 
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 Tho Way of a Woman. 
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 LuciofGerardRldpelev. I Rensh. Fanning sQuest, 
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 Josenh's Coat. 
 
 Coals of Fire. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 
 Val S trance. I Hearts. 
 
 A Model Father. 
 
 By the Gato of the Sea. 
 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 
 The Way of the World. 
 
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 Saint Ann's. I Billy Bellew. 
 
 Miss Wentworth's Idea. 
 
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 BobMartih'3 Little Girl 
 Time's Revenues. 
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 His Own Ghost. 
 Church of Huir rnity. 
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 Paul Jones a Alias. 
 
 Held in Bondage. 
 Strathmore. I Chandoa. 
 Under Two Flags. 
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 Cecil CaBtlemaine'a 
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 The Waters of Eder*.. 
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 Friendship. 
 
 Moth3. I RnfSno. 
 
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 In Maremma. 
 
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 Christina Chard. I Nulma. | Madame Izan. 
 
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 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
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 Christie Johnstone. 
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 Never Too Late to Mend 
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 Autobiography of a 
 
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 Love Little, Love Long, 
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 Foul Play. 
 
 Put Y'rself in His Place 
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 A Woman-Hater. 
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 A Perilous Secret. 
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 J. RUNCIMAN.— Skippera and Shcllbaclu. 
 
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 Jenny Harlowe. 
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 BAYLE ST. JOHN.— A Levantine Family 
 
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 Dr. Endicott s Experiment. 
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 Mary Unwin. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar's Secret. 
 
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 Philip Winwood. 
 
 R. A. STERNDALE.— The Afghan Knife. 
 
 R. L. STEVENSON.— The Suicide Club. 
 
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 Marion Fay. 
 
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 Roughing It; and The 
 
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 Rachel Langton. 
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 Nigel Fortescue. 
 Birch Dene. 
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 Ben Clough. 
 
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 Ralph Norbreck'slmrt 
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 Roy of Roy's Court. 
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 Honest Davie. 
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 The Heir of Linn?. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Rachel Dene. | Matt. 
 Ladv Kilpatrick. 
 
 Shadow of the Sword, 
 A Child of Nature, 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The'Master of the Mine. 
 Annan Water. 
 
 Bv BUCHANAN and MURRAY. 
 The Charlatan. 
 
 By HALL CAiNE. 
 
 The Shadow of aCrlma. I The Daenuter. 
 A Son of Hagar. 
 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 The Cruise of tha ' Black Princa.' 
 
 By HAYDEN CARRUTH. 
 The Adventures of Jones. 
 
 By AUSTIN CLARE. 
 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 
 Why Paul Ferroil Silled his Wifa. 
 
 By MACLAREN C038AN. 
 
 The Cure of Souls. | The Red Sultan. 
 
 By WILK1E COLLINS. 
 Armadale. | AfterDark. | M7 Miscellanies. 
 No Nam*. 
 
 Antoaiaa. P" 
 
 Basil. 
 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Quean of Hearts. 
 Miss or Mrs. 7 
 Tha New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Law and the Lady 
 The Two l>estiniei. 
 Tha Haunted Hotel, 
 A Rogue's Life 
 
 The Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man ?.nd Wife. 
 Poor Miss F:uea. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel s D.\u liter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 1 1 Say No ! ' 
 The Evil Genius. 
 Little Novels. 
 Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 By MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Sweet and Twenty. 
 The Village Comedy. 
 Yon Play me False 
 Blacksmith and Scholar 
 Frances. 
 
 Sweet Aunt Page. 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Mid- 
 night. 
 A Fijht with Fortune. 
 
 By M. J. COLQUHOUN. 
 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 
 The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountain*. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. a 
 The Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 By H. N. CRELLIN, -Tales of the Caliph 
 By B. M. CROKER. 
 
 Pretf.y Miss Neville. 
 Diana Barrinstcn. 
 
 •To Let.' 
 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 A Family Likeness. 
 
 A Third Person. 
 
 Village Talc: and Jungle 
 
 Tragediea. 
 Two Masters. 
 Mr. Jervis. 
 The Real Lady Hilda. 
 Married or Single 7 
 Interference. 
 
 In the Grip cf the Law. 
 From Information Re- 
 
 ceived. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 Link by Link 
 Suspicion Arouacd, 
 Riddles Read. 
 
 iiy ALPHONSB DAUDET. 
 
 The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 The Man-Hunter. 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Caught at Last I 
 Winted ! 
 Who Poisoned Hetty 
 
 Duncan 7 
 Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs 
 The Mystery of Jamaica Terrace. 
 The Chronicles of Michael Eanevitch. 
 
 By Mr.s. ANNIE EDWARDE^ 
 A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell. 
 
 By EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 
 Eozy. 
 
 By G. MANVILLE FENN. 
 The Tiger Lily. 
 The White Virgin. 
 
 >y u. 
 
 The New Mistress. 
 Witces3 to the Deed. 
 
 By PERCY 
 
 Bella Donna. 
 Never Forgotten. 
 Polly. 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 FITZGERALD. 
 
 Second Mrs. Ti)lc*Eon. 
 Seventy - five Brooke 
 
 Street. 
 Tha Lady of Erantome 
 
 By P. FIT7.4ERALD and others 
 
 8tramge Secrets. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON 
 
 Olympla 
 One by One. 
 A Real Queen. 
 Qneca Cophetaa 
 
 By HAROLD 
 
 Scth's Brother's Wife. 
 
 King or Knave 7 
 Romances of the Law. 
 Rooes of Sand. 
 A Doe and his Ehadow 
 
 FREDERIC. 
 
 Tha Lawtoa Girl. 
 
 Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE 
 
 Pandurang Kari. 
 
 By GILBERT GAUL. 
 
 A Strange Manuscript. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON 
 
 Robin Gray 
 
 Fancy Free. 
 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 
 What will World Say 7 
 
 In Love and War. 
 
 Tor the King. 
 
 In Pastures Green. 
 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT. - 
 James Duke. 
 
 By ERNEST GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. I The Fossicker. 
 
 A Fair Colonist. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOULD 
 Ked Spider. I St*. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 Flower of the Forest 
 The Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 Ey Mead and Stream. 
 Loving a Bream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart s Delight. 
 Blood-Money.
 
 CMATT<) • ^e M . m 5t._M«rt«n's lane, London, W.C. 3, 
 
 Love— or a Nauia. 
 David Toindexter's Dls- 
 ppear&nce. 
 
 T.'-c; Spectre of the 
 C'iniera. 
 
 Two-Shilling NovKLS-fo;;/.>.fi- I 
 
 By ANDREW HALLIDAY. 
 
 Everyday Papers. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 
 under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 °" tn -. Beatrix Randolph. 
 
 Eilica Quentln. 
 
 Fortune 2 Fool. 
 
 Miis Cadogna. 
 
 8ebast:an Strome 
 
 Dust. 
 
 By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. 
 Ivan de Eiron. 
 
 By G. A. HENTY. 
 
 Eujnb the Ju-gler. 
 
 By HEADON HILL. 
 
 Zambra the Detective. 
 
 __ By JOHN HILL. 
 
 Treason Felony. 
 
 By Mrs. CASHEL KOEY. 
 
 The Lovers Creed. 
 
 By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER 
 
 The House of Kaby. 
 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD 
 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 
 In Durance Vile. 
 
 Marvel. 
 
 A Mental Strugjle 
 
 A Modern Circe. 
 
 April's Lady. 
 
 Peter's Wife. 
 
 By Airs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 That Other Person. I The Leaden Casket. 
 
 Belf Condemned. 
 
 By MARK KERSHAW, 
 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 
 A Drawn Game. I ?a3sion a Slave. 
 
 ' The Wearing of the Bell Barry 
 Green.' 
 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER 
 
 Madame Sans-Gene. 
 
 By JOHN LEYS. 
 
 The Lindsays. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 The Ate -.imentof Leam 
 
 Danda.i. 
 Rebel of the Family. 
 Bowing the Wind. 
 The One Too iiany. 
 Dolcle Evertoa. 
 
 Patricia Xemball. 
 
 The Worid Well Lost. 
 
 Under which Lord 7 
 
 Paston Carew. 
 
 • My Love I ' 
 
 lone. 
 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY 
 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Waterdale Neighbours 
 My Enemy's Daughter 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Eochford. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 Camiola 
 
 By HUGH MACCOLL. 
 
 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. 
 
 By GEORGE MACDONAI.D. 
 
 Heather and Snow. 
 
 By AGNES MACDONELL. 
 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 By W. H. MALLOCK. 
 
 The New .Republic. 
 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 By L. T. A1EADE. 
 
 A Boldlsr of Fu) tune. 
 
 Th. %iS y LEONARD MERRICK. 
 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
 
 Hathercourt Eectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 
 8t ?rJ.;f y^"""" aud Won - 1 From the 1t»om of the 
 ueriui. Been 
 
 The Dead Man's 3ecret. | 
 
 By D. CHRISTiE MURRAY 
 
 McCarthy. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 Toe Dictator. 
 
 Red Diamonds. 
 
 The Kiddle Ring. 
 
 A Bitof Human Nature 
 First Person SinguUr 
 B;>b Martin's LittleGirl. 
 Time s Revenges. 
 A Wasted Crimo. 
 Ill Direst Peril. 
 £iount Despair. 
 A Capful Nails 
 
 dy Verner's Flight. 
 
 TnsK^u llou-e Mjstery ; 
 The Three Graces. 
 Unsatisfactory Lover. 
 Lady Patty. 
 a era Oreina. 
 Profe.-!or'o Experiment 
 
 A Model Fathor. 
 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 
 Coa!a of Fire. 
 
 Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 
 Old Blazers Hero. 
 
 Tae Way of the World 
 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Life s Atonement. 
 
 Ey the Gate of the Sea. 
 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 
 One Traveller Returns. I The Bishops' Bible. 
 P-ul Jones s Alias. 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 
 Ba "Up!' I Dr.Bernard St. Vincent 
 
 Ra(nt . . By W. E. NORRI5. 
 
 Saint Ann s. | Billy Bail?^. 
 
 By GEORGES OHNE'F 
 
 Dr. Eame.-.u. j A Weird Gift. 
 
 A Last Love. 
 
 nrhtt.1. . l5y Mrs ' OLIPHANT. 
 
 S -ladies. I me Greatest Heiress In 
 
 The rnmrose Path. | England. "■*"*** Ia 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 T'.vo Lit. Wooden Shoes. 
 
 Moths 
 
 Hold In Bondage 
 
 'nore. 
 Cc&ados, 
 Iuaiia. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Cecil CaaUeicaJne sGage 
 Tricotnn. 
 Pact. 
 
 Folic Farine. 
 A Do; of Flanders. 
 
 ixei. 
 Sit na. 
 
 Princess Napraxina. 
 la a Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 Friendship 
 
 Bimbi. 
 Piyistrello. 
 A Village Commune 
 Wanua. 
 Othnuut 
 Frescoes. 
 In Mareinma. 
 Guiideroy. 
 Run: no. 
 Syriin. 
 
 Sanra Barbara. 
 Two Offenders. 
 Ouid:-.'s Wisdom. Wit 
 and Pat;;o 
 
 
 By MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. *»"•-• 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 
 The Kcma:ice ci a Station. 
 The Soul of Countess Adrian. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. | Mrs. Tregasklss 
 Christina Chard. | 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 Bentinch s ] utor. The TgJ* „! the Town. 
 
 Murphy's Master. 
 
 A County Family. 
 
 it Her Kercy. 
 
 Cecil s Tryst. 
 
 The ClySards of ClySe 
 
 The Foster Brothers. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 The Best of Husbands. 
 
 Waiter s Word. 
 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 
 Humorous Stories. 
 
 £200 Koward. 
 
 A Marine Residence. 
 
 J!iik Abbey 
 
 By Froxy. 
 
 Under One Roof. 
 
 High Spirits. 
 
 Caiiyor.'s Year. 
 
 From Exile. 
 
 For Cash Only. 
 
 Kit. 
 
 The Canon 1 Ward. 
 
 Holiday Ti.. 
 A Perfect Treasure 
 What Ee Cost Her. 
 A Confidential Agent 
 Glow-worm Xalaa. 
 Tne Buiut Million. 
 Sur. ly Ste-rie3. 
 Lost Sir Massingberd 
 A Woman's Veu;,. 
 The Family scaue race 
 Girecdolii-.e s li'a. . 
 Like Father. Like i 
 Married Beneath Hia 
 Not Wooed, but \- 
 Less Bia.k than We '0 
 
 Pain led. 
 Some Private Viewj 
 A Grape from a Ti 
 Ihe Myste.y of Mir. 
 
 bridge. 
 The Word and the W1U. 
 A Prince of Us Blood 
 A Trying ttUtuv
 
 &» CHATTO & WINDUS, Publish e rs, in S t. Martin's Lane. London, W.C. 
 
 Two- Shilling Novels — continued. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 CHARLES READE. 
 
 By 
 
 It Is Never Too Lata to 
 
 Mend. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Put Yourself in His 
 
 Place 
 Love Me Little, Love 
 
 Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the 
 
 Hearth. 
 Course of True Love. 
 The Jilt. 
 The Autobiography :.f 
 
 a Thief. 
 
 By Mrs. J. 
 
 Weird Stories. 
 Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 The Prince of Wales's 
 Garden Party. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 Foul May. 
 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Singleheart and Donble- 
 
 facs. 
 Good Stories of Man and 
 
 other Animals. 
 Peg Woffington. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 A Simpleton. 
 Rcadtana. 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 
 H. R1DDELL. 
 
 The Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace 
 
 Gardens. 
 The Nun's Curse. 
 Idle Tales. 
 
 By P. W. ROBINSON. 
 
 Women are Strange. I The Woman in the Dark 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 
 A Book for the Ham- 
 mock. 
 
 The Mystery of the 
 ' Ocean Star.' 
 
 The Romance of Jenny 
 Harlowe. 
 
 By DORA 
 
 A Country Sweetheart. 
 
 By QEORQE AUGUSTUS SALA 
 
 Qasligbt and Daylight. 
 
 By GEORGE R. SIMS. 
 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone onWideWide Sea. 
 Good Ship 'Mohock.' 
 The Phantom Death. 
 Is He the Man ? 
 Heart of Oak. 
 The Convict Ship. 
 The Tale of the Ton. 
 The Last Entry. 
 
 RUSSELL. 
 
 The Ring o Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To day. 
 Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 My Two wives. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 
 Without Love or Licence. I The Plunger 
 Beatrice and Benedick. I Long Odds. 
 The Master of Rathkelly. | 
 
 By T. VV. SPEIGHT. 
 
 The Mysteries of Heron 
 
 Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. 
 Hoodwinked. 
 By Devious Ways. 
 
 eph. 
 Memoirs of a Landlady. 
 Scenes from the Shrnv. 
 The 10 Commandments. 
 Dagonet Abroad. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 
 Back to Life. 
 
 The LoudwaterTragedy, 
 
 Burgo s Romance. 
 
 Quittance in Full. 
 
 A Husband from the Sea 
 
 Orchard Damerel. 
 
 In the Face of i.iio World. 
 
 The Treinlett LUmondi. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 
 
 A Match in the Dark. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 'J'fie Junior Dean. 
 Matter of St. Benedict's 
 To His Own Master. 
 
 By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 
 New Arabian Nights. 
 
 By ROBERT SURTEES. 
 
 Handley Cross. 
 
 By WALTER THORNBURY. 
 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 
 By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By P. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the I Anne Furness. 
 Sea. I Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Frau Frohmann. 
 Marion Fay. 
 Kept In the Dark. 
 The Way We Live Now 
 The Land Leaguers. 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 Th3 American Senator. 
 Mr. Scarborough 3 
 
 Family. 
 GoldenLion of Graupere 
 
 A Pleasure Trip on the 
 
 Continent. 
 The Gilc.ed Age. 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 MarkTwain's Sketches. 
 Tom Sawyer. 
 A Traup Abroad. 
 
 Stolen White Elephant. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the 
 
 Pauper. 
 A Yankee at the Court 
 
 of King Arthur. 
 £1,000,003 Bank- Note. 
 
 FRASER-TYTLER. 
 
 By C. C 
 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER 
 
 Bride's Pas3 | Lady Bell The Hugueno 
 
 Buried Diamonds. 
 
 Et. Mur.go's City. 
 
 Noblesse Oblige. 
 
 Disappeared. 
 
 By ALLEN 
 
 The Queen against Owen. 
 
 By WILLIAM 
 
 Trust-Money. 
 
 By Mrs. F. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends, 
 
 By H. F. WOOD. 
 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 
 By TvlARGARET WYNMAN, 
 My Flirtations. 
 
 Family 
 The Blackhall G boats 
 What SheCameTh'ough 
 Beauty and the Beast. 
 
 UPWARD. 
 
 I Prince oi Balkiatan. 
 
 WESTALL. 
 
 NEW SERIES OF TWO-SHILLING NOVELS. 
 
 Picture cloth, 
 The Constable of St. Nicholas. By Edwin 
 
 LESTER ARNOLD. 
 St. Kathertne's by the Tower. By Sir WALTER 
 BESANT. 
 
 Dora Myrl, the Lady Detective. By McD. 
 
 Bodkin, K.C. 
 Vincent Trill, Detective. By Dick Donovan. 
 Dark Deeds. By Dick Donovan. 
 A Crimson Crime. By G. Manville Fenn. 
 The Red Shirts. By Paul Gaulot. 
 The Track of a Storm. By Owen Hall. 
 In a Hollow of the Hills. By Bret Harte. 
 Colonel Starbottles Client. By BRET Hartb. 
 A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's. By Bret Harte. 
 A Sappho of Green Springs. By Bret Harte. 
 The Lady from Nowhere. By FERGUS Hl'ME, 
 Plotters of Paris. By Edmund Mitchell. 
 
 V- 
 
 flat backs. 
 
 The Temple of Death. Ev Edmund Mitchell, 
 
 Towards the Eternal "Snows. By Edmund 
 
 Mitchell. 
 The Luck of Gerard Ridgeley. By BERTRAM 
 
 MlTKORD. 
 The King's Assegai. By BERTRAM Mitford. 
 Maid Marian and Robin Hood. By J.E.MuddoCK 
 His Own Gho3t. By D. Christie Murray. 
 The Waters of Edera. By Ouida. 
 A Modern Dick Whittington. By James Payn. 
 The Drift of Fate. By Dora Russell. 
 A Country Sweetheart. By Dora Russell, 
 In London's Heart. By G. R. Sims. 
 The Tale of the Serpent. By SUNDOWNER. 
 Citoyenne Jacqueline. By Sarah Tvtlhr. 
 Joan, the Curate. By Florbnce Warden, 
 Snort and Spangles. By Byron Webber, 
 
 'Imwin Brothers, Ltd.. Printers, 37, Pilgrim Street, London, K.C,
 
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