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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 'tt^: 
 
 iMa^m
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 
 
 <^ laU 
 
 BY 
 
 J. H. SHOETHOUSE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 'jOaN IXOLESANT,' ' SIR PERCIVAL,' 'THE COUNTESS EVE,' ETC. 
 
 iLonlion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1891 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 
 Et ait ; Dominus de Sinai veuit, et de Seir ortus 
 est nobis ; apparuit de Monte Pharan, et cum eo 
 sanctorum millia. In dextera ejus ignea lex. 
 
 Liher Deuteronmnii xxxiii. 2. 
 Vulgataj Editionis. 
 
 1-^35796
 
 ADVEKTISEMENT 
 
 I FERVENTLY liope that I shall be believed when 
 I say, as I do most earnestly, that I have in 
 no case introduced any person with whom I 
 have been acquainted, either in Devonshire or 
 elsewhere, into this tale. I have called the 
 cathedral city Minsterlcy in order to mark this 
 fact. To the best of my belief no such incidents 
 as are here described ever took place in Exeter. 
 I have endeavoured to avoid the use of names 
 or titles which are in existence at the present 
 time in Devonshire. If I have inadvertently 
 erred in this regard, I hope that the annoy- 
 ance will not be great. I owe an apology to 
 the Premier- Viscount of England. 
 
 The only point upon which, I fear, I must
 
 viii ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 plead guilty, is in the case of some descriptive 
 phrases about Devon, from which I have not 
 been able to exclude all traces of affection and 
 admiration for the people and the scenery of 
 that delightful land. 
 
 "& 
 
 J. H. S.
 
 INTEODUCTION 
 
 I AM only a woman, and I am going to \\Tite 
 this book in my own way, and I write it simply 
 because I have been brought so near to all the 
 actors of the story, and because it seems to me 
 that there is something in their story which it 
 may not be amiss for others to hear. If the 
 human story be worth telling, it must be because 
 the hearer receives from the tellinsf somethino^ 
 which he did not possess before. There is there- 
 fore in true art no such thing as realism, for it is 
 just this quality of the hitherto ungrasped which 
 is the ideal, and which alone gives to art any 
 raison d'etre at all. 
 
 I write this story, also, with other thoughts. 
 The things which are seen are temporal, but the 
 things which are unseen are eternal. The old 
 world, with its form and guise, is rapidly passing 
 away. A struggle for existence, for daily bread, 
 
 4^ ^ ^
 
 2 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE introd. 
 
 such as the world has perhaps never seen, is 
 close upon us, and before this struggle palaces 
 and parks, statues and pictures, perchance, will 
 be consumed, as they have been consumed be- 
 fore, in a lex ignea, a fiery law, but the eternal 
 will survive ; nay, it even seems to me that the 
 very variableness and inconstancy of that which 
 appears, are the means by which we see what the 
 invariable and the constant are. The same types 
 will return again. The Dux, the leader, will re- 
 appear. The Norman, the aristocrat, like my 
 Lord Falaise, will come to the front. The oaks 
 will grow again ; Nature is more apt than any of 
 us in recovering lost ground. The stars will fall 
 from heaven, but by a baptism of fire, more 
 terrible and searching than any that the world 
 has known, new heavens and a new earth — and 
 yet not so wholly new but that some recogni- 
 tion of the darling past will be possible — will 
 reappear. Sin, the enemy, will triumph and 
 will be slain — will triumph, for an error may be 
 renounced yet its fatal sting remain ; the conse- 
 quences of one act of sin can never be revoked. 
 What we see of Sin is its protean inconstancy ; 
 what is unseen is the dread result of an un- 
 changeable law. If there be any lesson taught 
 us by my story, it is the deceitfulness of Sin,
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 3 
 
 and the pitiless insistence with which it exacts 
 its payment to the full. Nevertheless Sin will 
 be slain, for the Divine nature has known suffer- 
 ing, and the inappeasable pang of unjust blame, 
 and thus has won for itself this supreme preroga- 
 tive, that it has achieved the revocation of an 
 irrevocable and appalling Past. God Himself, 
 who is also the Son of man, has become the 
 divine and eternal redemption and rectification 
 of all wrong, since nothing but the Divine nature, 
 which absorbs all things, and is all things, could 
 rectify the injury that has set all human relations 
 ajar. 
 
 In the meantime it may not seem useless to 
 record in a few simple pages how these truths 
 expressed themselves under the old feudal, 
 aristocratic, cultured life that is so rapidly 
 passing away. 
 
 My father was the son of a clergyman in 
 North Devon. He was a wild irreclaimable boy. 
 He ran away from school, out of pure reckless- 
 ness, and engaged himself at a music warehouse 
 in London as an errand-boy. Here he develojied 
 an extraordinary aptitude for playing the violin. 
 He w^as taken notice of, and put in the way of 
 being taught, and finally became a professional
 
 4 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE introd. 
 
 musician, wandering about the world after a 
 reckless and unprincipled manner of life. He 
 found in Paris a girl whom he married. She 
 was a singer and danseuse, a Parisienne, and a 
 benighted papist ; but if there be another world 
 where pure unselfishness is thought anything of, 
 it will surprise me very much if it has not been 
 said to my mother there that it was well done. 
 She died when I was about twelve years old of 
 the toil of bread-winning for husband and for 
 child, and my father came back to London, 
 bringing me with him. 
 
 I dread to think of the years that followed. 
 The story of those wretched hours has nothing 
 to do with the narrative which I have under- 
 taken to relate. I did what I could, when I was 
 old enough, by giving lessons in the French 
 language and in music. I played both the piano 
 and violin, but unfortunately I had no voice. 
 At last, after some ten or twelve years, my 
 father died. Then, when I was wondering what 
 it would be best or possible for me to do, I 
 received a letter from an aunt, my father's only 
 sister, in Devonshire, who had frequently, out of 
 her small means, assisted my father in his dire 
 straits, inviting me to come and visit her. 
 ' With your advantages of training and educa-
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 
 
 tion,' — SO she spoke in the innocence of her heart 
 — ' you might possibly find some employment for 
 your accomplisliments among the neigiibouring 
 families of distinction.' 
 
 T shall never forget that afternoon. It was 
 indeed the beginning of a new life, but it was 
 not any consciousness or reflection of this kind 
 that afi'ected me then ; it was the sensation of 
 the moment that moved me, and that lives with 
 me now. After crowded streets and tall houses, 
 that shut out all sense of distance and of space, 
 after noise and toil and restless sleeplessness, an 
 amazing stillness and calm. After the whirr and 
 jar of third-class railway travelling, with its stain 
 of dust and sulphurous smoke, I found myself 
 suddenly, about four o'clock of a marvellous 
 September afternoon, landed upon the narrow 
 wooden platform of a roadside station in North 
 Devon. A surprising hush — as the train, after 
 stopping for a minute or two, steamed on — was 
 the first sensation that struck my sense. Then, 
 as I stood for a moment or two upon the narrow 
 platform, a sense of wonderfully pure air was 
 drawn into my lungs and system, a rapt sense of 
 delight that kept me absolutely still, and lost to 
 all sense of aught beside. Then gradually there 
 came to me a perception that I w^as standing
 
 6 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 upon a wide liill-slopc, under a limitless expanse 
 of delicate propitious sky, beneath a soft blue 
 heaven and the fleecy whiteness of drifting cloud ; 
 and that all around me, up towards the moor 
 above, down into the endless reaches of dingle 
 and widening plain, were orchards, laden with 
 russet apples, and brown pastures, and rushing, 
 tumbling brooks. It was with no easy transition 
 that I understood a porter who demanded in no 
 very gentle terms — 
 
 ' Is that trunk yours, miss ? ' 
 
 Humbly explaining to him, and giving him 
 threepence — a habit which I had contracted 
 from my father's example — he condescended to 
 inform me that there was a gig and a boy out- 
 side the station from Trefennick, which he sup- 
 posed was intended for me, and shouldering my 
 trunk, he conducted me to the gig, and saw me 
 off, with as much politeness as if I had been a 
 countess. I shall never forget that drive, but it 
 is not my story that I am telling but that of 
 another. I said very little to the boy or he to 
 me, I was so lost in the beauty of the scene. 
 
 After a drive of a little less than an hour 
 we came up a wooded lane to a little village, 
 standing round a hilly green. At the opening 
 of the village were one or two old-fashioned
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 7 
 
 red-brick houses, with gardens in front of them, 
 rather superior in accommodation to the cottages 
 beyond. Before one of these the gig stopped. 
 A tall, very gentle-looking and refined old lady 
 came down the narrow path between the fuchsias, 
 hydrangeas, and veronicas, and welcomed me 
 with great kindness. A little maid, very clean, 
 and with an immaculate cap upon her youthful 
 head, accompanied her, and assisted the boy to 
 carry up my box. 
 
 A delicious sense of rest, of odorous flowers, 
 of kindness and of peace, pervaded the place. A 
 tiny bedroom, such delicate white dimity, quaint 
 black slender washhand-stauds and chairs, and a 
 four-post bed, welcomed me. What a contrast 
 from the slums of London life ! 
 
 We had tea, such a teal — pikelets, roasted 
 apples, and Devonshire cream, with pale old 
 china with the Bourbon sprig. 
 
 After tea my aunt suggested that, as the 
 evening was perfectly fine, we should take a 
 little walk up the village. 
 
 ' I will show you our church,' she said ; ' it is 
 a very fine church.' 
 
 It most certainly was. It stood upon a rising 
 mound in the centre of the villaofe, with the 
 thatched cottages straggling round in uneven
 
 8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 lines. A wide churchyard and patches of 
 common ground surrounded it. All around us, 
 as we stood on these grassy mounds, lay the 
 Devon landscape of field and forest, and above 
 us the soft Devon evening sky. It was more 
 like a cathedral than a parish church, though 
 it stood in the midst of these few thatched 
 cottages, and these Devonshire commons and 
 lanes. Against the solemn evening sky it 
 seemed a mystic fabric of whitish-gray, almost 
 raised from the earth, so ethereal it looked, as 
 we walked up the sloping churchyard path. 
 
 The door was open, for an old woman was 
 very fortunately doing something inside, and we 
 went in. 
 
 As we entered the church it seemed as thouofh 
 the immense nave, between white pillars and 
 arches of early English work, was unoccupied 
 save by a Norman font that stood in the 
 centre ; and on either side, up the wide aisles, 
 the uneven pale pavement spread itself in 
 open expanse, unencumbered by seat or pew — 
 a pavement of no common sort, but formed of 
 such stones as only centuries can produce ; 
 gravestones scrawled all over with the names 
 for which the West country is renowned — Pol- 
 lexfen, Trevannion, Pomeray, Pialegh, Hawker, —
 
 iNTRon. BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 9 
 
 names which, overflowing from the ranks of 
 the landed gentry, are found on the stones 
 and floor- ways everywhere beneath your feet. 
 
 But for some two-thirds of this white extent 
 of nave towards an exquisite screen of oak, with 
 faint gold tracery and worn and broken figures, 
 that caught the eye at once on entering the 
 church, were oaken benches o£ three centuries' 
 date carved at the ends with Scripture em- 
 blems. Beyond the screen a chancel and side 
 aisles stretched themselves dimly ; all was 
 white and unadorned save for the carved 
 monumental stones on the walls and pillars, 
 and the names of the dead beneath our feet, 
 and for a strange fantasy of colour that came 
 from fragments of ancient glass, coat armour, 
 and broken forms of saint and warrior, that 
 remained in the upper panes of the white 
 windows. 
 
 Over all there seemed to breathe a waft of 
 pure air from orchard and field, pure as from 
 the untainted world of Paradise, to tell us of 
 the unseen union between the church of the 
 living and of the dead, between pure life and 
 the struggle of the world which is miscalled 
 life. I have felt in other old churches since, 
 but I do not know that I ever felt before
 
 lo BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 that day, a sense of the oneness of holy, if 
 vague, emotion with that instinctive and un- 
 premeditated art which is the mere result and 
 reflex of ages of human life. 
 
 We went up the nave between the open seats, 
 and my aunt showed me the seat where she sat, 
 just in front of the curious and elaborately carved 
 pulpit. Then we turned into the south chapel, 
 another wide expanse of paved stone, surrounded 
 by high windows of plain glass, and a profusion 
 of crowded tablets on the walls. Between the 
 chapel and the chancel were two altar tombs, 
 with effigies of knights and ladies lying side by 
 side, and upon these, and upon the tablets on the 
 walls, and over the rough and uneven pavement, 
 from fragments of brasses, and from the almost 
 illegible inscriptions upon the stones, there was 
 distinguishable in impressive iteration the name 
 Falaise. Down the south wall beneath the hidi 
 leaded windows, in which there was more than 
 usual of the antique heraldic glass, was a long 
 seat or pew of elaborately carved ancient oak. 
 
 ' This is the Falaise chapel,' said my aunt to 
 me, with a certain solemnity in her tone ; ' they 
 are the great people here.' 
 
 We sat down for a few moments in the long 
 oak pew, looking across the knightly figures to the 
 
 1
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE M 
 
 wide chancel, beyond wliicli, beneath the high 
 east window of white glass, a perfectly plain 
 table of oak, evidently of great antiquity, served 
 for altar. The clergyman, I learnt afterwards, 
 was very old. After his day it was expected 
 many changes would befall. 
 
 ' You know,' my aunt went on, when we had 
 sat for a moment silent, ' that it is said that they 
 are Normans, that the patent of their title runs, 
 " Viscount Falaise of Falaise, in the King's pro- 
 vince of Normandy," and that it dates from the 
 Conquest. You will see them on Sunday. They 
 are staying at Trefennick ; indeed, they stay a 
 great deal here. Lady Falaise is very beautiful. 
 Hers is what they call, I suppose, a romantic 
 story. She was the daughter of a clergyman 
 not far from here, on the north coast. He was 
 an Oxford man. Lord Falaise, when a boy, 
 came to read with him. He fell in love, as 
 was natural, with this beautiful girl ; but she 
 despised him, I suppose as being a boy, and 
 would not listen to his suit. Then there came 
 down into the neighbourhood for a holiday 
 rest a young clergyman — a very handsome and 
 attractive, and a very clever man, a popular 
 preacher. He preached in the churches about 
 here. He took everybody by storm. He and
 
 12 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 Blanche Boteraux — that was Lady Falaise's 
 name — were very much together. They were 
 engaged for two or three years. She gave 
 herself wholly and utterly to him, and to his 
 work in the great towns. Then he behaved 
 very badly. She was supposed to have no 
 money, though it afterwards turned out that 
 she came in for a great deal. He broke off 
 the engagement and married the daughter of 
 an earl, with a great deal of money ; "to 
 help him in his work," he said. 
 
 ' Every one said that it would kill Blanche 
 Boteraux. It did kill her father. Then Lord 
 Falaise — you will see him on Sunday — came 
 forward again. She married him ; but from 
 what I hear and see, I fear that she is not 
 happy. I suppose it was too late. They 
 have been married twelve years, and have two 
 beautiful boys.' 
 
 ' I have an idea,' continued my aunt after 
 a pause, ' that Lady Falaise may possibly be 
 glad to engage you to take some part in the 
 education of her boys. Lord Falaise has some 
 peculiar notions about the education of boys. 
 He does not approve of sending them to joublic 
 schools, at least at a very early age. He also 
 wishes them to be highly cultured. I should
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 13 
 
 not be surprised if Lady Falaise would be 
 glad for you to teach her boys French and the 
 violin.' 
 
 Before I had been twenty -four hours at 
 Trefennick I discovered something of which I 
 had previously been utterly ignorant, which 
 was that my aunt was very much respected 
 by the county -people of the neighbourhood. 
 On the afternoon of the first day after my 
 arrival a very stylish carriage, with two ser- 
 vants, stopped in the little village road before 
 my aunt's garden -gate, and some great lady 
 of title, whose name I have forgotten, spent 
 half an hour with her. I may say here that 
 I was much struck, first and last, with my 
 aunt's manner in her intercourse with these 
 great people. She seemed to know all about 
 them, and asked questions which were evi- 
 dently very well received concerning their 
 relations and connections, as to whom it was 
 proper to inquire, but she never made the 
 smallest pretension of belonging to their caste, 
 nor did she ever speak of them, even when 
 alone with me, in any other way than that 
 in which you speak of people of whose ex- 
 istence you are acquainted with only through 
 the newspapers. I afterwards learned, for I
 
 14 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 really knew very little about my aunt, that 
 after her father's death she had been com- 
 panion to a great lady in the neighbourhood, 
 who was devotedly attached to her, and who left 
 her a comfortable little income at her death. 
 I mention these things because they seem to 
 me to account for some things that occurred 
 afterwards which otherwise might seem strange. 
 
 Curiosity, I confess, was at least as dominant 
 in my mind as devotion, as I went to church on 
 the first Sunday that I spent at Trefennick. It 
 was a beautiful autumn day. 
 
 From the oaken-carved seat in which we were, 
 in front of the pulpit, we could see the long 
 ornamented stall of Charles the First's time in 
 the chancel from end to end. The Falaises came 
 in just before the service began, from a small 
 door that opened into the chapel straight from 
 the grassy mounds without. 
 
 I have been wondering how it would be 
 possible to describe Lord Falaise, so as to con- 
 vey to those who read this story any idea of 
 how he seemed to me ; but I have not been 
 able to satisfy myself, for I mix up so much of 
 what I saw and felt afterwards with that first 
 sight. 
 
 He sat farthest from me in the long pew, yet
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 15 
 
 I seemed to see him sooner than I did Lady 
 Falaise. 
 
 He was one of those men whose contour and 
 colouring give you the impression that you are 
 looking at a picture — not that you have any 
 sense of unreality, for, before some portraits of 
 Gainsborough, the ordinary men you meet out- 
 side your gates wither up, not into unreality, but 
 into nothingness ; but there was an indescribable 
 distinction and refinement about his appearance 
 which made you think that you were looking at 
 a portrait conceived and executed by some great 
 master of the art. 
 
 He was a decidedly handsome man, somewhat 
 above the middle height, of a fair complexion 
 and auburn colouring ; but, I think — and I 
 have watched his face so often and under such 
 different circumstances, and have studied por- 
 traits of him by the first artists — that the great 
 charm of his face lay in his eyes. They resembled 
 agates, being marked with distinct diff'erences of 
 tracing and shade, and had an expression of rest 
 and distinction which made his face the most 
 unusual I had ever seen. They were fringed 
 with long soft eyelashes, which, however, seemed 
 rather to increase than diminish the effect of 
 reserved intentness which they produced. I am
 
 i6 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 SO exceedingly dissatisfied with this effort at 
 description that I would rather not attempt to 
 describe Lady Falaise, who sat nearest to me, 
 with the two boys between her and her husband, 
 at present. It will be sufficient to say that she 
 looked to me like a beautiful princess, but very 
 pale and sad. 
 
 The service was very plain. A choir of men 
 and boys, who sat all together in front of the 
 organ on the other side of the chancel, sang the 
 canticles and hymns. The few worshippers were 
 almost lost in the old open benches, which seemed 
 themselves a mere speck in the centre nave of 
 the vast church. An oaken roof, with carved 
 angels, loomed above us, mysterious in sunny, 
 dusty light ; and in front was the mouldering 
 rood screen, with its faded gilding and worm- 
 eaten tracery, and the stately eastern window, 
 beyond the white glass of which light fleecy 
 clouds sped rapidly across the sky, driven by 
 the fresh morning breeze, beneath a chequer 
 work of varied tinctures of coat armour in the 
 rich ancient glass of the upper panes. 
 
 I believe that my aunt wrote to Lady Falaise 
 — at any rate she told me, a morning or two 
 afterwards, that w^e were to go to the Court. 
 On the way she entertained me with many
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 17 
 
 traditions and stories of the neighbourhood, of 
 which she had an endless store. In the church- 
 yard she showed me a iombstone with the 
 inscription — 
 
 Orate pro anima Eadulph Node 
 
 the sepulchre, as the story ran, of a man who 
 pretended to fly from the top of the tower, and 
 broke his neck — a story concocted probably by 
 the country -people from the name upon the 
 tombstone, which they pronounced 'Noddy.' 
 
 Inside the park gates, wrought with iron 
 scroll-work, the path lay beneath a slope of 
 woodland beneath the moor, past oaks said to 
 be a thousand years old, and commanded a view 
 towards the south, limitless as it seemed, across 
 the breadth of Devon, of countless shades and 
 tints of woodland, now mellow and now gay, 
 which went far to satisfy the longing heart with 
 the perfection of their beauty and their shaded 
 restfulness, till I could have fancied that here at 
 last was ' Paradise regained,' the primal garden 
 between the four great rivers rediscovered, but 
 for the never-dying consciousness which is born 
 with some of us at least, whose childhood has 
 been sad, that Nature is only the half of life, and 
 that through her most persuasive and beguiling 
 

 
 i8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 paths there wanders ever, bent on its destructive 
 and fatal work, a restless, stubborn, inappeasable 
 human will. 
 
 Across the faint undertones of such musinofs 
 I scarcely heard my aunt's gentle talk of how 
 perfectly the family were Norman, of the great 
 tithes of Trefennick paid to the abbot of Falaise 
 till the Reformation, and of the long line of 
 descent beyond the Conquest from the dim Car- 
 lovingian time. 
 
 I had never seen such gardens as those at 
 Trefennick before, and I have not often seen 
 such since. They were formed in terraces beneath 
 the woods, dropping down into the valley and 
 the park. Beyond the Avide lawns, fringed with 
 flower-beds, rich with autumn colour, stone bal- 
 ustrades and broad steps divided terrace from 
 terrace, and from these mossy walks and paved 
 stairways you caught gracious and sunny 
 glimpses of the distant world of forest and of 
 plain. 
 
 The upper walk of these magic gardens was 
 a natural grassy terrace made perfectly straight 
 by the balustered wall, and bordered on the left 
 by the woodland, and on the right, towards the 
 valley, by a line of yew trees, of immemorial 
 antiquity, planted close to the parapet of the
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 19 
 
 terrace wall. On the side of the gardens canari- 
 ensis and clematis, growing up the terrace wall, 
 had climbed into, and flung themselves over, 
 these dark, stern, ancient trees. Seen from the 
 lower terrace, with their blazonry of purple and 
 of gold against the sombre wall of yews, they 
 seemed like the fairy life of a day coquetting 
 with Eternity ; but, on the farther side of the 
 dark hedge, what with the shadowy wood on 
 one hand and the sombre yews on the other, 
 and the long vista stretching into the unseen 
 distance, the walk always seemed to me weird 
 and ghostly. 
 
 I am describing all this, as I knew it so well 
 afterwards, for of course I did not see it all that 
 morning as we walked up the drive to the Court. 
 
 Trefennick had escaped the mania for rebuild- 
 ing, in the last century, which destroyed many 
 a noble pile. Either the Falaises had not been 
 sufficiently wealthy, or they had preferred to 
 make what improvements they did make U23on 
 the old lines, for the house was built of small 
 red brick, round a courtyard, with buildings of 
 varying heights, and, but for the clusters and 
 row^s of Jacobean chimneys, would have had a 
 somewhat castellated appearance. Some part 
 of it was said, upon doubtful authority, to have
 
 20 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 been designed by the architect who built Hamj)- 
 ton Court in the reign of Henry VIIL, and 
 many parts were overgrown with small ivy and 
 anpelopsis, and Virginia creeper, and wistaria, 
 so that the whole had a mellow and venerable 
 appearance, though I believe much of it, as it 
 stands now, dates only from the beginning of 
 the century. 
 
 We were shown through several rooms, every 
 one of them a dream and vision of art, a recol- 
 lection of past history, an epitome of human life. 
 Every great house is this. 
 
 At last we reached a large and lofty room 
 called the saloon, evidently from the French 
 salon, a great parlour, furnished in silk and gold, 
 with ivory and ebony cabinets, and great land- 
 scapes by Hobbima, Ruysdael, and Cuyp, and 
 overlooking through three tall windows the 
 woodland sweep of Exmoor, and farther off, 
 beyond the misty lines of moorland, a long dark 
 ridge, a slight blue thread along the horizon, 
 hiding in its faint outline all the wild savagery 
 of the tors and valleys of Dartmoor. 
 
 Above this view of earth, glorious and 
 wonderful in itself, was another more wonderful 
 and glorious still, for over the whole sky, which, 
 through these high windows, seemed to absorb
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 21 
 
 and dominate the earth, from the distant 
 horizon to the zenith above our heads, was spread 
 another world of cloudland and of heaven, of 
 blue sky, streaked with woof and texture of 
 riven cloud, delicate and suggestive as with 
 the handwriting of God ; and again, in the dis- 
 tance, over the savage moorlands, rainstorms and 
 thunderclouds, startling in their contrast with 
 the serene heaven overhead. I saw this marvel- 
 lous sight then, as I stood at the lofty windows, 
 waiting for Lady Falaise, across the pleasure 
 parks of the rich ; but I have seen it, a message 
 sent of God, over the back alleys of foul cities — 
 if only I had been more willing to see. 
 
 In this room, flooded with the morning lights 
 with this perfect art within, and this wealth of 
 beauty and of teaching lavished upon us from 
 without, I saw and heard speak for the first 
 time her to whom I afterwards became so 
 passionately attached — Blanche, Lady Falaise. 
 
 She came from her boudoir, and I can fancy 
 it all so well. She had been working, but the 
 work had been laid aside. She had been reading, 
 but the book had fallen at her feet. I see her 
 now, as she came into the room, as I have so 
 often seen her since. 
 
 Those who have loved will tell me how futile
 
 22 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 words are to describe the loved. A most beauti- 
 ful woman — what paltry words are these ! — 
 stately and queenlike it is true, but so winning 
 and attractive that such words seem false and 
 libellous. Her features were boldly cut, yet 
 not too large, and were faultlessly moulded, 
 especially the nose and mouth ; the latter being- 
 exquisite in its perfect lines. She never smiled, 
 but now and again the lips seemed to form them- 
 selves, as to a fruitless effort and a forgotten art, 
 with a result that sent thrilling through the 
 fancy what a smile from her must have been. 
 She had masses of light hair wreathed and piled 
 over her head. 
 
 She received us with extreme kindness, and 
 her manner was simplicity itself. 
 
 ' Lord Falaise,' she said, ' had been extremely 
 pleased with the idea that the boys should have 
 the benefit of Miss Wand's instruction. Lord 
 Falaise was unfortunately obliged to attend Petty 
 Sessions that morning, or he would have been 
 present to welcome us. Lord Falaise had some- 
 what singular views as regarded the education 
 of boys — inherited, as she believed, from his 
 guardian, and from some of his ancestry. He 
 had sent them to a preparatory school for a year, 
 for he considered it was well that they should
 
 INTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 23 
 
 be acquainted with life — indeed with all things 
 — early, but he had taken them away at the end 
 of the year, and he did not approve of sending 
 them to a public school too soon. People said,' 
 she went on, ' that public schools knocked the 
 nonsense out of a boy, but Lord Falaise said 
 that it was exactly the nonsense that he wanted 
 to keep in.' 
 
 It was here, in a sudden pause, that one of 
 those dreams of a forgotten smile formed itself 
 for a moment upon the speaker's lips. 
 
 ' If Miss Wand would talk French to the boys, 
 and give them lessons on the violin — she had not 
 the slightest idea whether they had any aptitude 
 that way — Lord Falaise would be very pleased.' 
 
 It was very strange, almost terrible, to see 
 how she never spoke of the boys as her own, or 
 as though she had any right or wish respecting 
 them. It was always what Lord Falaise said — 
 what would please him. 
 
 ' Miss Wand would like to walk through the 
 rooms,' she said. I thought that she welcomed 
 the change of occupation herself. 
 
 We went through many stately rooms, with 
 doorways and window -frames painted with 
 flowers and figures by Italian artists dead a 
 century ago ; the walls hung with portraits and
 
 24 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 with wide landscapes by Bergliem and by Claude. 
 Before some of these portraits Lady Falaise 
 paused and told me something which she thought 
 would interest me. 
 
 She stopped before one picture, the portrait 
 of a young man in an Elizabethan dress : ' That 
 is called the fatal picture,' she said. ' The 
 young man whom it represents was killed in a 
 tavern broil in London. An hour before the 
 blow was struck, here in the wilds of Devon, 
 this picture fell from its place, and, striking 
 something in its fall, made a rent in the face 
 just under the eye, precisely in the place, and of 
 the size of the dagger-wound which caused the 
 young man's death. You can see where the 
 canvas has been sewn up.' 
 
 ' It is a singular story,' I said. 
 
 * It is probably not true,' said Lady Falaise. 
 
 Then she suddenly flushed all over and said : 
 ' I should not have said that ; Lord Falaise 
 believes it.' 
 
 At last we reached the great drawing-room, 
 which occupied the side of the quadrangle 
 opposite to the entrance and facing the east. 
 It was an immense room furnished and decorated 
 in white and gold, and somewhat sparsely hung 
 with life-sized portraits. The sun had ceased to
 
 iNTROD. BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 25 
 
 shine into it, never to return for the whole of 
 the day. A gigantic chandelier of glass, contain- 
 ing, it would seem, a myriad lights, hung from the 
 centre of the ceiling. The six great windows 
 looked out upon a wide, square grass plot, and 
 beyond, as far as eye could reach, down the 
 solemn, weird, yew walk on the upper terrace — a 
 walk made as it seemed for the pacing up and 
 down of beings not of this world. The sun was 
 shining brightly upon the landscape without, but 
 even in the sunlight the outside view was a 
 solemn and melancholy one, while in the cold 
 and stately room itself, with the cordon of 
 courtly silent figures standing in never-changing 
 posture and rank, I felt such a heart-chill as I 
 had never felt in any room beside. 
 
 Lady Falaise stood for some seconds looking 
 out of one of the high narrow windows, then 
 she turned to us with something like a shudder. 
 
 ' I never sit here,' she said, ' alone. The 
 saloon even, without the morning sun, is so much 
 more cheerful, with its open view of the country 
 and the sky. There is something terrible in 
 these formal gardens and walks — somethino- 
 
 o o 
 
 ghostly, as if, through them, the dead, the lost, 
 the estranged, might be expected to approach.' 
 ' If there be such a thing,' I said to my aunt,
 
 26 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE introd. 
 
 as we came down the steps of the hall door, and 
 walked down the long drive, — ' if there be such 
 a thing as a broken heart, it is here.' 
 
 ' She was a magnificent girl,' said my aunt, — 
 ' a princess among young women. The man must 
 have had a heart of stone who deceived and 
 deserted her.' 
 
 ' Not a heart of stone, aunt,' I said ; ' no heart 
 at all in the sense you mean.'
 
 PAET I
 
 Human life lias often been compared to a tale, 
 most frequently to a badly- written tale, but I do 
 not remember to have seen a comparison between 
 youth and the first chapters of a tale, as they 
 come into the author's mind, and yet I seem to 
 see a very close, nay, a startling analogy between 
 the two. In the opening chapters, as the author 
 sits down to write them, the dramatis j^ersonce 
 are unformed — they do not know themselves, they 
 do not know their parts. Afterwards, when they 
 have grown to full estate, when their characters 
 and their persons are formed, their passions 
 developed, their tendencies known both to them- 
 selves and to others, the tale goes swimmingly 
 on ; they act for themselves. The author 
 cannot alter events, even if he wished to do so ; 
 he has only to record. Surely it is so in open- 
 ing life. These young creatures come from an 
 infinite unknown. Whither they are going they
 
 30 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 know not. They find themselves in a strange 
 place ; more than this, themselves they do not 
 know ; what they are, and what they will be, 
 what resolves and what possibilities are theirs, 
 they cannot know, for these things do not yet 
 exist. Those around them, like the stupid author 
 of the unmeaning tale, for the most part, so far 
 from being helps and guides, are hindrances and 
 stumbling-blocks, — ignes fatui, that mislead and 
 cause these little ones to offend. It was said 
 once that for a great millstone to be tied about 
 the neck of such, and for themselves to be 
 drowned in the sea of seas, w^ere a happier fate ; 
 yet, when we come to think of it, this seems 
 somewhat hard, for they themselves were nothing 
 but the result of the same endless revolutions of 
 Fate's wheel. To them, as to those to whom they 
 Avere a fatal snare, had the same thing happened ; 
 and so, through the fleeting but unending years, 
 this badly-told tale is repeated ; and, except 
 where a divine genius walks the earth, and the 
 prompting of a divine spirit is felt, the same old 
 tale is written and rewritten with the same dull, 
 unwearying pen, the great story -weaver never 
 seeming to tire of the worn-out plot ; and youth 
 and promise and hope, treading always in each 
 other's footmarks, crowd the opening chapters of
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 31 
 
 life's story, and darken them with the tedious 
 foreshadowino- of comino; woe. 
 
 The Reverend Doctor Boteraux was an Oxford 
 Don of a decidedly antique type. He was very 
 highly connected, being the younger son of a 
 younger son. Till he was past fifty he had lived 
 entirely in Oxford — in the Oxford of the old 
 school, in that Oxford in which it was a principle 
 of the Presidents of John's that there should 
 be no houses between their college and the 
 country. 
 
 He was a man of commanding appearance, 
 and of suave and courteous manners. He was a 
 very great talker, gifted with an inexhaustible 
 flow of anecdote and epigram. When he was 
 past forty years of age he surprised his friends 
 very much by returning from the Continent 
 engaged to a lady whom he had met in Switzer- 
 land. She was returning from India, where she 
 had been devoting herself to Zenana work. She 
 was, I believe, a very beautiful and superior 
 woman, but whatever she was, she only lived 
 a few years after her marriage, and died, leaving 
 behind her a little girl. This second shock — 
 for his marriage must have been a very consider-
 
 32 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE part i 
 
 able shock to a man of his habits — succeeded 
 in finally uprooting Dr. Boteraux. He accepted 
 a college -living in the north of Devon, and 
 removed there at fifty years of age with his 
 young daughter. 
 
 Clyston St. Fay is a village not very far from 
 the coast. It lies in a hollow of the low hills, 
 buried entirely in orchards. The place is devoted 
 to the apple. In the spring-time, when you 
 open your lattice in the morning, and see the 
 blue sky overhead, the pink and white blossoms 
 throng and crowd about you, as if in welcome 
 and in sympathy of enjoyment with the joyous 
 hour. Apples were piled in the autumn on the 
 oaken floors and landings of the houses, above 
 the wooden staircases, and in lofts and garrets, 
 and even on the uneven planks of the living 
 rooms. A strange penetrating scent of apples 
 filled the houses and the village and the air. 
 
 From the earliest dawn of spring to the 
 latest autumn day nothing but apples seemed to 
 exist in this place. The very trees themselves 
 assumed a personality which seemed greater 
 than that of any human inhabitant. In sudden 
 drops and dingles of the orchards grew ancient 
 patriarchs, well known and revered from old 
 time by generations of men. Vast, gnarled.
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 33 
 
 twisted, moss-grown, they were spoken of as 
 living, venerated, beneficent entities. Their 
 death, when such a terrible event occurred, was 
 mourned as a public calamity. Their illness 
 was watched over by experts, and relieved by 
 expedients handed down from the wisdom of 
 ancient days. Side by side with such intense 
 and valued existence, what was the life or death 
 of a mere Devon lad, who could be replaced, by 
 the score, from the farms or cottages around ? 
 
 In the dip of this scented and secluded valley 
 was an astonishing little church, roofed with 
 moss-grown tiles, and boasting a Norman tower. 
 It was a real church. It possessed a nave 
 opening into side aisles with Norman arches, a 
 votary chapel, and a chancel, with an oak 
 communion table three centuries old. Its walls 
 were covered with quaint memorial tablets, of 
 a renaissance type, chiefly in memory of dead 
 rectors. It had a richly carved pulpit of oak 
 which rose so suddenly above and out of the 
 high-backed pews, that the congregation might 
 truly be said to ' sit under ' the preacher, who 
 dominated the little family groups, each in its 
 own cherished domain, beneath him. 
 
 At the top of the village slope, that stood out 
 green and fresh and sparkling in dew against the 
 
 D
 
 34 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 sky, just where the orchards began to give place 
 to the oaks, to the left of the steep road that 
 toiled upwards to the moorlands, were a pair of 
 iron gates, with stone pillars crowned with 
 carved acorns or fir-cones, which led into a 
 courtyard, at the back of which the rectory 
 stood. 
 
 It was altogether out of proportion to the 
 size and importance of the village and the 
 church, but no one who knows anything of the 
 Devonshire livings, or of this one in particular, 
 will be surprised at this. 
 
 Clyston St. Fay was entered in the King's 
 Books as producing a certain annual income, but 
 practically speaking nothing was derived from it. 
 The living had always been occupied by men of 
 wealth, who looked upon it as a favourite 
 retreat when tired of Oxford life. It had 
 one very great advantage — it was absolutely 
 ' uninfested ' with dissent. When the Rector 
 walked down the stony precipitous village street 
 between the cottages and the gardens (the 
 cottage gardens were marvellous at Clyston St. 
 Fay, especially in the autumn, with asters and 
 gladiolas, and pampas grass and belladonna lilies 
 and veronicas), on a showery, sweet-scented after- 
 noon — the afternoons were mostly showery at
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 35 
 
 Clyston St. Fay, with the western gale blowing 
 over the moorlands from the sea-coast and the 
 Atlantic — he was, allowing for the limited number 
 of his subjects, about as great a man as could 
 be found in Europe. Dr. Boteraux had brought 
 down his college butler with him. He had 
 brought a quantity of old English marquetry 
 furniture, inherited from his ancestors, and of 
 old china, old pictures, old books, and old wine, 
 purchased by himself. 
 
 The people were proud of their Rector. They 
 were proud of his appearance ; they were proud 
 of his butler, who immediately seized upon the 
 most presentable lad in the village and speedily 
 transformed him into a distinsfuished-lookino; 
 footman, the admiration and envy of every 
 village youth — but they were especially proud 
 of his sermons. 
 
 Dr. Boteraux preached very short sermons, 
 never exceeding twenty minutes in delivery, on 
 the moral virtues, obedience to parents, duties to 
 children, responsibilities of married people, and 
 the like. They were admirably written, in a 
 terse, simple, yet perfectly scholarly style, with 
 a shrewd observance of human life, and a humor- 
 ous appreciation of its eccentricities, in which 
 the unlettered villas^ers recognised a common
 
 36 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 humanity as imerringly as a more cultured audi- 
 ence might have done. The sermons were based, 
 of course, upon Scriptural characters, but the 
 Doctor was singularly happy in the introduction 
 of classic story, the vital humanism of wdiich he 
 portrayed with an instinct which came very little 
 short of poetic art, making religion, what it 
 might seem it was meant to be, the sustenance 
 and not the scarecrow of human life. 
 
 As the moral virtues, though difficult in -pvsic- 
 tice, are, fortunately for frail humanity, limited 
 in number, the theme was soon exhausted ; but 
 the Rector was far too wise to lessen the effect by 
 rewriting his sermons with diminished force. He 
 preached them repeatedly, not at stated intervals, 
 but varying their recurrence with a pleasing un- 
 certainty. It was this repetition, apparently, 
 that secured their popularity. The congregation 
 of Clyston St. Fay recognised these admired pro- 
 ductions with a gratified familiarity, like the ser- 
 vice itself There was one sermon ' On Ingratitude 
 to Parents,' drawn from the story of Absalom, 
 which was an especial favourite. When, after 
 the text was given out, the familiar w^ords ' I 
 mi2:ht entitle this discourse "Absalom, or the 
 Ungrateful Son," ' were heard, it was delightful 
 to see the entire concur eolation settle itself down
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 37 
 
 to enjoyment, as one may see people settle them- 
 selves at the opera at the commencement of a 
 favourite air ; and the time never came when the 
 repetition of the final passage following upon 
 David's despairing cry, and touching wpon the 
 sacrificial love of parents, suggested in part, as it 
 was, by the Iphigeneia in Aidis, did not bring 
 the tears into some eyes. 
 
 ' I write about two sermons a year,' the Rector 
 would say to a confidential friend over a glass of 
 port, 'just to keep my hand in, but the people 
 are restless under them. They don't feel com- 
 fortable till they have heard them two or three 
 times. " What do you think of that sermon, 
 Wike ? " I say to my churchwarden in the vestry ; 
 " that was a new one " — by the way there was 
 a sheriff of Devon named Wike in Henry the 
 Fourth's time, and the memory of man goeth not 
 back to the time when there was not a Wike 
 churchwarden of Clyston St. Fay. " Yes, sir," 
 he says, " I know that ; very good, very good, but 
 you won't easily beat the old 'uns, sir." You 
 see,' the Rector would add, with a twinkle in his 
 eye, ' I am very heavily handicapped. I have to 
 compete with myself.' 
 
 It had always been understood in the village, 
 probably on the authority of Binns, the college
 
 38 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 butler, that the Kector was a man of property ; 
 but latterly stories had been afloat, traceable 
 no doubt to the same source, of investments 
 which had gone wrong, and of a chancery suit, 
 which might be regarded either as a mine of 
 wealth, or as a constant and fatal drain, accord- 
 ing to the temperament of the sympathetic in- 
 quirer. There was no doubt, according to Binns's 
 admission to very particular friends such as Mr. 
 Churchwarden Wike, that the Eector was at 
 times short of money. I am very pleased, for 
 the credit of human nature, to be able to record 
 that this knowledge increased the aff"ection and 
 respect which his parishioners entertained for 
 Dr. Boteraux. It brought his personality into 
 more sympathetic relation and understanding. 
 It gave additional point to some telling passages 
 in his sermons. As he walked down the village 
 street he was regarded with still greater respect 
 and affection than ever ; and many a melon, 
 marrow, or basket of choice apples — Cornish 
 gillyflowers probably — not to say a goose, found 
 their way up to the rectory, with dutiful respects, 
 which otherwise, perhaps, would not have gone 
 there. 
 
 The Rector's only daughter had been sent to 
 school at some distant Cathedral town, and had
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 39 
 
 spent her vacations very frequently in travelling 
 with friends on the Continent. During the last 
 two years she had lived entirely abroad at a 
 school at Neufchatel. During these years the 
 Kector, partly it was supposed for the sake of 
 income and partly for companionship, had from 
 time to time received young men of family and 
 fortune to read with him, either in vacation time 
 or before going up to the university. These 
 young men came and went singly or in couples, 
 without creating much excitement at Clyston St. 
 Fay, and the villagers had almost forgotten the 
 existence of the Rector's daughter, when one 
 Sunday morning, after a considerable interval of 
 young men, they were suddenly startled by the 
 appearance in the high, narrow box lined with 
 green baize, beneath the pulpit, which was known 
 as the Rector's pew, of a young girl dressed in 
 white, with a black hat with ostrich feathers, 
 and of striking and distinguished beauty. The 
 villagers had not seen Blanche Boteraux since 
 she was a little girl, but they had not the least 
 doubt that this haughty young beauty was she. 
 Her father had brought her into the church and 
 deposited her in the pew some time before the 
 service began. 
 
 Even the Rector's sermon was not listened to
 
 40 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 that day with the usual attention. It is to be 
 feared that many of the congregation woukl have 
 failed in an examination as to which of the moral 
 virtues was dealt with that morning. 
 
 Blanche Boteraux did not make her way 
 speedily, if indeed at all, at Clyston St. Fay, and 
 it did not seem that she wished to do so. It was 
 evident that she was shy and reserved, but the 
 villacrers asserted that she was disdainful and 
 discontented also. But there was no disputing 
 that she was a most beautiful girl. She had a 
 lofty, searching look in her brown eyes, as though 
 she were seeking for something which she never 
 found, that disconcerted those whom she met in 
 the village lanes, and prevented any familiarity 
 or freedom of intercourse. Some of the simple 
 people went so far as to doubt if she were per- 
 fectly sane. 
 
 * Mad with pride, I call her,' said Mrs. Wike, 
 the churchwarden's wife ; ' nothing is good enough 
 for her. I believe she despises her own father. 
 I watched her during the Absalom sermon on 
 Sunday week.' 
 
 But Mrs. Churchwarden Wike was wrong. 
 Blanche Boteraux was not mad, at any rate not at 
 that time ; she was only suffering from that most 
 commonplace of complaints — the inability to re-
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 41 
 
 concile a lofty ideal with the tedious surroundings 
 of everyday life. Inheriting from her mother a 
 passionate, sacrificial spirit, and from her father 
 her beauty of form, and a certain sympathy with 
 aristocratic instincts, of which last tendency she 
 was probably unconscious, though it made her 
 walk more diflicult through the world's low places, 
 and having, in her school-days, and especially 
 during her residence at Neufchatel, imbibed the 
 boldest aspirations of Christian Socialism, the 
 petty needs and incidents of village life, and the 
 formal maxims of an antique theology, appeared 
 to her infinitely poor and mean. She failed to 
 grasp the link, if there be such an one, that unites 
 the daily action, the little paltry deed, with the 
 vast result of perfect redemption and salvation of 
 the race. She might be thought of as perpetually 
 waiting for the injunction of the Prophet to do 
 some great thing ; consequently she did nothing, 
 and, doing nothing, and uprooted from familiar 
 and congenial soil, she was unhappy. 
 
 She had not been in the villaofe, however, 
 much more than three months, when another 
 excitement befell the quiet place. It was re- 
 ported, doubtless from the information of Mr. 
 Binns, that a very distinguished young man — in 
 fact a lord — was coming down to read with the
 
 42 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 Rector between his leavino- Etou and sfoino; to 
 Oxford. There had been some difficulty, Mr. 
 Binns beHeved, owinoj to Miss Boteraux's beino- 
 at home ; but this young lord was the ward of 
 a duke, a very old and especial friend of the 
 Rector's, and his father had been a colleo-e 
 pupil, so that all difficulties had been smoothed 
 over. His horses had already been sent down, 
 and he himself was expected every day. The 
 excitement in the village was very great. 
 
 I am in possession of a copy of the letter which 
 the Duke of Chester and St. Clare wrote to his 
 old college friend. Dr. Boteraux, on this occasion, 
 and I have been very much exercised in my 
 mind whether I ought to reveal it to the public 
 or not. It is so genuinely private ; it treats 
 upon such very solemn and important subjects 
 relating to the highest classes, that I have long 
 hesitated before finally determining to print it 
 here. It runs thus — 
 
 The Priory, 
 
 Hawkridge St. Mary, 
 
 Gloucestershire, August 23, 18 — . 
 
 My dear Boteraux, 
 
 I write to you, as perhaps the oldest friend I have left, 
 to ask a favour which I hope it may be in your power to 
 grant. The son of poor Falaisc, whom you will remember 
 at St. Nod's — dear old St. Nod's — and who was connected 
 with me by many ties, severed by his untimely death — his
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 43 
 
 boy, who is a godson and a ward of mine, is leaving Eton 
 and going to Oxford. You will remember Falaise, though 
 he was so much younger than either of us. He left his 
 son to my care, and I have done what I could for him. 
 He has got through Eton pretty well. I rather like Eton. 
 The boys have private rooms, and there are some remains 
 of gentlemanly feeling about the place. But I hear that 
 St. Nod's is much changed. Oxford is much changed. I 
 was there a month ago, and was dining at the Vice-Chan- 
 cellor's. A boy sat opposite to me, near to Lady Blank, 
 the son of a Secretary of State, grandson of a Peer. Lady 
 Blank said something to him which he did not hear. 
 Instead of speaking properly, he said ' Whaart 1 ' 
 
 'Gad! young man,' I thought to myself, 'it's a for- 
 tunate thing for you that you were not my father's son. 
 He would have caned you to within an inch of your life 
 for that.' 
 
 Now I should like poor Falaise's boy to come to you 
 for a month or two before going uj? to St. Nod's. "Will 
 you have him 1 
 
 Your daughter, I suppose, is still abroad. She must be 
 quite a young woman by this time. 
 
 My dear Boteraux, 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Chester and St. Clare. 
 
 When Dr. Boteraux read this letter, he said 
 to himself, 'I cannot refuse this boy. There 
 may be some trouble about Blanche, but it is 
 such an out-of-the-way place, and she can go and 
 pay some visits.' So he wrote a letter to the 
 Duke, saying that the boy might come for a year
 
 44 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE tart i 
 
 if he liked, and tliat he should want three 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 The Duke received this letter as he was 
 sitting with his secretary in the library of his 
 favourite residence in Gloucestershire. 
 
 ' And the amount will be right ? ' said the 
 secretary. 
 
 ' Oh, quite right,' said the Duke. ' I wish he 
 had said five hundred.' 
 
 Then as the secretary moved into the adjoin- 
 ing bay of the library, where he did his work, 
 the Duke called to him — 
 
 ' Jones, Jones, ahem, make a mistake. Make 
 it five hundred. I think I heard something of 
 Boteraux being short of cash ; and — Jones, don't 
 put it to the trustee account. Put it down to 
 mine. It's Falaise's boy,' he added in a lower 
 tone, in apology to himself and to Mr. Jones.
 
 II 
 
 Blanche Boteraux was sitting, on a fair 
 autumn afternoon, in the little upstairs' room 
 which she called her own, reading the Journal 
 Intime of Henri - Frederic Amiel, and lookino; 
 out over the fading landscape to where the 
 gathering night -clouds shadowed the distance, 
 with those questioning, urgent eyes of hers. 
 Whatever she had to complain of at Clyston St. 
 Fay, she had at least this, and she felt it herself 
 in her most discontented moods, the priceless 
 gift of delicious silence — a gift which thousands 
 of the tormented of this world never get, though 
 they would give all they have for one hour of it. 
 In the hush of the outside world a supreme 
 thought, partly suggested by the book before 
 her, partly the flash of her own spirit, but never 
 destined to be perfectly realised in the light, was 
 
 passing across her brain, when 
 
 ' Please, Miss Blanche,' said the old house-
 
 46 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 keeper, who had nursed her as a chikl, opening 
 the door, after knocking, — ' please, Miss Blanche, 
 Mr. Binns says that Lord Falaise is come, and he 
 is in the drawing-room, and the Kector is out, 
 and will you go down ? ' 
 
 The girl rose suddenly to her feet, her face 
 flushed with annoyance. She stood for a 
 moment looking at the old servant as though 
 some terrible outburst was imminent, then, as it 
 would seem, restraining herself by an effort, she 
 passed the housekeeper without a word, and 
 went down the shallow flights of the wide, 
 many-turning oaken staircase. 
 
 The drawing-room at the Eectory was a large 
 low room, with a wide bay window at the end, 
 almost the width of the room, with many 
 separate sashes with small panes of glass, the 
 woodwork all painted white. This window 
 looked out upon a park-like held, in which two 
 or three tame deer were feeding — a reminiscence 
 of the deer in the paddock at old St. Nod's. The 
 Rector also reared pheasants in this field, which 
 was very extensive. The drawing-room was 
 crowded with marquetry furniture, and with old 
 pictures and china, and strange Indian and 
 foreign knick - knacks, gods and dragons, and 
 carved ivory. The pictures, when the slightest
 
 II BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 47 
 
 ray of light fell upon them, shone out suddenly 
 with a brilliancy and life which was little short 
 of miraculous ; but the frames w^ere old and 
 dingy, the window hangings were worn and 
 rotten, the curios and idols that were strewn 
 about with reckless profusion were dim, as with 
 the shadow of the faded years — the years that 
 had taken with them so many hopes and lives 
 and loves. Outside, the low western sun shin- 
 ing through the falling leaves, and the yellow 
 tints of autumn, made the woodland brilliant 
 with a subdued radiance, and through a mist of 
 rain seemed to perfect the magic vision of the 
 room ; it became like the enchanted precinct of 
 a dream. 
 
 When Blanche Boteraux entered that faded 
 room, with the gone colours of its hangings, 
 and the fadeless beauty of the pictures, and 
 the strange, dreamy sense of past existence that 
 filled the place, she saw, I suppose, the most 
 beautiful boy then in England. There is a 
 portrait of him in crayons, as he was at that 
 time, in the great drawing-room at Trefennick, 
 by the celebrated artist Mr. Sands, and standing 
 before it and marvelling at its strange beauty, I 
 make this statement advisedly. To the perfect 
 symmetry of feature and of contour, as of a
 
 48 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE part i 
 
 Greek Antinoiis, was added the marvellous 
 expression of the eyes, in which was united 
 somethino" of that consciousness of sacrifice 
 which, according to story, the Greek Antinous 
 knew, and something of an expression which no 
 pagan ever had — the expression of an instinct 
 which comes to the peoples of the Christian 
 renaissance, the gift of a long heredity of inherit- 
 ance in the memories, the struggles, the passions 
 of a chivalrous past. 
 
 More than this, when Blanche came into the 
 room, she saw this boy in the most beautiful 
 setting that could easily be imagined. He 
 had risen as she came in, and behind him, 
 through the quaint white sashes of the bay 
 window, were drawn the streaks of yellow wood- 
 land, and the sad mystic blue of the autumn 
 sky, and amid the long wet grass stood the deer, 
 drawing with wistful, timid glances close to the 
 house ; yet in spite of all this, she looked at this 
 boy as though he were a toad. 
 
 ' I am so sorry that I have disturbed you, 
 Miss Boteraux,' he said, almost breathless with 
 eagerness. ' I begged the servant not to tell 
 you that 1 had come. I could have gone to my 
 room, or anywhere, till Dr. Boteraux came in.' 
 
 She looked at him with her full, steady
 
 II 
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 49 
 
 glance, not searcliing, but absolutely indifferent 
 and calm. 
 
 ' Won't you. sit down ? ' she said. 
 
 It was not a cheerful reception, but the 
 instinct and pluck of his caste pulled him 
 through. 
 
 ' I am sure that I feel how very kind it is of 
 Dr. Boteraux to take me,' he said. '' My god- 
 father, the Duke of Chester, feels the obligation 
 immensely. He wrote me quite a long letter — 
 he did indeed — to impress upon me how grateful 
 I ought to be to Dr. Boteraux. I hope I am.' 
 
 There was no answer at all to this, and there 
 was a pause of some seconds. Then the boy 
 beo;an again — 
 
 ' This is a most beautiful place. I think you 
 must be very happy here,' 
 
 'Happiness does not consist in beautiful 
 places,' she said. 
 
 If the grammatical construction of this sen- 
 tence had been correct, which it was not, the 
 meaning would still have been slightly obscure ; 
 at any rate, it was of too abstract a nature for 
 George Falaise to grapple with, and he remained 
 silent. 
 
 Presently, as the silence became embarrassing, 
 
 he said — 
 
 E
 
 50 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 ' 1 never saw so many apples.' 
 
 As this was an nntleniablc and distinct drop 
 from the tone of the previous remark, Blanche 
 did not condescend to notice it. There was a 
 longer pause than ever. 
 
 Then, with the air of a Christian girl of the 
 second century being led to martyrdom, she rose 
 from her seat and said — 
 
 'You would like to go round the garden.' 
 
 ' Oh, I beg that you will not trouble yourself, 
 Miss Boteraux,' he said desperately ; ' I can go by 
 myself. I can go to my room. I can do any- 
 thing till Dr. Boteraux comes in. Besides, it is 
 raining.' 
 
 ' No,' she said, with that calm superiority of 
 tone that prevents all discussion, — ' no, we will go. 
 It was only a shower. It always rains here.' 
 
 He followed her out meekly, through an old- 
 fashioned side door, with a glass sash, on to a 
 gravel path which led round the field-park for a 
 circuit of over a mile. The rain had ceased. 
 The path was bordered on either side by lofty 
 trees ; it was very narrow and uneven, at places 
 dropping into dingles and now widening into 
 copses and little woods, and more than once 
 crossing running brooks by rustic wooden 
 bridges. It was more beautiful in the spring-
 
 II BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 51 
 
 time, when the ground was covered with wiki 
 flowers, than in the autumn ; but on this bright 
 autumn afternoon, at least, the scene was im- 
 pressive and soothing, with the thinned fohage 
 letting in the blue sky and shining light, and 
 the bright yellow rustling leaves scattered 
 almost equally upon earth and bough and air. 
 Both the boy and girl, in their different ways, 
 felt something of the influence of the season and. 
 of the hour. 
 
 Immediately on leaving the house the path 
 dropped away suddenly in the direction of 
 the village, crossing a rustic bridge, and then 
 climbing a steep ascent towards the upper part 
 of the park. 
 
 As they stood on the bridge for a moment a 
 lovely view of the narrow valley, opening upon 
 the wide distant plain, lay before them, and 
 exactly in front rose the tower of the village 
 church. 
 
 This suggested another remark to the boy. 
 He felt it his duty to make remarks. 
 
 ' Have you nice people in the village ? ' he 
 said. 
 
 ' Oh, very nice ! ' she answered at once ; ' I am 
 astonished how nice they are, considering how 
 shamefully they have been neglected.'
 
 52 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE part i 
 
 ' I sliould not have tliouglit that that could 
 have been said in Dr. Botcraux's parish,' lie said. 
 
 ' Oh, my father ! ' she said, as though the idea 
 was fresh to her. ' Yes. But my father is of 
 the old school, and he is a college Don and not 
 a parish priest. That is one of the anomalies of 
 our Church system ; ' and she stood, in her white 
 frock, upon the mossy plank bridge looking out, 
 with her steadfast seeking gaze, across the dis- 
 tant Devon plain towards the southern sky, as 
 if in search of a system or a church without 
 anomalies. 
 
 'This is a most extraordinary girl,' thought 
 George Falaise ; ' but she is awfully stunning ; ' 
 and in some sense or other I imagine that he was 
 right. 
 
 As she did not say anything more, and still 
 remained standing upon the bridge, he felt 
 bound to make another observation. 
 
 ' I wonder,' he said, ' why it is, when we look 
 upon anything like this — woods, you know, and 
 — what do you call it ? — the distant plain, and 
 the sky, — you, you think it is so beautiful. 
 Why do you ? ' 
 
 Now it may seem a curious thing, but this 
 remark attracted the girl more than, a moment 
 or two ago, she could have supposed that any
 
 II BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 53 
 
 word of her companion could have done. It 
 seemed to her Socratic. 
 
 She had read, over and over again, transla- 
 tions of one or two of Plato's dialogues, with 
 a desperate determination to find out what it 
 was that was so supremely great in them ; and 
 she had succeeded in grasping that peculiarity 
 of Socrates, which made him so great and so 
 detested — the habit of asking questions which 
 nobody could answer. She looked at her 
 companion with a glance that so nearly ap- 
 proached to interest that it sent the blood 
 dancing through every vein. 
 
 But in addition to this conception there 
 was another which gave her a strange sort of 
 pleasure ; she felt that she had not the least 
 idea of what answer it would be possible to 
 make. 
 
 If only the foolish boy had had the sense to 
 hold his tongue ! but the garrulity of his caste 
 overcame him. 
 
 He felt bound to relieve what he fancied was 
 her embarrassment, not knowing, ignorant boy as 
 he was, that at certain moments the female 
 mind delights in being embarrassed. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he said, — ' I suppose that if I. 
 knew more about tints, and gradations of light
 
 54 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 and shadow, and foregrounds, and all that sort of 
 thing, I should understand it better.' 
 
 The mystic light, the unknown Infinite, faded 
 from before her at these commonplace words. 
 
 ' Perhaps you would,' she said ; and, turning 
 away with a relapse into her former cold distrait 
 manner, she left the bridge. 
 
 They had not gone on very far up the ascent 
 beyond, before she suggested that they should 
 turn back. It was a very long way round the 
 plantation, she said, — over two miles. Her father 
 would probably have returned by this time. 
 
 She led George, by a lower path than the one 
 that had brought them from the house, through 
 a formal, old-fashioned garden, climbing the hill 
 in neglected terraced walks and steps, and full 
 of a wild untrimmed growth of perennial plants 
 and flowers. At the foot of the terraced walls 
 were lines of St. John's wort, with banks of 
 hydrangeas behind them, and the terraces them- 
 selves were perfectly clothed with myrtle and 
 yellow holly in closely clipped hedges against 
 the walls. Above them, as they came up, was 
 the stone facade of one wing of the rectory, 
 containing the dining-room and library, built in 
 the last century by a rector of more than usual 
 opulence. The moulding of the windows and
 
 11 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 55 
 
 the cornice along the top of the house were 
 richly carved in stone, mellow and moss-grown 
 in the soft moist Devon air of a hundred 
 summers. As they reached the upper terrace 
 the Rector appeared, coming from the house. 
 
 ' My dear boy,' he exclaimed heartily, ' I am 
 delighted to see you. I am so sorry that I was 
 out. However, I see that my daughter has been 
 doing her best to entertain you, .so I hope that 
 you have had nothing to complain of.' 
 
 Blanche Boteraux looked as if she was think- 
 ing that if her companion concurred in this 
 sentiment he was easily pleased. 
 
 ' Come into my den,' said the Rector. ' I 
 want to look at you. 1 want to talk to you of 
 your father and of the Duke. Ah ! you have 
 your father's eyes — the Falaise eyes — and when 
 did you see the Duke ? ' 
 
 ' I have not seen my godfather, sir, for some 
 time,' replied the boy ; ' but I have a letter 
 from him, in which he desires me to express 
 the great obligation he feels himself under to 
 Dr. Boteniux, — his oldest and his best friend, 
 he says.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the Rector more quietly ; * that 
 is like him — very like him. He always saw 
 others through the glow of his own nature.'
 
 56 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 When the small party assembled at dinner, 
 it was quite a stately meal. Mr. Binns was 
 resplendent in his best Sunday suit, and the 
 village lad, now a tall young man, for whom 
 the villao:e tailor had succeeded in makina; a 
 footman's livery which would not have dis- 
 graced Plymouth, was on his best behaviour. 
 Then both of them ' my lorded ' George to 
 their hearts' content if not to his. On the 
 table were antique candelabra and side-dishes 
 of silver, full of the late roses. Blanche wore 
 a white silk dress very simply made, and a 
 necklace of great pearls. The dress was one 
 which she had worn on festal days at the 
 Pension at Neufchatel ; the pearls she had 
 found in the drawer of an old-fashioned bureau 
 in her bedroom at Clyston St. Fay. 
 
 The Rector did most of the talking. Had 
 there been any opportunity for his interpos- 
 ing, which there scarcely was, George was too 
 much occupied with looking at his youthful 
 hostess to avail himself of it. He had never 
 been so happy in his short but not unhappy 
 life. The constant stream of anecdote and 
 epigram that flowed from Dr. Boteraux's lips 
 formed a lively and agreeable accompaniment 
 to the moderate but excellent meal of soup,
 
 II BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 57 
 
 mutton, and game. Blanche said nothing. 
 She ate very little, drank water only, and evi- 
 dently regarded the repast as an inexcusable 
 waste of time. She left the room at the earliest 
 possible moment. 
 
 The two men, if they might be so called, 
 remained a considerable time in the dining- 
 room. AVhen they came into the shadowy 
 drawing-room, dimly lit by shaded candles, 
 they w^ere evidently on the best of terms. 
 Blanche was seated at the piano, the only 
 modern thing in the room. One of the 
 duties which she recognised was to play to 
 lier fixther at niolit. 
 
 I imagine that there are different styles 
 of music, or that, at least, some people 
 call something music wdiich others do not. 
 Formerly there was something which was 
 called music in which musical tone occupied a 
 not unimportant place. That style seems 
 to be out of fashion. I fear that Blanche 
 Boteraux's musical education must have been 
 neglected at Neufchatel, for she played a 
 delicious melody which would have been called 
 flat by the admirers of concert pitch, into 
 which subdued euphony she threw a devotion 
 of soul, and a whole nature, curbed and sup-
 
 58 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 pressed during the day. The wailing, seeking, 
 passionate notes wandered through the mellow 
 yet ringing keys questioning heaven and earth 
 for an answer that never came. 
 
 George did not understand it, but he thought 
 it the most wonderful thing that he had ever 
 heard. Dr. Boteraux was perfectly quiet, not 
 a single anecdote or epigram passed his lips. 
 Blanche sang a little but did not seem to en- 
 joy it- 
 
 ' I don't care for words,' she said. 
 
 The doctor kissed his daughter. Poor 
 George ! fancy, kissing this glorious creature. 
 
 ' I think you play better every night,' he 
 said ; ' George and I will have a pipe and come 
 to bed.'
 
 Ill 
 
 The next morning George Fakiise took his 
 Sophocles and found his way to a seat out- 
 side the drawing-room window. He had not 
 sat there long, and had not read any Sopho- 
 cles, when Blanche Boteraux came out of the 
 house and came towards him, evidently with 
 the intention of wishing him good morning. 
 He was pleased with this ; his limited experi- 
 ence of women not teaching him that it was 
 the worst possible sign. 
 
 ' Good morning, Lord Falaise,' she said. 
 
 ' Oh, don't call me Lord Falaise,' he broke out, 
 almost crying as he stood up ; ' I can't bear it all 
 day long. Call me nothing — unless,' he added 
 suddenly, with a happy audacity, ' you would 
 call me George. I wouldn't presume upon it ; 
 I wouldn't indeed.' 
 
 'Very well — George then — if you like it 
 best,' she said. She did not say it, but her
 
 6o BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 manner added as plainly as if spoken in words, 
 ' You are only a boy. ' 
 
 He felt very much suppressed — he had sense 
 enough for that — but he rallied sufficiently to 
 say— 
 
 ' I did so enjoy your music last night. I 
 never heard anything like it. I wonder how 
 it is that some notes and sounds please us 
 so much, and some not at all ? ' 
 
 This was something like his question of the 
 day before, which had attracted her towards 
 him for a moment ; and she felt that it was, 
 but it did not attract her to the same extent 
 now. 
 
 She stood looking before her, with that fixed, 
 steadfast look of hers, over the dewy grass and 
 the faded woods. 
 
 But it was not the gardens and the faded 
 woods and the soft Devon air that stirred him 
 to the heart's depths, but the sight of this 
 girl standing before him, despise him as she 
 might. 
 
 'This is a beautiful place to wake up in,' 
 he said. 
 
 ' I should like to wake up in a place where 
 there was something to do,' she said, — ' I should 
 like to wake up ' — she grew more passionate as
 
 Ill 
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 6i 
 
 she went on — ' in some back slum in the East 
 of London ; in some horrible court where the 
 people are starving and needing help. Do 
 you know the East of London ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' not at all. I never was there 
 in my life.' 
 
 ' But there is an Eton Mission,' she said ; 'did 
 not you belong to that ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he said ; ' I fancy it's for fellows who 
 have left — — ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' she said honestly, ' no doubt.' I 
 don't suppose you could join while you were 
 at school. But you will now ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to Oxford.' 
 
 ' But there is an Oxford Mission.' 
 
 ' Is there ? ' he said blankly ; ' I did not know 
 that.' 
 
 ' Yes, there is. And you must join and go 
 up to the East End in the vacation ; you will, 
 won't you ? ' 
 
 ' I had rather be here,' he said. 
 
 They had been sitting down during this 
 colloquy, but now he rose and stood flicing 
 her, I rather think in self-defence. He felt 
 a diminished ignominy in taking his lecture 
 standing rather than sitting. 
 
 They were a striking pair, equal in beauty,
 
 62 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 but otherwise strangely ill-assorted. She, with 
 a passionate yearning for what she thought 
 was self-denial, but which, as likely as not, 
 was but the outcome of a profound selfish- 
 ness ; passionately refusing everything that other 
 people seemed to like ; earnestly desiring, with- 
 out thought of self so far as she knew self, to 
 follow in her mother's footsteps, to walk in 
 the teaching of that school in which she had 
 been brought up, to raise the poor, to succour 
 the needy, with the Divine aid to suffer and 
 to feel. He, aristocrat to the finger - tips, 
 kindly, good-natured, seeking always for the 
 pleasant thing to say ; optimist to the back- 
 bone, as was natural in the offspring of a 
 race which had enjoyed all the good things of 
 life, so far as there were any good things, for 
 more than a thousand years ; capable of sacri- 
 fice where, to speak vulgarly, the game seemed 
 to him worth the candle, otherwise not ; modest 
 in the sense that he never thought of improving 
 anybody, always of raising himself ; selfish in 
 this sense, and perhaps in others, but with a 
 selfishness that reacted upon those around him 
 to their infinite gain. 
 
 I have before me a diary written by Blanche 
 Boteraux in these days. I do not know whether
 
 in BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 63 
 
 I shall be able to bring in many extracts from 
 tins diary in the future pages of this story, 1 
 should be very glad to do so ; but a narrative 
 of this kind is very difficult of accomplishment, 
 and one never knows beforehand what the possi- 
 bilities may be. I think, however, that I cannot 
 do wrong if I insert here one or two extracts, 
 which, from the date attached to the passages, 
 evidently were written at this time. 
 
 ' October 3. — I have been reading Amiel this 
 morning, always with an inexpressible attraction ; 
 for what he says appeals to the heart — a man of 
 such power and genius, yet so pitiful and help- 
 less. As he says here — 
 
 ' " I have never felt any assurance of genius, or any 
 presentiment of glory or happiness. I have never seen 
 myself in imagination great or famous, or even a husband, 
 a father, an influential citizen. This must be taken as a 
 sign. What dreams I have are all vague and indifferent. 
 I ought not to live, for I am now scarcely capable of living. 
 Recognise your place. Let the Living live. Accept the 
 cup given to you with its honey and its gall. Bring God 
 down into your heart. Make within you a Temple of the 
 Holy Spirit. Be diligent in good works ; make others 
 happier and better." 
 
 ' It must be true what Julia Genest used to 
 say to me at Neufchatel, that Amiel was more 
 a woman than a man. These are a woman's
 
 64 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 words. This is tlic annunciation, wliicli has 
 shown to many a woman what she may become.' 
 ' And again he says — 
 
 ' " To be misunderstood even by those whom one loves 
 is the cross and bitterness of life. It is the secret of that 
 sad and melancholy smile on the lips of great men which 
 so few understand ; it is the cruelest trial reserved for self- 
 devotion ; it is what must oftenest have wrung the heart 
 of the Son of Man ; and, if God could suffer, it would be 
 the wound we should be for ever inflicting upon Him. . . . 
 Alas ! alas ! never to tire, never to grow cold ; to be 
 patient, sympathetic, tender 3 to hope always, like God ; 
 to love always ! " 
 
 'These are a woman's words, not a man's.' 
 
 The next extract is evidently original, and 
 I cannot help thinking has some reference to 
 George Falaise. 
 
 ' Men are so strange, even those of them with 
 whom one feels it possible to live. They occupy 
 willingly and of their own choice such a low 
 standpoint. Provided the trivialities of life 
 are decently met — what they call "form" — 
 they have a supreme, I might say a superb, 
 contentment, which is intolerable from its self- 
 sufficiency, and, if I must say it, from its power. 
 And I suppose that there are women even 
 who '
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 65 
 
 ' And ao-ain, this time from Amiel — 
 
 ' *' Not a blade of grass but has a story to tell, not a 
 heart but has its romance, not a life which does not hide 
 a secret which is either its thorn or its spur. Everywhere 
 grief, hope, comedy, tragedy, even under the petrifaction 
 of old age, as in the twisted forms of fossils, we may dis- 
 cover the agitations and tortures of youth. This thought 
 is the magic wand of poets, and of romancists, and of 
 preachers ; it strips the scales from our fleshly eyes, and 
 gives us a clear view into human life ; it opens to the ear 
 a world of unknown melodies, and makes us understand 
 the thousand languages of nature. Thwarted love makes 
 a man speak many tongues, and grief transforms him into 
 a diviner and a sorcerer.'' 
 
 ' These, again, are the words of a woman, not 
 of a man. 
 
 ' But are there women — how is any woman 
 to be equal to these things ? Henri-Frederic 
 Amiel was not equal to them, and he called 
 himself a man ! But Lord Tennyson says — • 
 
 ' " Woman is not undeveloped man, 
 But diverse : could we make her as the man, 
 Sweet Love were slain. . . . 
 
 Yet in the long years liker must they groAV ; . . . 
 Till at the last she set herself to man. 
 Like perfect music unto noble words ; . . . 
 Yoked in all excellence of noble end, 
 And so through those dark gates across the wild, 
 That no man knows." 
 
 F
 
 66 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 * " Till at the last she set herself to man, 
 Like perfect music unto noble words." ' 
 
 These two lines are written over again with 
 extreme niceness and care. 
 
 A day or two afterwards she writes, evidently 
 out of her own thought — 
 
 ' There is an undertone, a minor key, run- 
 ning through all we do or think, if we could only 
 hear it — a certain musical note, so attenuated 
 that only in favoured moments of the soul can 
 the finest ear perceive it, which would dominate 
 all our passions and actions to a perfect harmony 
 were it only heard and felt.' 
 
 It seems to have occurred to Dr. Boteraux, 
 after George had been about a month at the 
 rectory, that it would have been better for his 
 daughter to pay a visit to some friends, and 
 accordingly she was absent for about two 
 months. I imagine that the interval appeared 
 very dull to the two men who were left at 
 Clyston St. Fay, in spite of the fascination of 
 Sophocles, enlivened by excursions into Cicero 
 and Juvenal. 
 
 Of course there was shooting for George 
 Falaise, but I am told that there is satiety even 
 in shooting partridges over a muddy field. He 
 had his horses, it is true ; but he had no one
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 67 
 
 to ride with except the Kector, who rode very 
 sedately, and whose fund of anecdote was by this 
 time pretty much exhausted. Blanche makes no 
 mention of this absence in her diary, which is 
 full of such passages as I have quoted above, 
 interspersed with extracts from books which she 
 had been reading ; but I fancy that on her return 
 she felt some sort of pity for this lonely boy, so 
 patient and so faultlessly polite. 
 
 It is not in female youthful human nature, 
 however addicted to the study of Henri-Frederic 
 Amiel, and the amelioration of back slums, to 
 resist altogether the silent pleading of respectful 
 and devoted eyes. At any rate, when Blanche 
 came back towards the end of January, she con- 
 descended to walk with George Falaise. 
 
 There is something singularly impressive 
 about this time of year in Devon. Through the 
 bare woods and over the desolate moors there 
 wandered a persistent undertone that was sor- 
 rowful only in the sense that, without sorrow, 
 the divine seriousness of life would be unknown. 
 It was impossible for the most thoughtless not 
 to feel something of the solemn lesson that 
 the season taught. 
 
 Up the slopes of meadowland, where the dead 
 grass aflbrded but a scant sustenance for the
 
 68 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 deer, which had to be fed by hand, through the 
 drives and openings of the woods, by the lonely 
 cottages of the woodmen and keepers, Blanche 
 had wandered one morning, two or three days 
 after her return, till they had reached the nearest 
 point of the moor overlooking the great Devon 
 plain. Here, where the oaks became stunted 
 and twisted by the sweeping of the storm-wind 
 from the sea, their upper branches white and 
 sere, and covered with lichen, the two stood for 
 some time looking at the scene, not because they 
 were thinking much about it, but because there 
 seemed nothing to say. 
 
 But what they saw was lovely enough to 
 have kept any one at gaze. Overhead the day 
 was bright and radiant, with a clear blue sky, 
 such a day as now and again visits Devon — nay, 
 other places also — in the severest winter, when it 
 seems that summer returns to earth as if to bid 
 it a last farewell, or to restore faith to men's 
 minds. She finds indeed a changed scene to 
 shine upon. In place of those fresh and green 
 woods, those flowery fields, and the waving of 
 tall and feathery grasses, tliis summer sun and 
 azure sky, beautified, partly by contrast, partly 
 by a mysterious and touching fitness, a world of 
 departed colour and faded tints. Withered and
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 69 
 
 bleached grass of a strange unearthly whiteness 
 fringed the sloping banks and the summits of 
 the fields ; and, illumined by the brilliant sun- 
 light, cast the delicate tracery of its empty seed- 
 pods and fairy branches against the intense yet 
 pallid blue, and deceived the eye with a soft- 
 spreading halo or mist of whiteness stretching 
 beyond and above itself, and gradually shading 
 itself off into the delicate blue. A few surviving 
 flowers of ragwort and hawkweed, withered by 
 the winter frosts, remained of all the company 
 of summer flowers, and in the place of these lost 
 companions wreaths of haws and berries hung 
 from the low hedges, and from the bare branches 
 of the nut woods. 
 
 So much for the near foreground, but the 
 distance revealed quite a different view. As 
 these two young creatures stood upon the barren 
 field, they looked over a great world-plain, invit- 
 ing with mocking falsehood where to choose ; 
 and whereas over their heads a cloudless heaven 
 and serene sky stretched themselves, promising 
 and hopeful, in the distance a dark canopy of 
 gathering rain - clouds hung above a dark 
 horizon, beneath which long rays and streaks of 
 light shot across the far landscajDC, gilding the 
 russet stretches of the bare oak woods, and break-
 
 70 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 iug ever and again into a sudden Hash and blaze, 
 as the sunlight caught some tower or some village 
 casement deep buried in the woodland. 
 
 They stood for some time in silence, appar- 
 ently looking at this scene. Suddenly the boy 
 spoke — 
 
 ' Blanche/ he said ; she knew that somcthino- 
 startling was coming from the unusual address 
 — ' Blanche, I want to ask whether you think 
 that at any time — I don't mean of course now, 
 but at any time — you think it might be possible 
 that you might marry me ? ' 
 
 ' No, George,' she said, without any hesitation, 
 ' I don't.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' It is not a fair question,' she said ; ' but I 
 will answer it, to you, because I think that you 
 are a good boy. A w^oman should " set herself 
 to man, as perfect music unto noble words." If 
 ever I marry, it will be to such a man as this, 
 and I do not think that you are he.' 
 
 It might seem at first sight that this sentence 
 was incoherent, and the meaning anything but 
 clear, but the boy seemed to understand it at 
 once. 
 
 ' No,' he said, almost laughing, but with a 
 catch in his breath which spoke of something
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 71 
 
 else than laughter, ' I should tliiuk not. Why I 
 want to many you is because you will raise me 
 and do me good.' 
 
 'Ah ! you are mistaken,' she said more softly ; 
 'you will find some other girl.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, with a contemptuous irony 
 which was effective by its very unconsciousness, 
 ' another girl ! ' 
 
 They came back down the steep path over 
 the strewn and withered leaves. The rain- 
 clouds were sweeping from the valley across the 
 sun, and the bareness and chill of winter was on 
 the woods and on the blackened grass. A blank 
 depression and presentiment settled down upon 
 Blanche's spirit. It seemed to her as if she 
 were walking in a troubled nightmare, amid 
 difficulties which were absurd, yet from which 
 she was utterly unable to extricate herself. It 
 seemed to her, at least for the moment, that in 
 all the illimitable universe, limitless as the sky 
 and plain before them, there was truly ' no other 
 girl,' — that in some mysterious way, struggle 
 as she might, coutemptuous as she might out- 
 wardly seem, her fate was irrevocably bound up 
 with his.
 
 IV 
 
 There are moments or periods, in the existence 
 of some people, when life seems to stand still, 
 nay, when it seems to go back ; when the 
 sequence of action seems l)roken, and the retri- 
 bution which is supposed to dog the steps of 
 the past deed, is, or seems to be, turned aside ; 
 when life's rivers, as some one quoted to me 
 once, out of a Greek dramatist or poet, run back- 
 ward on their courses. Such a moment occurred 
 in the life of Blanche Boteraux. She became 
 more and more desperate in the lovely spring 
 weather at Clyston St. Fay. She had serious 
 thoughts of running away. She longed to 
 plunge herself into the stream of modern life, 
 to enter a hospital, to join the Salvation Army, 
 to become a Sister devoted to work in the most 
 terrible of the London slums, to bathe her hands, 
 as it were, in human misery, and taste the reek 
 of its smoke that cries to Heaven. Of all the
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 73 
 
 hateful things that surroimded her in this para- 
 dise of orchard and field and moorland and wood, 
 poor George Falaise was the most hateful — his 
 perfect politeness, his imperturbable repose, the 
 absolute indifference to everything that seemed 
 to her worth a thought, — she felt that if she 
 stayed longer in this atmosphere she should go 
 mad. Suddenly all this was changed. Life 
 suddenly became, in the cant of the day, worth 
 living, the future brilliant with a startled 
 hope. 
 
 The way it came about was simplicity itself. 
 Dr. Boteraux at certain intervals attended a 
 Ruri-diaconal meeting. He went to these gather- 
 ings as he would have attended a meeting of his 
 college, but he did not seem to derive much 
 benefit from them. I fear he was not altogether 
 in harmony with the more active and missionary 
 zeal of some of his younger brethren. ' Much 
 irresponsible talk, my dear,' he has been known 
 to reply to Blanche's inquiry as to what had 
 occurred. I suppose it must be admitted that 
 the Bector of Clyston St. Fay was not a perfect 
 character. On his return from one of these 
 meetings, however, he appeared unusually in- 
 terested. 
 
 ' I met a gentleman who is staying with Mr.
 
 74 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 Archdeacon — a great preacher from London, a 
 Mr. Paul Damerle. He is in Devonshire for his 
 health ; and I have asked him to preach here on 
 Sunday week, and to stay with us for a few days 
 afterwards. He is said to be a very rising man, 
 a great " missioner," as it is called, among the 
 poor in London, and, for that matter, among the 
 rich also.' 
 
 Blanche Boteraux's eyes glistened as she 
 looked at her father for once with unmitigated 
 approval. 
 
 ' Did you say that he was going to preach at 
 Clyston St. Fay, sir ? ' said George Falaise. 
 
 ' Yes. Why ? ' 
 
 * He won't suit your people, sir.' 
 
 ' Ah, rouse them up a little, you think ! God 
 knows I should not object to that,' said the 
 Eector mildly ; ' they want something better 
 than I can give them,' 
 
 Blanche looked up at them both with a 
 sudden interest — at her father with an unusual 
 sympathy, at the unfortunate boy with unutter- 
 able meaning. But, with the dogged persistence 
 of his caste, he stuck to his text. 
 
 ' I don't think so,' he said, looking down upon 
 his plate. ' Since I came here I have heard 
 better sermons than I have heard anywhere
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 75 
 
 else ; and if 1 only acted up to what 1 have 
 heard ' 
 
 'All ! my dear boy,' the Rector said, 'if ive 
 only acted up to what we preached ! ' 
 
 During the next few days more people than 
 usual seemed to call at the Rectory, and they all 
 spoke of the Rev. Paul Damerle. One had heard 
 him at this place and one at another. Every one 
 spoke of him with enthusiasm. One old lady of 
 high rank drove twelve miles over a hill country, 
 simply because she had been told that he was to 
 preach at Clyston St. Fay, and to tell Blanche 
 Boteraux that he was ' an apostolic young man.' 
 Several clergymen who called were enthusiastic 
 upon his work in the back slums of London. 
 The excitement in a place where excitements 
 were so rare became almost intense. 
 
 On the Saturday afternoon a carriage was sent 
 to the nearest station, six miles from Clyston St. 
 Fay, and the Rev. Paul Damerle arrived in due 
 course, and was received by Dr. Boteraux and 
 his daughter. George had absented himself 
 during the whole day, and w\as su]3posed to be 
 shooting something indefinite. They all met in 
 the drawing-room before dinner. 
 
 The Rev. Paul Damerle was a tall and strik- 
 ing-looking man of twenty-seven or thirty years
 
 76 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 of age. He did not wear evening dress, but 
 retained his ordinary attire, wliicli was distinctly 
 clerical, but not of an extreme type. It is diffi- 
 cult to say whether he could be called hand- 
 some, but he had a finely -formed, square -cut 
 face, and strong irregular features, indicative, 
 his admirers said, of strength, moral purpose, 
 and intellect. The lower part of his face, which 
 was closely shaven, was dark and massive. He 
 looked with, apparently, some surprise at George 
 Falaise, who was last in the room. 
 
 ' Let me introduce to you Lord Falaise,' said 
 Dr. Boteraux, ' who is rcadino^ with me before 
 going to Oxford ; the son of a very dear college 
 friend.' 
 
 The two men bowed, but neither of them said 
 anything. 
 
 Dr. Boteraux looked at them both with a 
 sudden interest, as though dimly recognising 
 that a new light had flashed upon his life. 
 
 ' Mr. Damerle is enthusiastic upon the Devon 
 air, Falaise,' he said ; he generally called his pupil 
 George. ' It will please you, as a Devon man, 
 to hear him. He has been ill.' 
 
 ' No, not ill,' said the other, — ' not ill ; but I 
 felt that I was getting overwrought. The diffi- 
 culties and disappointments of my work — for
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE ^^ 
 
 there are difficulties and disappointments in such 
 work as mine — worried me more than they ought 
 to have done.' 
 
 He spoke in a full rich voice, and with a 
 deliberate emphasis, which gave an air of finish 
 and importance to what he said. 
 
 ' And there were other symptoms. I have 
 seen so much, and heard more, of men breakino- 
 down altoo-ether for want of a little change. I 
 don't call it rest ; I have no rest but in my 
 work.' 
 
 ' You are much interested in the condition of 
 the working population of our large cities, I be- 
 lieve,' said Dr. Boteraux politely, but with a 
 certain vagueness of manner, as though he were 
 attributing to his guest an interest in some 
 obscure species of carnivora with which he him- 
 self was unfamiliar. 
 
 ' I am indeed deeply interested in the working- 
 classes, and not, I hope, in them only, but in my 
 fellow-beings everywhere, and in all that may 
 promote their wellbeing.' 
 
 There was perhaps the faintest appearance of 
 rhetoric in Damerle's tone as he said this, but 
 there was also an unmistakable sincerity in it. 
 It is a necessity of the case that the devoted 
 preacher, or teacher of religion, must drop some-
 
 78 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 thiiia* of the reserve on such matters which dis- 
 tingiiishes the ordinary layman. 
 
 Blanche listened, though it would have been 
 difficult for her to have told why, with an excite- 
 ment which she had not felt for many months, 
 perhaps never before. She sat looking from one 
 to another of her companions with an interest 
 not less intense. It was a curious fact that the 
 arrival of this new acquaintance stirred and en- 
 hanced her relationship to the old. They each 
 acted as foil and contrast to the other, and by 
 their conduct and by the apparent effect of the 
 new arrival upon the others, she seemed better 
 able to appreciate his personality herself. 
 
 She sat looking: from Daraerle to George 
 Falaise, as they stood side by side upon the 
 hearth. I doubt whether she had ever looked 
 at George so mucli, or been so interested in him 
 before. She found indeed, with a startled feeling 
 of inward annoyance, that instead of suffering by 
 the comparison with this brilliant and devoted 
 stranger, the boy perceptibly grew in appear- 
 ance, and even, stranger than all, in her estima- 
 tion. 
 
 He was elaborately dressed. It may seem to 
 some that there is not much scope for difference 
 in an Englishman's evening dress, but it is not
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 79 
 
 SO. There are niceties and curiosities which, 
 though she knew nothing about them, her female 
 instinct taught her to perceive and to appreciate. 
 As he stood upon the white hearth-skin, his 
 steadfast eyes fixed searchingly upon Damerle — 
 the quiet perfection of his dress combining with 
 the exquisite setting of that quaint room around 
 him — it was impossible to be unconscious of his 
 attraction, or of the natural distinction of his 
 mien and pose. He was not quite so tall as the 
 other, and he was some ten years younger, but 
 the gifts of heredity and rank more than com- 
 pensated for these disadvantages, if such they 
 might be called. But the striking if, as some 
 miofht think, subtle contrast between the two 
 men lay in the expression of the face. In the 
 set curves of George Falaise's small delicately- 
 cut mouth, and in the look of his singularly 
 beautiful eyes, there was a certain steadfastness 
 which was wanting in the other. It is true that 
 the lower part of Paul Damerle's face conveyed 
 the impression of great strength, but it was the 
 strength of obstinacy more than of steadfastness ; 
 while his eyes, which were dark and very fine, 
 had a far-off look of intensity which made them 
 almost expressionless. In a word, it might be 
 said of the two men, that while Damerle gave
 
 8o BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 the impression of vast and unknown possibilities 
 in tlie moral universe, with an equally undefin- 
 able future, you felt of George Falaise that, with 
 fewer or perhaps no possibilities, you could safely 
 divine what, within the limits of his moral vision, 
 he would most certainly do. iVbout the deter- 
 mined lines of Damerle's face there was a lurking 
 tendency to exasperation, to combativeness, which 
 was perfectly absent from the assured serenity of 
 George Falaise's look and manner. 
 
 Blanche felt a curious irritation rising within 
 her against the boy, excited by this undeniable 
 advance which he had made in her perception of 
 him. If he would only have made a fool of him- 
 self in some way, or otherwise manifested his in- 
 feriority, she would have felt much more kindly 
 towards him. But George Falaise had evidently 
 no intention of doing anything of the kind ; in 
 fact he did nothing, and, with the exception of 
 a short answer to a question of the Kector's as 
 to his shooting, he said nothing. The composed 
 observant silence with which he stood fascinated 
 Blanche, and became intolerable to her. She 
 felt something of that sense of an impending 
 fate that linked her to him, which she had felt 
 in descending from the moor. The feeling terri- 
 fied and exasperated her, and, with the power of
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 8i 
 
 a determined nature, slic set herself resolutely to 
 defy and to combat it. 
 
 In the excitement of this feeling she had for 
 a moment forgotten Mr. Damerle, but now she 
 was roused to attention by his voice, speaking 
 with its deep rich tone — 
 
 'As Dr. Liddon says, they strangle us in 
 luxurious drawinof- rooms with a silken thread. 
 We are welcome so long as we prophesy smooth 
 things, but the moment we speak the truth — the 
 moment we speak to them as 
 
 ' " Sinners in a world of care " — 
 
 the moment we tell them of the world of misery 
 and of sin, seething and smouldering at their very 
 doors, — then they give us the cold shoulder, then 
 they call us Enthusiasts, Socialists, Romanists, 
 Ultramontanes. Therefore we turn to the poor. 
 The Lord was poor.' 
 
 Blanche Boteraux's face flushed with excite- 
 ment and delight at these words, accordant as 
 they were to the suppressed and buried life 
 within her. Dr. Boteraux looked slightly puzzled, 
 like a massive ironclad attacked by a torpedo 
 boat from an unexpected quarter. Irritated, 
 apparently, by something that seemed implied 
 in Damerle's words or tone, George Falaise put 
 his foot in it in a quite unlooked-for way. 
 
 G
 
 82 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 ' I know notliiiig of the working classes,' he 
 said ; ' but I know something of the upper — my 
 godfather is a duke- — and I think their view is 
 that no permanent good woukl arise by their 
 giving up their present style of living and 
 slumming it.' 
 
 Blanche regarded him almost with affection. 
 The spell was broken. He had disj^layed his 
 inferiority now without any doubt. 
 
 Mr. Damerle looked at him with an indulo^ent 
 smile, as though he would have said, ' That is 
 exactly the sentiment I should have expected 
 from a young man brought up as you have been. 
 Let us hope that you will learn better,' 
 
 Fortunately, perhaps, at this moment dinner 
 was announced. 
 
 The conversation at dinner was sustained 
 almost entirely by Damerle. Blanche asked a 
 few questions and listened with her whole soul. 
 The Rector was unusually silent. The anecdotes 
 and epigrams were not forthcoming. There was 
 no one present to whom they were new except 
 the guest, and probably the Rector thought that 
 they would not be appreciated by him. George, 
 having fired off his little artillery in defence of 
 his order, aj)peared to consider that he had 
 satisfied the exigencies of the occasion, and con-
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 83 
 
 fined liis attention to tlie dinner and to the 
 Eector's excellent La Rose. 
 
 It must be admitted that Damerle talked 
 exceedingly well. He was evidently a man of 
 wide culture and reading, who had trained him- 
 self to utilise everything that he had read and 
 heard. History, literature, description of scenery, 
 humorous anecdotes even, had all been stored 
 for use both in sermons and conversation. When 
 the Rector, emboldened by some of his guest's 
 anecdotes, ventured upon one or two of the best 
 of his own, Damerle evidently transferred them 
 to his mental tablet. All his conversation, 
 however, centred itself ultimately in his work 
 and his mission, — ' his Master's service,' as he 
 boldly said. The sense of this was never lost. 
 If a cynic had been asked, he might possibly 
 have said that * the Master's service ' centred 
 itself somewhat in the Rev. Paul Damerle, but 
 a cynic will say anything. I suppose that the 
 Apostle Paul was ambitious of promoting his 
 Master's service, and in this sense Paul Damerle 
 was undoubtedly ambitious. A laudable aspira- 
 tion you will say, no doubt, but it would seem 
 that it has the germ of some insidious mischief 
 in it which may be the initial if not the immedi- 
 ate cause of a terrible fall. When a man once
 
 84 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE pakt i 
 
 suffers himself to imagine that he is necessary to 
 God, the power to resist temptations is mani- 
 festly much lessened and their force proportion- 
 ally increased. 
 
 Towards the middle of dinner Georc:e com- 
 mitted himself again, and this time got a de- 
 cided fall. 
 
 Some remark brought up the Salvation Army. 
 Damerle spoke warmly in its praise — speaking of 
 the improvement its efforts had produced in 
 low districts, and quoting the testimony of the 
 police. 
 
 ' But the Salvation bonnet ? ' George broke 
 in. 
 
 ' The title sounds strange to us, doubtless,' said 
 Damerle quietly ; ' but I confess that I see little 
 difference in phrase between " Salvation bonnet " 
 and " Collar of the Sancto Spirito " — one of the 
 greatest orders in Europe, 1 believe ; you know 
 better than I.' And he looked full into Georc^e's 
 face as if for confirmation. The boy looked very 
 l)lank. 
 
 'Awfully clever remark that of his,' he said 
 innocently to Blanche the next day, — ' that about 
 the Salvation bonnet and the Collar of S.S. It 
 floored me.' 
 
 After dinner Blanche played some sacred
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 85 
 
 airs. When she had fiuishecl, and they were 
 saying good-night, Mr. Damerle said — 
 
 ' You were speaking at dinner, Miss Boteraiix, 
 of Frederic AmieL He says somewhere, I 
 remember, that music carries us to heaven, 
 because music is harmony, harmony is perfection, 
 perfection is our dream, and our dream is 
 Heaven. I rather think it is because music is 
 a voice. Men, even the worst of us, seek direc- 
 tion ; they seek a Divine Voice.' 
 
 ' The Komans,' said the Rector, ' erected an 
 altar to Aius Locutius, a warning voice,' 
 
 ' A voice crying in the wilderness,' said 
 Damerle, ' " Prepare ye the way of the Lord." ' 
 
 Outside the drawing-room, as Blanche left it, 
 there was a sudden hush and chill. 
 
 She passed a wide hall dimly lighted, from 
 which a long rambling wooden staircase, with 
 many turnings, led to the upper rooms. 
 
 As Blanche went up the staircase alone, those 
 last words of her fother rang in her ears with a 
 strange attraction, with a freshness and intensity 
 which pagan thought sometimes brings : ' An 
 altar to Aius Locutius, a warning voice.' Her 
 father could have told her that Cicero complains 
 that the voice spoke but once. 
 
 ' We seek direction ; we seek a Divine Voice,'
 
 86 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 Damerle had said ; and as slie thought of it, 
 at the same moment, her recollection went back, 
 in spite of herself as it were, in the still gloomy 
 shadow of the wide staircase, to George Falaise, 
 standing upon the white hearth-skin, the honest 
 steady look in the beautiful eyes, the perfect 
 pose, the faultless dress. She thrust the vision 
 from her with a ruthless determination. Was 
 it possible that she refused to listen to a warn- 
 in s: voice ?
 
 The entire population of Clyston St. Fay attended 
 cliurcli on Sunday mornings. What became of 
 the village on a Sunday morning, or what 
 happened to the Sunday dinners, I do not know, 
 I never could find out ; but the above may be 
 taken as the statement of a literal fact. On the 
 Sunday morning, therefore, on which Mr. Damerle 
 preached, there was no very perceptible difference 
 in the appearance of the congregation. There 
 were a few stragglers from neighbouring villages 
 present, but that was all. 
 
 The Eector read the prayers and the second 
 lesson. The Rector was an excellent reader. 
 George Falaise said that he was the best in 
 England, but perhaps poor George's dictum will 
 not be taken as conclusive. At any rate Dr. 
 Boteraux's reading was that of a scholar and a 
 gentleman trained in long practice of elocution. 
 Then Damerle preached.
 
 88 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE tart i 
 
 I do not suppose that such a sermon had ever 
 been heard at Clyston St. Fay since the Normans 
 built a church there. He took for his text the 
 mystic words of the Apocalypse : ' And the 
 Spirit and the bride say, Come, and let him that 
 heareth say, Come.' 
 
 ' From the primeval chaos, when the Eternal 
 Word swept across the tremulous ether and the 
 wastes of uncreated yet instinctive life, through 
 successive generations, as the Divine prompting 
 strove with men with alluring yet insistent voice, 
 to the time when, in mystery which was from 
 the beginning, " proceeding forth, yet leaving 
 not the Father's side," the Word was made flesh, 
 and dwelt among us, — through all this wonderful 
 story, pleading and striving with all men, with 
 peasants and with kings, with pagans and with 
 Christians, with freemen and with slaves, with 
 those who clothe in fine linen, and pride them- 
 selves as the cultured and refined of earth, and 
 with those who have not where to lay their head, 
 permeating through all ranks, effluent through 
 all culture, as Scevola the Pontifex is said 
 by St. Augustine to have disputed of a 
 theology which was at once that of poets, 
 and philosophers, and princes of cities ; through 
 evil report and good report, as deceivers and
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 89 
 
 yet true, we beseecli you to think of these 
 things. 
 
 ' To this pleading voice, following us into every 
 trivial incident, as we speak of triviality, of our 
 daily life, let us give heed ; and having given 
 heed, what remains for us to do ? 
 
 ' " Let him that heareth say. Come." 
 
 ' This is the return demanded from every one 
 who has tasted of the heavenly gift. " Lord, 
 send me ! " Was this our longing, and was this 
 our cry, to surrender ourselves to His service, to 
 follow Him whithersoever He may lead ? ' 
 
 Something like this was the idea of the sermon 
 that remained in Blanche's mind as she came out 
 of church. 
 
 She had sat with George Falaise alone in the 
 old rectory pew — Blanche in the corner next the 
 door, from whence she could best see the preacher, 
 George in the opposite angle of the long pew, 
 exactly under the pulpit. His attitude was one 
 of studied and profound indifference, but he 
 heard every word. Blanche, on the contrary, 
 had kept her eyes fixed upon the preacher with 
 an appearance of rapt attention. 
 
 They came out together, Blanche a little in 
 advance. They did not say anything for some 
 time, walking up the village street, boy and girl
 
 90 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 like, in the sulks. Then Blanche, feeling certain 
 tliat her companion, with reprobate perversity, 
 would disapprove, but probably thinking that 
 her conduct was not consistent with the preacher's 
 advice, turned round towards George and said — 
 
 ' What did you think of the sermon ? Was 
 it not wonderful ? ' 
 
 His face flushed all over with a boyish de- 
 termination to speak the truth at all hazard. 
 
 ' I thought it awfully bad form, in your father's 
 presence too,' 
 
 It would take a three-volume novel of the 
 modern realistic school of character-analysis to 
 explain what he meant, but it seems hardly worth 
 the while ; Blanche certainly did not trouble 
 herself to that extent. 
 
 There was no more said between the two 
 until they reached the rectory. 
 
 The Rector came up with Damerle, but entered 
 the drawing-room alone. 
 
 ' Great sermon ! ' he said. ' Wealth of illustra- 
 tion surprising in so short a time ! Widely- 
 read man, and knows how to use his reading ! 
 Very much pleased. Don't wonder that people 
 run after him ! ' 
 
 Upon the congregation the sermon practically 
 produced no effect — no effect at all.
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 91 
 
 ' Suthin' like t' Methodist rant, weren't it ? ' 
 one or two of the elder farmers said to Mr. 
 Churchwarden Wike in their soft, flowing 
 Devon tongue. Mr. Wike shook his head seri- 
 ously but said nothing. Mrs. Churchwarden 
 was more outspoken. 
 
 ' Nuthin' good enough for him, I should say,' 
 she said; 'and that stuck-up Miss Boteraux 
 thinks so too, for I watched her. They had 
 better marry and go away together, and a good 
 riddance, I should say. We did very well with 
 t' old Kector before either of them came.' 
 
 I have looked through Blanche Boteraux's 
 diary carefully to find any mention of this sermon 
 or of Mr. Damerle, but without success. The 
 only mention of Damerle occurs once. 
 
 ' Mr. Damerle ' (without any introduction, for 
 he has never been mentioned before) ' was speak- 
 ing at dinner about Wesley. He said that at 
 the beginning of his journals he enters into a 
 lonof argument in favour of instantaneous con- 
 version and assurance — a doctrine which, Mr. 
 Damerle says, he got from the Moravians, but 
 which he thought that Wesley never altogether 
 appropriated. After a warm and enthusiastic 
 argument Wesley concludes with what Mr. 
 Damerle thinks the most beautiful sentence ever
 
 92 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 written. Instead of hurling anathemas on the 
 presumptuous person who would difler from the 
 great teacher, he says — 
 
 '• ' If any man cannot receive this, let him pray for more 
 light, both for him and for me." ' 
 
 A little further down the page she says : ' I 
 did not quite know why Mr. Damerle spoke of 
 the Moravians as though he did not like them, 
 and I asked him if he had seen the Life of 
 Nicholas Lewis, Count Zinzendorf which had 
 been given to me as a prize at Neufchatel, and 
 which I always thought was a most beautiful 
 book, and read more than almost any other. 
 He did not seem to know much about it. I 
 showed him one of my favourite passages, which 
 sounds so beautiful in the German — 
 
 ' " His intentions were briefly these : Faithfully to take 
 charge of poor souls, for whom Christ had shed His blood, 
 and especially to collect together and to protect those that 
 were oppressed and persecuted. He had also in view the 
 fellowship of the children of God ; and he endeavoured by 
 all means to promote love and unanimity amongst those 
 who were awakened and called to the kingdom of God." ' 
 
 ' Mr. Damerle seemed pleased with this. He 
 smiled and said, " Yes ; hriejlij these ! " ' 
 
 A little further on I find the following, from
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALALSR 93 
 
 Walker of Truro, wliicli I think that Mr. Damerlc 
 must have suggested to her, and which I quote, 
 because it seems to me to be in accord with the 
 peculiarly optimistic view which he took of his 
 mission and of himself. But in any case the 
 passage is a fine one, as expressing a kind of 
 abstract gratitude which any man may feel for 
 what he conceives to have been peculiar blessings 
 in his lot. 
 
 ' " He " (the writer is speaking of the Christian) " owns 
 His hand both in the visitations of Chastisement and 
 Prosperity, seeing Love in them both. Confirmed he is 
 that his soul is God's special care, Avhile with grateful 
 wonder he reflects upon God's forbearance and gentleness 
 towards him. The wise and strange means and contriv- 
 ances God hath used with him ; the kind disappointments, 
 and most inviting encouragements he hath met with from 
 Him ; in a word, the long and watchful discipline Avhich an 
 affectionate Providence hath exercised upon him." ' 
 
 Mr. Damerle remained four or five days at 
 Clyston St. Fay. I am inclined to think that 
 they were days too bright almost for remembrance, 
 not to say for writing down ; at any rate we 
 find no trace of them in the diary. When he 
 left, the weeks and months at the rectory 
 seem to have been very dull and flat. There 
 are no quotations, and no record of any 
 events.
 
 94 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 There are lapses iu life, times of deferred liope 
 that seems disappointment, of depression that 
 borders on the scepticism of despair ; they 
 follow mostly on periods of excitement and of 
 special insight and illumination. On such occa- 
 sions what can the historian do ? If all is dead 
 and chill in the time and in the life recorded, 
 what can be said of such a time or such a 
 life ? It was under the shadow of such a cloud 
 — I imagine to myself — that Blanche Boteraux 
 entered when Mr. Damerle had left the rectory. 
 In love with Paul Damerle, in the vuljxar sense 
 of the phrase, it scarcely needs to say she was 
 not. Indeed, it is more than doubtful whether 
 she ever saw the real Paul Damerle at all. AVhat 
 she saw was a creature of her own fancy, of her 
 own spiritual need, of the guiding instinct of her 
 life. Yet, though to speak of her as in any 
 vulgar sense in love with Damerle were ridiculous 
 and even libellous, the absorption of her nature 
 into his, the attraction of her spirit towards the 
 ideal which she associated with his presence 
 and action, was more imperative and com- 
 plete than any ordinary attraction could pos- 
 sibly be. 
 
 It seemed to her young consciousness that 
 she had found the complement and answ^er to all
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 95 
 
 incompleteness and want, to all the question- 
 ings, to all the inadequateness of life ; and when 
 nothing happened, nothing followed upon this 
 glorious dawn and promise of a pledged future, 
 rich in blessings more to others than to herself, 
 there settled down upon Blanche's life, at the 
 rectory, a dulness, if not a darkness, that might 
 be felt. Yet, true to the guiding instinct even 
 under the shadow of death, she evidently set her 
 face towards that goal which had been revealed 
 to her as the end of life — the goal of self-denial 
 and of sacrifice. When Heaven's light has been 
 revealed for a moment, it is not easy to sink 
 back into the paltry half-tints of commonplace 
 existence. 
 
 Dr. Boteraux took them up to Oxford at the 
 beginning of the Easter term ; I suppose he 
 thought that it was time that George went there. 
 Blanche does not appear to have thought much 
 of Oxford. She makes some remarks in her 
 diary which, for her sake, I think it best to 
 suppress. To a restless disturbed spirit, young 
 and untrained in life's story, it is of little avail 
 to talk of shady walks, of smooth grassy courts, 
 of mellow, ivy-covered walls and oriels, instinct 
 with the life of past days. These things are 
 nothing in regard to it. Blanche mentions very
 
 96 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 briefly in her diary some little excitements — 
 afternoon teas and the Doctor's dinino- in Hall 
 in more than one college — but, on the whole, 
 Oxford did not seem to have interested her. 
 
 She relates, however, at considerable length 
 an incident which may not seem important, but 
 which had evidently taken her fancy, 
 
 A gentleman said to her at afternoon tea : 
 ' Will you introduce me to your brother, Miss 
 Boteraux ? ' 
 
 ' My brother ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; the young man who is standing by 
 your father, whom you called George.' 
 
 ' Oh, Lord Falaise ! he is not my brother ; 
 but it is an excellent idea. I will tell him.' 
 
 Accordingly, on the first opportunity, she said : 
 'George, a gentleman asked me just now if you 
 were my brother. That is just what we ought 
 to be. I will be your sister always.' 
 
 I can see it all, — her look as she said those 
 words, the bewitching fascination of her l^rown 
 eyes and of her smile — she had not lost her 
 smile then — the bewilderingly exasperating efiect 
 upon George Falaise, her utter unconsciousness 
 of the effect she wrought. 
 
 For once he forgot himself. 
 
 'No, you won't,' he said.
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 97 
 
 She tells no more ; but I have sometimes 
 thought that, as she turned away, thus repulsed, 
 there came into her eyes, for tlie first time, some- 
 thing of a look that, in the years that were to 
 come, 1 was to know so well.
 
 VI 
 
 Clyston St. Fay was at its stillest in the early 
 summer days. The visit to Oxford had not been 
 without its results. George Falaise commenced his 
 residence at St. Nod's very soon after. It might 
 seem that the recollection even of past excite- 
 ment had faded away. That sisterly love — surely 
 a precious thing, and not to be despised, which 
 she had freely offered, and which had been rudely 
 refused — is it possible that it might have grown, 
 in this soft, flower-scented hush and sweetness, 
 into something more ? ' Les absens ont toujours 
 tort ? ' Ah no ! It is the present, with its vulgar 
 insistence, its blunders, its stupid compliments, 
 its mistaken bonhomie, that is in the wrong. The 
 absent, who, silent themselves, let those others 
 speak for them — the remorse, the pathos of the 
 past — the terribly regretted past — the mistaken 
 word, the misjudged action, the hasty quarrel irre- 
 vocable now — the absent in the wrono- ! Ah no !
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 99 
 
 However this may be, in this case the lethargy, 
 the hush and pause which gave the soul time to 
 think, and which might, had fate willed, have 
 been the prelude and tilth of a happy spring 
 and healthy fruitage, was suddenly broken in 
 upon. Mr. Damerle appeared again. He came 
 quite unexpectedly one afternoon when the Rector 
 was out visiting a sick parishioner. 
 
 The Rector was very great in visiting the sick. 
 His method was very simple, and whatever might 
 have been thought of it elsewhere, was exceed- 
 ingly admired at Clyston St. Fay. He would 
 enter the sickroom with a very kindly and cheery 
 manner ; then he would begin to talk of the 
 weather or of the crops, of any cheerful event in 
 the village, such as a marriage, or a birth in the 
 family ; then he would draw the patient out to 
 talk a little about himself or herself, — a great 
 secret of success ; then he would say — 
 
 ' Would you like me to read to you two or 
 three good prayers ? ' 
 
 These he would read from a selection which 
 he had made himself, interspersed with some 
 passages of Scripture, and pasted into a book, 
 bound in morocco, with the sacred monoofram in 
 silver on the outside. Most of his sick parish- 
 ioners would say that he was better than the
 
 loo BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 village doctor. One old lady who was on the 
 point of death, given over by the doctor, went so 
 far as to recover, and was at work again in forty- 
 eight hours. This event perfectly established the 
 Rector's reputation. The mothers would say — 
 
 ' My lad's very sick, your honour ; would you 
 come and read a prayer over him ? ' And it is 
 possible that He who raised the widow of Nain's 
 son was not deaf to the Rector's prayers, though 
 they were read out of a morocco-bound book, with 
 a silver monogram. 
 
 On this particular afternoon the sick parish- 
 ioner lay in a remote outskirt of the parish, and 
 the Rector was away for a long time. 
 
 Blanche was walking in the old-fashioned 
 garden under the terraced hedges, beneath the 
 stately Queen Anne front. There was a dulcet 
 blue in the Devon sky, an enervating softness in 
 the Devon air, that soothed the restlessness of 
 her heart, and accorded more with the idea of 
 George Falaise than with that of Paul Damerle. 
 But in that moment, in the rest and stillness of 
 the golden afternoon, it was Paul Damerle and 
 not George Falaise who came down the mossy 
 stone steps suddenly upon her. 
 
 Damerle, with his apostolic fervour, and his 
 quite sincere devotion, was after all only a man ;
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE loi 
 
 he had come back with some vague desire, 
 some unformed wish. He wanted to see again 
 that young stately mien, to look again into 
 those earnest-speaking eyes, to hear again that 
 serious speech that seemed neither to brook 
 nor to understand anything but what was 
 noble and unselfish and high. When he came 
 into the garden he had no other thought 
 than this, but the glamour of the hour, and his 
 surprised delight at her young beauty, hurried 
 him on. She looked astonishingly beautiful 
 in the flush of embarrassment and surprise. It 
 seemed to Damerle that a new light had suddenly 
 burst upon his path — that path which he had 
 hitherto looked upon — nay, gloried in looking 
 upon — as the path of self-denial and renuncia- 
 tion. The path was still there; it led to the 
 same results. He felt the same impulses, the 
 same ideal stirred him, but an altogether strange 
 and delightful personality seemed added to his 
 life and to the future of his work. By one of 
 those coincidences so frequent in life, the lines 
 from TJie Princess, which Blanche had copied, 
 came into his mind — 
 
 ' "Woman is not undeveloped man, 
 But diverse.' 
 
 The sudden rush of feeling and of impulse was
 
 I02 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 SO overpowering that lie forgot the ordinary 
 greetings of social life, and stood on the grassy 
 verge below the terrace, face to face with Blanche 
 Boteraux, looking at her without a word. 
 
 It was she who recovered self-possession first. 
 
 ' I did not know that you were come back, 
 Mr. Damerle,' she said. 
 
 A certain change took place in Damerle's sen- 
 sation as she spoke, for her words threw him back 
 at once upon the exigencies of ordinary life. He 
 saw that he had placed himself on the horns of a 
 dilemma from which it seemed to him he had but 
 one exit. He had no possible excuse but one for 
 coming back. His nature w\as intensely dramatic, 
 and this tendency had been still further exag- 
 gerated by culture in Greek classics and by the 
 necessities of the pulpit. It was his temptation 
 to feel that the right thing to do at the moment 
 was the dramatically correct thing. He would 
 not himself have phrased it in these words. He 
 w^ould have spoken of it as ' n, higher leading,' as 
 ' an instinctive call,' ' a flash of illumination from 
 above ' ; but whether he knew it or not, the 
 dramatic instinct was the spring of his action 
 always. 
 
 Still he did not speak. He stood looking at 
 Blanche Boteraux with those great expressionless
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 103 
 
 eyes that had almost a magnetic power. It 
 would have been impossible for any conduct to 
 have been contrived which would have greater 
 effect. She felt dazed and bewildered, as with 
 the expectation of some coming shock. In the 
 weary years afterwards she remembered that time, 
 that summer afternoon, those fleeting moments 
 that, with no seeking of her own, and apparently 
 with no foreseen intention of another, decided 
 the issues of her life, the fine shingle path on 
 which she stood, the grassy terrace, the fuchsia 
 hedges that clothed the terrace walls, the fir 
 branches that skirted the garden down the village 
 road, the misty sunlight, the soft afternoon air, 
 an overruling stillness and calm, an expectant 
 hush of sense, — long afterwards she rememl^ered 
 them all. 
 
 At last he spoke. 
 
 ' I have come back, Miss Boteraux,' he said, in a 
 measured, perfectly self-possessed, and melodious 
 tone, ' because I could not keep away. It has been 
 shown me very clearly, since I was here, what 
 has been wanting to me, — the want and the crav- 
 ing I have been vaguely conscious of — the want 
 which has rendered my work both less successful 
 and infinitely more trying and wearing to myself. 
 At the very birth of the race it was perceived by
 
 I04 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 the Divine AVisdom tlicat it was not well for man 
 
 to be alone. A helpmeet was provided for him, 
 
 who 
 
 ' " is not undeveloped man, 
 But diverse. 
 
 Till at the last she set herself to man. 
 As perfect music unto noble words, 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble end." 
 
 ' Blanche ! will you be this perfect music to 
 me ?' 
 
 It would have been difficult to have chosen 
 w^ords, forced and unnatural as they may seem to 
 some people, or a manner and tone, cold and 
 collected as the pleading might seem, which would 
 have impressed Blanche Boteraux so much as 
 Damerle's words and manner did. The tone of 
 voice, it is true, was unbroken and calm, but it 
 was solemn, and even intensely earnest. 
 
 It was a manner and a pleading very different 
 doubtless from that of George Falaise, and for 
 this reason perhaps it impressed Blanche all the 
 more. She was as yet only a girl, and her ex- 
 perience of the world, which seemed so convincing 
 and so satisfying to her, was scarcely adequate, 
 perhaps, to guide her in the most fatal moments 
 of her life. The recurrence of her favourite pas- 
 sao-e from The Princess struck her as with a
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 105 
 
 solemn surprise. The whole address seemed to 
 come to her with a well-recognised tone, as from 
 a world with which she was familiar. The pro- 
 posal came to her as one which fulfilled all the 
 aspirations of her young life — the conception of 
 the most desirable the most perfect future that 
 she had ever formed. A thrill of feeling, which 
 amounted almost to ecstasy at this realised hope, 
 at this fulfilled desire, passed through her frame, 
 and her face flushed and her eyes brightened with 
 a stranse lis^ht : nevertheless, she did not for a 
 second lose the reserved air, the girlish stateli- 
 ness, which was hers by natural gift. 
 
 She looked at him steadily with the serious, 
 far-reaching gaze of her hazel eyes, to wdiich the 
 sudden flash of light only gave a deeper in- 
 tenseness and a more searching power. 
 
 Damerle felt a sudden chill beneath those 
 searching eyes that seemed to penetrate to the 
 depths of his existence. What they might find 
 there, he could not answer for. He knew not 
 what was there himself 
 
 ' It is very sudden, Mr. Damerle,' she said, 
 ' and I am quite alone. Let us go down the 
 village. We shall meet my father as we go.' 
 
 It was not what he had expected, though 
 what he had expected he hardly knew. He had
 
 io6 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 no alternative but to accede to her proposal, 
 but he followed her with a sense of unexpected 
 repulse, which only added zest to his desire. 
 
 They went down the deeply sunken village 
 road, between the sharp-cut walls of natural 
 rock, supporting the small terraces and garden 
 plots upon which the cottages were built, in 
 every variety of picturesque outline and form. 
 The whitewashed walls of the cottages, covered 
 with creeping roses, and honeysuckle, and cle- 
 matis, and passion-flower, and the rock, partly 
 whitewashed with the cottages, and partly covered 
 with lichen and hart's -tongue and oak -fern, 
 contrasted with the hedges of fuchsias, and 
 myrtle, and veronica, and valerian, shining in 
 the moisture of the recent shower and in the 
 brio^htness of the afternoon sun. 
 
 They said very little, even nothing, as they 
 went down the villao;e road. Damerle could not 
 help wondering how silenced he was in the 
 presence of this girl — he who had generally so 
 much to say for himself lie found himself, 
 strangely enough, at such a time thrown back 
 upon himself. He felt a strange necessity laid 
 upon him to look well into his secret heart, and 
 to make quite sure what his motives and in- 
 tentions were. It was somewhat of a new
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 107 
 
 experience. He had been so accustomed to 
 take the Kev. Paul Damerle for granted. In 
 the searching light of those hazel eyes everything 
 was changed, the platitudes of existence had no 
 dwelling there. 
 
 Near the bottom of the village, by the church, 
 they met the Rector walking slowly up the road. 
 
 Blanche went up to her father with a most 
 unwonted look and gesture, and hung upon his 
 arm. The Rector was a man of the world. He 
 was very tired after his long walk in the after- 
 noon sun, but he knew exactly what had occurred 
 as minutely as if he had been present and had 
 heard every word that had been spoken. 
 
 ' Ah ! Mr. Damerle,' he said, ' you have come 
 back. Very glad to see you. You will stay the 
 night of course.' 
 
 Now the pleasantest thing in life that could 
 have occurred to Dr. Boteraux would have been 
 that his daughter should have married George 
 Falaise. Apart from the brilliancy of the match, 
 from a worldly point of view, he had become 
 very fond of this fascinating boy, who had 
 attached himself, with something of a canine 
 fidelity, to his tutor and his host. But very 
 serious considerations were involved in the idea 
 of such an alliance. Dr. Boteraux had not had
 
 io8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 the slightest scruple iu asking three himdred 
 pounds, or in accepting five hundred when it 
 was sent him, as an equivalent for George's visit 
 and tuition ; but he would have had the very 
 greatest hesitation in promoting, or even con- 
 senting to, the marriage of his daughter to Lord 
 Falaise, unless he was perfectly certain that his 
 guardian, the Duke, cordially approved of it. 
 He could hardly suppose that this would be the 
 case. His mind was, therefore, reduced to a 
 position of absolute suspense. He felt himself 
 growing old, and life and the future were un- 
 certain. His pecuniary troubles had told upon 
 him. Damerle might not prove a bad match. 
 He had fancied that his daughter was attracted 
 towards him ; her manner even now was strange 
 to him, and there was a light in her eyes which 
 he never remembered to have seen before. He 
 would do nothing hastily ; he would wait and 
 see. 
 
 They walked up the village street side by 
 side. Damerle was strangely silent, but that 
 rather impressed the Rector favourably in regard 
 to him. He spoke first. 
 
 ' Have you seen the Archdeacon since you left 
 us, Mr. Damerle ? ' he said. 
 
 ' No, I have been at Plymouth preaching — a
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 109 
 
 sort of mission. There is a great work doing in 
 the ' Three Towns,' and not, I suppose, before it 
 was needed.' 
 
 They walked on in silence. The sense that 
 something was occurring of mysterious import- 
 ance which kept them silent was not felt by 
 themselves alone. The whole village shared it. 
 There were, at that hour of the afternoon, only 
 women and children and one or two old men at 
 home, but the whole village life, such as it was, 
 was stirred. The little children, even, gazed at 
 the group with more than usual awe, and ' ole 
 grandfer Elsworthy,' who rarely stirred from the 
 seat by his cottage door, grasped his stick wdth a 
 set purpose, and tottering to the edge of his little 
 domain, stood trembling on the verge of the 
 garden precipice, gazing eagerly after the trio, 
 when they had passed up the road. 
 
 When they had reached the house, and he 
 had shown Damerle to his room, the Kector 
 went into the drawing-room to his daughter. 
 
 She was standing in front of the bay w^indow, 
 looking out at the deer and the grassy park ; 
 she turned as he came in and looked him full in 
 the face. As he looked into her eyes he knew 
 something which he had only guessed at before. 
 His mind was quite made up.
 
 no BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 ' So Mr. Damerlo has proposed to you, my 
 dear/ he said. 
 
 She had, in truth, never seen his face before. 
 There had been moments when the kindly, 
 fatherly look had won her child's heart, and had 
 assured her of a home, and of help upon earth, 
 but never before had she known her father as he 
 was. 
 
 In the worn, clever face, in the deeply-cut 
 features, and the delicately - drawn lines which 
 seemed to have retained the trace of insight and 
 knowledge and culture — the culture of past 
 worlds — she read now something more. She saw 
 through the mask, as it were, of this face, strange 
 to her in one sense, though in another so familiar, 
 — strange in its associations with a life and a 
 scholarship alien to her nature and to her train- 
 ing — a yearning, a fatherly, natural, and, were it 
 possible, a protecting love. 
 
 ' So Mr. Damerle has proposed to you, my 
 dear,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, how did you know ? Has he told 
 you ?' 
 
 ' No ; he has not said a word. I knew it the 
 moment I met you in the village. What did 
 you say to him ? ' 
 
 * I told him that it was very sudden — that I
 
 vx BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE lii 
 
 was alone, and that we had better go to meet 
 you.' 
 
 ' And what shall you tell him ? ' 
 
 She paused for a moment, then passed the 
 question by. 
 
 ' It has made me very happy,' she said. 
 
 ' You love him, then ? ' 
 
 Again she did not answer his question. 
 
 ' He is so noble and good,' she said, ' so 
 devoted to his work, and such work ! It is what I 
 have longed for, but scarcely dared to hope. To 
 be taken by such a man, trained to such a work, 
 aided, supported, made necessary even to him. 
 Can there be a prouder lot, a more glorious 
 fate ? ' 
 
 He looked at her for a moment fondly, and 
 with a sort of admiration, which, in truth, was 
 not surprising, as she stood in the flush of her 
 enthusiasm, the light in her face ennobling what 
 was, even without it, a face and girlish form 
 such as some men would have gone far to have 
 seen but once. 
 
 He looked at her for a moment, then he 
 said — 
 
 ' Blanche, did George Falaise ever speak to 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, father, but only as a boy. I told him it
 
 112 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 could never be. It was only a few words, or I 
 would have told yon.' 
 
 He looked at her a little sadly for a moment, 
 as though dismissing a hope, then he said, very 
 kindly — 
 
 ' Well, if you have quite decided, I con- 
 gratulate you, my dear. I shall speak to Mr. 
 Damerle, and then send him to you ; there is 
 something that I must say to him first.' 
 
 The Rector sent Binns up to Mr. Damerle's 
 room to ask him, when he came downstairs, 
 to go to Dr. Boteraux's study, and in a few 
 moments he was shown in. The Rector had 
 evidently arranged for the interview. He was 
 seated in an armchair, with its back to the 
 window, reading ; but he had placed another 
 armchair opposite to him in a position in which 
 he could see the occupant's face distinctly. He 
 rose as Damerle came in and motioned him into 
 this seat. Damerle sat down. 
 
 ' My daughter tells me, Mr. Damerle,' said 
 the Rector, ' that you have made her a proposal 
 of marriage. I shall wish her to give you an 
 answer herself ; but, before she does so, there are 
 some things which I must speak to you about. 
 I should have much preferred,' he went on, * if 
 you had given me an opportunity of saying
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 113 
 
 these things before you had spoken to my 
 daughter. I have had no such opportunity 
 given me, and therefore the blame can in no 
 case be Laid upon me. You may not suppose 
 it, Mr. Damerle, but I am a poor man ; were I 
 to die to-morrow, my daughter in all probability 
 would have absolutely nothing,' 
 
 He paused for a moment, but probably think- 
 ing that he should take an unfair advantage of 
 his companion were he to stop suddenly after so 
 startling an announcement, he went on again. 
 
 ' Circumstances, which I need not more 
 particularly explain, have prevented my coming 
 into possession of a large property, which at one 
 time I had every reason to suppose would be 
 mine, and my right to it has been disputed ever 
 since. Judgment has been given against me. 
 It has been appealed against, and the final 
 decision will not long be delayed. The proba- 
 bility is that the judgment of the inferior court 
 will be confirmed. If that be the case, the posi- 
 tion of my daughter will be as I have stated.' 
 
 He looked steadily into Damerle's face, upon 
 which the evening light was shining strongly, 
 but he learned very little there. The expression- 
 less eyes were as striking and as reticent as ever, 
 and if the corners of the set mouth were drawn 
 
 I
 
 114 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 a little lower down than usual, tliis only gave an 
 expression of increased earnestness to tlie face, 
 which the occasion would amply justify. But in 
 fact no very great struggle was going on in 
 Damerle's mind. He may have felt some timid 
 shrinking, as of a man w^ho had made a mistake, 
 or had been, at the least, somewhat precipitate, 
 for after a great and decisive action it is not 
 uncommon, in the reaction that follows upon 
 excitement, for the mind and will to shrink a 
 little from the possible consequences of their 
 deed. He had not proposed to Blanche Boteraux 
 with any mercenary thought or motive, but 
 simply as carried onward by, in some degree, 
 a sudden impulse and attraction. Even the 
 hardest and most cynical man would have found 
 it difficult to make such a proposal as he had 
 made and retract it in a single day, and Damerle 
 was far from being such a man. He was neither 
 hard nor cynical. He was a man of lofty and 
 even strained ideals ; and if there was weakness 
 and failure in his nature, which led to these 
 ideals not being always adequately achieved, it 
 will probably occur to most of us that in this he 
 did not stand alone. 
 
 He was an intensely receptive man. There 
 was something in the evident chivalric determina-
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 115 
 
 tion of Dr. Boteraux not to lose a moment in 
 explaining his circumstances to tlie man who 
 was seeking his daughter's hand which appealed 
 to his imagination, and for the moment domi- 
 nated all other impression, seeming to demand a 
 corresponding action on his part. He rose from 
 his seat and spoke at once, with scarcely a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 ' I may regret what you have told me, Dr. 
 Boteraux, for your daughter's sake, for my own 
 means are very limited indeed ; otherwise, what 
 you have told me can make no difference in my 
 intentions. I am far too strongly attracted to 
 your daughter by feelings of the warmest ad- 
 miration and respect for such considerations to 
 have any influence. At the same time, I am 
 bound to add that if, after what you have told 
 me, and after what I am forced to confess 
 myself, that I have ^practically no income but 
 that which I may receive for clerical work, 
 you should consider, as you very naturally 
 may, that I am not justified in pursuing my 
 suit to your daughter, I am willing to leave 
 this house at once, and never mention the 
 subject to her again.' 
 
 The Eector sat still for a moment lookingf 
 into the fire. Damerle sat down again. It
 
 Ii6 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 was a curious pause. What answer Damerlc 
 wished for I cannot say, perhaps he himself at 
 the moment hardly knew. Dr. Boteraux would 
 have given all he had to have taken his visitor 
 at his word, but he dared not do it. The light 
 in his daughter s eyes forbade him. It was too 
 late. 
 
 That solemn yet mostly unnoticed beat, con- 
 tinuous in many rooms for more than one life- 
 time, with a mechanism which becomes almost 
 sympathetic with mind, had repeated some thirty 
 warning strokes, and the moment of decision 
 was past for ever. 
 
 ' I cannot take upon myself to say that,' said 
 the Rector. * You had better see my daughter. 
 She is very young, but she is older in mind than 
 in years. She must decide for herself.' 
 
 Thus thrown upon his own resources, Damerle 
 had no course open to him but to meet the 
 consequences of his action as best he might. 
 An intensely intellectual man, no single in- 
 cident of the last few hours, no one character- 
 istic of the situation, was lost upon him. It 
 may seem strange to some people, but it is 
 a fact that in this quiet house, with this father 
 and daughter, he, the missioner to all classes, 
 felt himself nerved to a higher life, to a more
 
 VI 
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 117 
 
 perfect reality of action than that which ordin- 
 arily prompted him. It is one thing to preach 
 constantly to others, it is quite another thing, 
 in every detail of daily life, to act as we shall 
 one day most surely wish that we had acted. 
 Damerle was far too clever a man not to know 
 this. 
 
 He paused for a moment at the drawing-room 
 door, then he opened it and went in. Blanche 
 had apparently been walking up and down the 
 room, but she was standing in the window 
 as he entered, and turned as he came in. 
 The position was a fortunate one for her. 
 The outlines of her figure, thrown up against 
 the quaint sashes of the bay-window, stood 
 out in strong^ and attractive relief. Damerle 
 stood silent for a moment in the centre of the 
 room before he spoke. 
 
 ' Miss Boteraux,' he said, ' before I say any- 
 thing else, I must say one thing. I must 
 acknowledge that I have made a great mistake. 
 Your own instinct told you so the moment 
 I had spoken in the garden, and your father 
 has clearly shown me that such is the fact. 
 I should have spoken to your father before I 
 ventured to address my liopes and my aspira- 
 tions to you. Your father has shown me that
 
 ii8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 in accepting me you probably devote yourself 
 to a life of poverty, of deprivation, of self- 
 denial in every form. Had I known what he 
 has told me, I should certainly have hesitated 
 before I had dared to ask you to link your 
 lot with mine. But you have given no answer ; 
 more than that, my proposition evidently came 
 upon you with a shock of surprise. I trust, 
 therefore, that my unguarded impulse has not 
 been productive of irrevocable mischief With 
 all the earnestness of which I am capable I 
 renew my request. I feel that there is some- 
 thing in you in which I am most deficient — 
 something that will brace me to higher ejBfort, 
 to a purer walk with God ; nevertheless, I am 
 bound to tell you that, as far as I can judge 
 from his manner, your father, though leaving 
 you absolutely unfettered, is not desirous that 
 you should marry me. I have made a mis- 
 take, but I hope that, as far as in me lies, 
 I have rectified it now.' 
 
 He had advanced into the room as he spoke 
 and was standing where he could see her face. 
 She had retreated to one side and was standing 
 against the faded curtains, as if at bay ; her 
 hands clasped before her, her head thrown 
 back, and her eyes fixed steadfastly upon his.
 
 VI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 119 
 
 'Poverty, deprivation, self-denial in every 
 form ! ' What words were these to use to her ! 
 — to her, whose one aspiration in life included, 
 as an absolute necessity, every one of these 
 things. The unfortunate and indiscreet, though 
 well-intentioned, allusion to her father struck 
 her at the heart. Was her father, then, while 
 outwardly kind and sympathetic, secretly 
 leaojued against her and her hio-hest good? 
 She hardened her heart and set her face 
 against her foes, temporal and spiritual, visible 
 and invisible, on every side. 
 
 She was a magnificent creature, in the 
 splendour of pose and figure, with the strongly- 
 cut feminine young face, with the quivering 
 vitality and verve, before which suff'ering and 
 poverty and death were as nothing, and the 
 paltry baitings and conventionalities of life were 
 trodden under foot, not with any effort or 
 consciousness, but with a sort of involuntary 
 action, as though the very existence of such 
 things was unknown to her. A creature to 
 be won, if so it might be, at all risks and 
 all hazards ; so it must seem to any one worthy 
 of the name of man ! 
 
 ' I am not afraid of poverty,' she said. 
 
 There was a sort of magnetic power about
 
 I20 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 her that attracted him with irresistible force. 
 It almost seemed to him, as he gazed upon 
 her, that he saw before him the reality of all 
 his preaching — at once the outcome and the 
 object of his faith. Her self-abandonment and 
 her faith seemed at the same moment both 
 to fulfil and to shame all the words that he 
 had ever uttered upon Faith and upon Hope. 
 
 He stood looking at her, and the expression- 
 less eyes for once told their story only too 
 well. 
 
 He might have seemed to other girls a cold 
 and backward lover, but he did not seem such to 
 this girl. She would have shrunk with repug- 
 nance, approaching to terror, from any familiarity 
 of personal contact, from any warmth even of 
 expression. What she sought, what she loved, 
 was not so much the man as the man's faith, — his 
 innermost life, his very being, his soul itself. 
 
 He held out both his hands. ' If you will 
 take me,' he said, ' we will work together the 
 work of God.' 
 
 She gave him both her hands.
 
 VII 
 
 For the next few weeks there is much to be 
 gleaned from Blanche Boteraux's diary, not 
 in the way of any record of occurrences, for 
 such things she never seemed to enter, but 
 because I find passages which, at any rate in 
 the light of after events, seem to me at least 
 to indicate what was passing in her life. 
 
 ' It makes me tremble,' she writes, ' to think 
 how perfectly what / wished and what / 
 planned has been given to me. How often 
 are we told that God sees not as we see, and 
 that what we ignorantly wish for, He, in mercy, 
 withholds. But everything that I wished for, 
 everything that I felt to be the highest and 
 the best, is mine : given me in the most sur- 
 prising, the most unlooked-for way. What 
 can I do to deserve such o;racious treatment? 
 How can I possibly live so as not to discredit 
 it? Some plentiful harvest, some great future
 
 122 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part l 
 
 (it seems impossible, nay faithless, to doubt) must 
 be intended when such blessing is given now.' 
 And again — 
 
 'Life is such a beautiful thing. So full 
 of love, of possibilities, of blessing ; God is so 
 good ! — so overflowing with goodness that He 
 cannot help sharing it with the meanest, the 
 weakest, of His creatures. This abounding 
 mercy and goodness surprise the low and 
 empty and thankless heart, and fill it with 
 Itself. It is no longer its own. It cannot 
 remain what it was. It cannot help rising 
 and girding itself for the work given it to do. 
 It is one with God, for God has filled it with 
 Himself. 
 
 ' And not only with Himself, but in pity for 
 the weakness of this thankless heart, He has 
 given it the human help of which it stood so 
 sorely in need, and for which it prayed — that 
 which it asked for, and none other. This is 
 what makes it tremble with excessive joy. This 
 is what seems too marvellous for belief.' 
 
 And again — 
 
 'When I think what was before me — what 
 my life seemed likely to be, when this merciful 
 God vouchsafed to visit me with blessing 
 beyond my conception or hope — how helpless
 
 VII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 123 
 
 for serving Him — how impossible it seemed that 
 any way or means should open, or could be 
 found, whereby such privilege might be mine, 
 and how ! AVith one on whom the eyes of 
 England are turned — to whom the dark places 
 of the earth look with expectation and with 
 hope — whose eloquence and whose power turn 
 the desolate places into gardens, and bring light 
 to those who sit in the shadow of death — and to 
 live with such a man ! To share in such a 
 work I What am I, and what is my father's 
 house that such a thing should have happened 
 to me ? ' 
 
 And once more — 
 
 ' Is it possible that what is begun in wilful- 
 ness and self-love is taken into the Divine 
 Mercy and transmuted into the gold that paves 
 Its Throne, suffered to co-operate with Its 
 eternal purpose and will ? ' 
 
 I imagine that something of a chill fell upon 
 this blissful life somewhat soon. Damerle did 
 not stay long at Clyston St. Fay. He had 
 preaching engagements in different parts of the 
 county which took him away. He wrote in 
 these days very constantly — letters descriptive of
 
 124 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 his aspirations and his work. They were very 
 o-ood letters. I have seen some of them; and 
 Blanche Boteraux read and re-read them till 
 Henri -Frederic Amiel, even, faded from her 
 mind. But I believe that it is an accepted 
 truth that love is not satisfied with letters, and 
 when Damerle returned to London, after a very 
 hurried visit, life at Clyston St. Fay set in cold 
 and bleak. The London season was drawing 
 to a close. The balconies were gorgeous with 
 brilliant flowers, but there was a languor in the 
 air, and a dusty film upon the brightest colours 
 that showed that the end was not far off". 
 
 On a sultry afternoon in this tired season Mr. 
 Damerle turned out of St. James Street into St. 
 James Place and knocked at one of the old- 
 fashioned quiet houses in a remote corner, 
 looking from their back windows upon the Green 
 Park. 
 
 All the way, as he had come down, through 
 the streets and squares to the north of Picca- 
 dilly, he had been conscious of the ceaseless roll 
 of carriaojes — the routine of a London afternoon 
 — every three or four minutes at some door or 
 other the drawing up of a perfectly appointed 
 carriaire, the same number of servants at the 
 door, the servant from the carriage with his
 
 vn BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 125 
 
 cards, the mysterious paper indicating some 
 social nicety, then the closed door, the faultless 
 equipage en route again, and the indispensable 
 ceremony complete. 
 
 All this impressed him, familiar as it was, in 
 the receptivity which was his characteristic and 
 his bane. There was something in this ceaseless 
 flow, this unbroken existence, of a luxury and 
 a system of stately routine that excited his 
 imagination. 
 
 Taken in connection with the one theme 
 which, to do him justice, was constantly present 
 in his mind, it seemed to remind him of a time 
 when the preaching of the Cross convinced the 
 proud and noble of the pagan world — kaisers and 
 praetors and delicate women, who could not put 
 their feet to the ground for delicacy, yet, 
 moved by the power of an indwelling Christ, 
 wore sackcloth and dressed the wounds of lepers. 
 
 He turned into this remote corner and 
 knocked at the door of a dingy -looking red- 
 brick house. It was opened immediately by 
 three servants, 
 
 ' Lady Elizabeth Poer ? ' he said. 
 
 Though the house was quiet -looking and 
 even dingy on the outside, it was evident, as 
 you went in, that it was no common house.
 
 126 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 The square liall which seemed to occupy so 
 much of the front of the house was festooned, on 
 all its walls, with exquisite mouldings of fruit 
 and flowers, and the ceiling was a mass of 
 delicate work. Beyond, the visitor passed 
 through another hall, lighted from above, in 
 which a staircase in bronzed iron and gilt scroll- 
 work led to the upper rooms. All over the 
 walls and ceilings, in faint and delicate colour- 
 insr, these traceries and wreaths followed him 
 everywhere. At the top of the staircase the 
 passage opened into a small landing, lighted 
 from above, the walls of which were hung with 
 pictures, and then a door was thrown open, and 
 Damerle entered a long, low drawing-room, with 
 a wide bay window, overlooking an expanse of 
 greenwood, with a belt of bright-coloured flowers 
 on the balcony in front. He had seen this room 
 before ; but, at the moment he entered it now, 
 something in the form of this window struck 
 him as strangely familiar, and recalled another 
 window, low, and with bay sashes like this, 
 down in remote Devonshire, before which, not 
 so many weeks ago, a girl standing before him, 
 between him and it, he had ofi'ered himself and 
 his life. 
 
 There was no one in the room. On the walls
 
 VII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 127 
 
 and in every corner of it there were dainty- 
 works of art — painting, ivories, statuettes, family 
 sketches, portraits, drawings of ancestral homes, 
 all mellowed and toned down into a oneness of 
 perfect tint and thought, — a dream of perfect rest. 
 Some confusion of mind, as of doubt as to where 
 he was, — in which of these two rooms he was about 
 to play a part — seemed to perplex him, as he turned 
 round suddenly, and a lady entered the room. 
 
 She was about his own age, and, as nearly as 
 possible, his own height. She was not perhaps 
 exactly beautiful, but she had a grace of manner 
 which is greater than all beauty ; yet, as she sat 
 down, after taking his hand, there was, through 
 her grace and urbanity, an expression of reserved 
 power and even aggressiveness which seemed to 
 say, ' Any one who injures or insults me had need 
 beware.' 
 
 ' I have brought you the papers, about which 
 you were kind enough to take an interest. Lady 
 Elizabeth,' he said ; ' the scheme seems to me a 
 good one as far as it goes, but it is a mere drop 
 in the bucket. One is appalled at the hopeless- 
 ness of the task.' 
 
 She took the papers in her hand, but did not 
 look at them ; she seemed to be thinking of 
 what he had said.
 
 128 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 As she did not speak he went on again ; he 
 was always very ready of speech. 
 
 ' I was thinking of it all, Lady Elizabeth,' he 
 said, 'as I came down Park Lane, and saw all 
 the carriages — the luxury of life. What we want 
 is to divert all this wealth and energy and life, 
 and turn it whither it ought to flow. We want 
 some one in society — some man, or some set of 
 men, men of standing, who entertain, who in- 
 fluence social life.' 
 
 ' Why cannot you do it ? ' she said ; ' surely 
 no one has more influence than you.' 
 
 ' I ! Lady Elizabeth, what can I do ? The 
 men I want to influence never come to church ; 
 at least not to my church. If I were to say 
 such things to them, did they come, they would 
 be disgusted and never come again. Even if 
 they were not disgusted, they would pay no 
 heed. They would forget it in a moment. 
 What is wanted is some man of their own order, 
 in their own social life, who will dine with them, 
 talk with them, smoke with them, play billiards, 
 cards, with them — anything to win souls to this 
 work.' 
 
 Somethino^ in this method of lookinof at 
 things seemed to accord with her own in- 
 stinct and taste. She looked at him with
 
 VII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 129 
 
 an inquiring expectant look, as if waiting to 
 hear more. 
 
 The subdued culture, the atmosphere of the 
 room, the delicate scent of ottar from the cabinets, 
 and of the flowers from the window-sills without, 
 the ideas which his own words conveyed, sug- 
 gested to him, it would seem, a sudden startling 
 thought, which he put from him as the sugges- 
 tion of a fiend. He rose from his seat. 
 
 ' It does not do to talk of these things. Lady 
 Elizabeth,' he said. ' I am sorry that I troubled 
 you, but you wished to see the papers.' 
 
 She looked at him with extreme surjDrise, as 
 she too rose from her seat. 
 
 ' You have not troubled me,' she said. 
 
 Nevertheless he left the room, pleading some 
 palpably insuflicient excuse. 
 
 When she had rung the bell and he was gone, 
 she walked up the long low room and stood for 
 a moment looking over the wide park. A soft 
 wind was blowing from the south-west, making 
 the sky and air almost as clear and pure as over 
 the Surrey downs. Beyond the trees, towards 
 the palace and the distant houses, a faint mist 
 of white smoke rose into the air, becoming 
 fainter and fainter as it rose, and fading by ever 
 more delicate tints of whiteness into the blue, 
 
 K
 
 I30 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 till at last, overhead, the sky seemed pure and 
 clear as over the greenwood of a child's dream. 
 It was a beautiful sight, but she did not see it. 
 It was not that which kept her for a moment at 
 the bay sashes looking out. 
 
 It was something that he had said, but much 
 more his sudden rising and going out, that 
 seemed to open to her a future into which she 
 had had no insight hitherto. What this future 
 was we may guess as our fancy prompts us. 
 What is of more importance is that the thought 
 of it, whatever it was, kept her gazing through 
 these old-fashioned window-panes upon the Lon- 
 don park, which she never saw, for some time. 
 
 Damerle preached that night — it was a 
 Friday — in a South London church — a church 
 that stood upon the verge of respectability, and 
 included among its congregation the well-to-do 
 and the poor. It was a fine old church, with 
 several aisles and lines of pillars and lofty roofs. 
 Although it was a week-day night, yet the fame 
 of the great preacher drew a very fair congrega- 
 tion, and the vast church did not look bare or 
 unfilled. All through the service people were 
 coming in, many in working-clothes, and when 
 Damerle went into the pulpit he saw little 
 else than a sea of eager white faces turned to his.
 
 VII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 131 
 
 He preached from two texts, a habit of his ; 
 iu the selection of which he was often very 
 happy. This evening his texts were : ' Lead us 
 not into temptation,' and *The devil entered 
 into Judas Iscariot.' 
 
 ' " Lead us not into temptation." These 
 words spoken — no, I am wrong — not spoken 
 merely, but introduced into that short but 
 all-sufficient rule and method by which He 
 taught His chosen and beloved to approach the 
 Infinite Father — lead us not into temptation ! 
 spoken by Him w^ho needed not that any should 
 teach Him, for He knew all men ; nay, not only 
 all men, but God Himself; it must mean very 
 much, such words as these : " Lead us not into 
 temptation " ; not only suffer us not to fall into 
 temptation, but do not Thyself lead us into it ; 
 the Greek is awfully strong — do not Thou carry 
 us into, urge us into temptation ! Not alone in 
 uno;uarded moments — though all moments are 
 unguarded before the supreme enemy of souls, — 
 but wdiile engaged in God's work, or what we 
 fondly dream is God's work, in hours when every- 
 thing is bright around us; the clearness of 
 thought, the perfection of taste, the luxury of 
 life, the pure smile of good w^omen, inspiring 
 and urging to a higher, to a more devoted walk ;
 
 132 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 when the soul is lulled into a fond conviction 
 that here at least there can be no need of sus- 
 picion, of cause for fear. Then — then more than 
 ever — let us pray, Lead us not into temptation, 
 God 1 For then, suspicionless and void of 
 fear — all nature, men and angels, God Himself 
 smiling upon us — are we ensnared by the devil 
 and taken captive by him at his will ; and there 
 are men who tell us, smiling, that there is no 
 such thing as evil at all ! 
 
 ' And the devil entered into Judas Iscariot, 
 where ? At the paschal supper and table of the 
 Lord ! Oh, lead us ; leave us not in temptation, 
 most merciful God ! ' 
 
 When Damerle came into the vestry, follow- 
 ing the other clergy, he was deathly pale. They 
 offered him a glass of water. 
 
 ' You are tired, Mr. Damerle/ said the Rector 
 of the parish. ' It must take it out of you, 
 preaching these great sermons day after day. 
 We are very much obliged to you, I am sure.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Damerle, ' you are right. It takes 
 it out of me very much indeed.'
 
 VIII 
 
 On a propitious day of summer, if you stand 
 OD some extreme verge of Exmoor, if we may 
 call that Exmoor wliicli extends as far as West 
 Down above Ilfracombe, and see the coast of 
 North Devon, westward by Bull Light, and 
 Morthoe, and Clovelly, and Hartland Point, with 
 the dazzling flashing channel, and Lundy Island, 
 with its long dark outline, to the right, and 
 overhead a royal oriflamme of sky and mystic 
 tracery of cloud pencilling, you will see something 
 which, I hope, for your sake, you will not soon 
 forget. It was perhaps a month, or maybe two 
 • — time passes so fast — after Mr. Damerle had 
 preached that sermon in South London, that he 
 stood by Blanche Boteraux on this very spot. 
 They had driven some dozen miles from Clyston 
 St. Fay to a little inn where the horses were put 
 up, and Damerle and Blanche ascended the moor 
 alone. Afterwards Blanche remembered the day,
 
 134 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 for there were certain words spoken by Damerle, 
 certain indications of tendency, which she recalled 
 in after-days. 
 
 The little inn lay in a lovely valley sur- 
 rounded by woods of oak and larches and fir, 
 and long rows of stately elms, stretching across 
 the meadow^s. There was a church with a 
 massive tower with buttresses, and with oaken 
 roofs, and wooden seats, three centuries old, 
 carved at the ends, with emblems of the Passion, 
 and with initials indicating departed kings and 
 queens, both Anglican and Eomanist. 
 
 They went up a winding lane, where the wild 
 roses and woodbine hung, and the great fronds 
 of hart's-tongue and polypodium stretched across 
 the narrow path. 
 
 From the earliest dawn of spring, when the 
 gorse and the primroses, like sunlight and moon- 
 light, combine to welcome the blue sky above, 
 to the latest day of autumn, these lanes are 
 perhaps the most perfect places upon this earth ; 
 yet Damerle and Blanche walked up them with 
 scarcely a word or thought of their beauty. 
 
 They went up on to the moor. It was a soft 
 clear summer day, The colouring which the 
 spring had brought upon the land was over, and, 
 in its place, a faded green made the most perfect
 
 VIII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 135 
 
 foregroimd and setting for tlie long delicate 
 coast-line of sea and sky, drawn out along the 
 horizon in infinite shadings of tint and tracing 
 up into the summer blue above. A line of 
 marvellously slight and dazzling whiteness 
 marked the sea-foam breaking along the coast, 
 and above this shades of greens and browns 
 of indescribable beauty led the eye up to the 
 shadowed blues and whites of the summer sky 
 and cloud. Beyond the white line the opal tints 
 of blue and gold, as the sea-waves flashed up 
 against the sunlight, spread themselves over the 
 wide channel almost beyond the reach of sight. 
 The shores and coves of the old historic seamen 
 and harbour towns lay silent beneath the sun- 
 light and the summer sky, a vast temple of the 
 God of Hosts, within which the sense shrank, be- 
 wildered at the conception at the same moment 
 of the littleness and the greatness of man, the 
 sole occupant and worshipper in this boundless 
 temple, the story of whose existence and struggle 
 is the sole service and anthem ever heard beneath 
 its dome. 
 
 The two stood for some time in silence, looking 
 at this marvellous sight. Then Blanche said — 
 
 * I suppose it is very beautiful, but I don't 
 care for it. It is always the case with me. I
 
 136 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 have seen the Alps from the Jura ; I have seen 
 the lake from the gardens and terraces of Bellagio, 
 which they say is the most beautiful view in the 
 world, but none of these speak to me. I always 
 want to get at mankind, at human nature, to 
 help the great human needs. God never seems 
 to speak to me in such scenes as these. 
 
 ' Jacobi,' said Damerle, — 'Jacobi, who was a 
 great German thinker, says " Nature conceals 
 God, man reveals Him." Still, I am not a 
 Manichean. I think that Nature has its uses. 
 You yourself, when you are older and have felt 
 more of the storm and stress of life, Avill prob- 
 ably find such a scene as this consoling — 
 invigorating. Work among the poor and needy 
 is veiy wearing ; especially if you are poor your- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Poor ! ' said Blanche with a startled look ; 
 ' I thought that it was to the poor that we were 
 sent, and that "the Lord was poor.'" 
 
 ' Yes, the Lord was poor,' replied Damerle, 
 with some slight touch of irritation in his tone ; 
 ' but the Lord had resources which we have not. 
 To really help the poor, you must be rich. One 
 rich man can do more good than all the sermons 
 in the world, not only by what he may give, 
 but in influencing other rich people ; and to
 
 VIII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 137 
 
 influence rich people, especially in London, you 
 must yourself be rich.' 
 
 ' But you are so much sought after,' she said ; 
 ' people flock so much to your preaching. Surely 
 you will be able to influence the rich.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said ; ' I hope to. I am not without 
 hopes of getting one of the great West End 
 churches near Hyde Park. I have applied for 
 it. The position and influence are very great. 
 The income is large.' 
 
 ' And shall we go there ? ' she said, still more 
 aghast. It was certainly very diff'erent from the 
 home and the life of which she had dreamed — a 
 home in poverty -haunted districts of London, 
 where, blessing, and being sanctified by such 
 blessing, life would become a holy and immortal 
 thing. 
 
 Of poverty, as it might aff"ect herself, she had 
 absolutely no conception. From her birth every- 
 thino; that was desirable, both for culture and 
 necessities, had been hers, as it seemed, as a matter 
 of course. She regarded poverty somewhat as a 
 French princess of the last century, who was 
 devote, might have thought of some quiet and 
 neglige but very elegant morning dress, suitable to 
 wear in retreat. It should be said for her that, 
 had she known more of its stern reality, her
 
 138 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part 1 
 
 decision, I believe, would have been much the 
 same. 
 
 ' AVell,' she said gently, — she was very gentle 
 with him — ' if you wish for it, I hope that you 
 will get it ; but it is not what I thought. What 
 is it that Canon Liddon said about being strangled 
 by a silken thread in luxurious drawing-rooms?' 
 
 He made no answer to this home-thrust, and 
 they went on, hand in hand as it were, through 
 this paradise of God's creation that lay around 
 them on every side. 
 
 Mr. Damerle returned to London, but he did 
 not sfo alone. The Rector and Blanche accom- 
 panied him. They went to a relative of Dr. 
 Boteraux, a great lady in Eaton Square. The 
 London season, indeed, had long been over, and the 
 Boterauxs do not seem to have partaken of such 
 diversions even as remained. Damerle carried 
 them off every morning to the east and north of 
 London, where the Rector was introduced to 
 scenes with which he was not familiar, and in 
 which he was not seen to advantage. Li the life 
 of such a man one such change as that from the 
 common room of St. Nodimus to a little village 
 in North Devon, was as much as could reasonably 
 be expected to be accomplished with any approach 
 to success. The Boterauxs did not stay very
 
 VIII BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 139 
 
 long in London, and there is no reason to suppose 
 that they were introduced to, or even knew of, 
 the existence of Lady Elizabeth Poer. 
 
 But to Blanche Boteraux these few days were 
 a revelation of a clearer vision and insight, and 
 of a widened experience and hope. It was to 
 her young life, as it were, a raising of the painted 
 drop-scene, so that the drama of life might be 
 revealed in all its acts and scenes. It seemed 
 to her that she had never lived before. In the 
 variety of that strange life, hitherto only dimly 
 guessed at, which crossed her path in those few 
 hours, in its terrible pathos, in its humour, in 
 the transient flashes of sunlight that shone across 
 it, she seemed to see the inexhaustible interests 
 and blessing of a work that the coming years 
 were bringing to her ; and by her side — the 
 herald and master spirit of this work — was he to 
 whom she had given herself, to whom she had 
 pledged herself, and who was pledged to her. 
 It does not require much efi'ort of the imagina- 
 tion to realise, at least in some degree, what a 
 prospect of immortal life and action was opening 
 to her heart. I find one passage in her diary, 
 written about this time, which seems to have 
 been amplified from Amiel. Much of it is her 
 own.
 
 I40 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE part i 
 
 ' The best path through life is the high road, 
 which initiates at the right moment into all ex- 
 perience. The high road is where common life 
 most abounds, — most of the suffering, all the 
 interest of life, is there. What is common is at 
 once most safe, most honest, and most wholesome. 
 Cross roads may tempt us by their loveliness, by 
 the stillness and refinement and culture of their 
 retired recesses and walks, but the temptation is 
 towards self and self-seeking, and we are likely 
 to regret the choice. It is only where a common 
 want leads to a common end that the faithful 
 servant of God and of the race is found. '
 
 IX 
 
 Not very long after tlieir return from London 
 George Falaise turned up at Clyston St. Fay at 
 the end of the Long Vacation. He was not much 
 altered. When a boy develops as early as he 
 had done, a term or two at college does not make 
 much difference in him ; but he was older, and 
 he seemed to act under certain restraint, which 
 contrasted unpleasantly with his previous boyish 
 unembarrassment. The Eector was always de- 
 lighted to see him, and prophesied great things 
 relating to his degree. It did not seem at first 
 very clear why he came, for there was no shoot- 
 ing, and he had not been expected so soon ; but 
 Blanche was afraid that she divined the reason, 
 and it soon proved that she was right. 
 
 They were sitting one afternoon upon the 
 garden-seat, outside the drawing-room window, 
 where he had sat on that morning after his first 
 arrival, so long ago, as it seemed, now.
 
 142 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 It was the full blaze of the late summer now. 
 Through the long aftermath, and down the glades 
 and pathways of the wood, a distinct and per- 
 ceptible stillness, that might be felt, pressed itself 
 ujDon the sense. 
 
 It was this moment of supreme stillness and 
 colour and this place, propitious to him in the 
 past, which George Falaise chose in which to say 
 his say. 
 
 ' So, I suppose, you are going to marry this 
 man, Blanche,' he said. 
 
 * If you mean Mr. Damerle,' she said, rather 
 coldly, ' I believe I am.' 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' I will not say any harm of 
 a fellow, but you will make a great mistake if 
 you do. You had much better marry me.' 
 
 ' But I can't, George,' she said, almost laugh- 
 ing ; ' I am engaged to Mr, Damerle.' 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' it's a shame — a cruel shame. 
 You are the only girl I want. I am premier- 
 viscount of England — we might have been earls 
 or anything — and there are lots of money ; I 
 suppose there are any number of girls I could 
 have, but I don't want them. I want you. I 
 may be a fool, but I know a good thing when I 
 see it. I know a good woman when I see her, 
 and I will have her and none other ; and I asked
 
 IX 
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 143 
 
 you first,' lie added, in a deeply injured tone, 
 almost like that of a child who is about to cry. 
 
 ' You make a great mistake when you speak 
 like that,' she said. ' I am not good. It would 
 be a fatal thing for you to marry me.' 
 
 He sat for a minute or two silent, apparently 
 commanding himself, then he got up from his 
 seat. 
 
 ' Well/ he said, standing before her, ' I said I 
 would not say anything against Damerle to you ; 
 that wouldn't be fair. I hope he will make you 
 as good a husband as I should have wished to do.' 
 
 There was something in his manner and in 
 his restraint of expression that struck her. She 
 had a woman's instinct, clear and true enough 
 to tell her that he loved her with a passion which 
 she had not felt in another, and his self-command 
 and reserve inspired her with a cordial respect. 
 She showed it in her look and tone. 
 
 ' Whoever you marry, George,' she said, ' w^ill 
 be a happy girl. You will soon forget me.' 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' I shan't ; ' and he sat down 
 by her side again. ' Do you know how we got 
 our name ? We are called Falaise from the 
 beating of the sea upon a stony beach. The first 
 thing that I remember at all, and the only thing 
 that I remember of my father, was his telling
 
 144 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 me that. I was a very little boy — a baby indeed 
 — and they came to me one day and told me 
 that I must be very good and come and see my 
 father, who was going away for a very long time. 
 And they took me into a great room, where he 
 lay in a bed, and my mother was there. And 
 he lay very still and looked at me for a long 
 time w4th his hand upon my arm ; and he said, 
 " My boy, do you know how you got your name ? 
 You are called Falaise from the beating of the 
 sea upon the stony beach. And do you know 
 what your motto is ? — ' Je fais fort et je falaise ' ; 
 and it means, ' I make myself strong, and I per- 
 sist.' " Of course I did not understand what he 
 said, and I don't suppose that I heard the words, 
 for he spoke very low, but I remember how he 
 looked very well ; and my mother wrote it down, 
 and I have it in a locket — here.' 
 
 She was deeply moved. She looked at him 
 with still kindlier eyes. 
 
 ' Whoever you marry, George,' she said again, 
 ' will be a happy girl.' 
 
 It is easy to say these things, and they mean 
 very little after all. 
 
 George Falaise did not stay long at Clyston 
 St. Fay. He was going back to Oxford at once.
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 145 
 
 Damerle wrote in one of liis weekly letters that 
 he had missed the living near Hyde Park. He 
 had been one of the two finally selected by the 
 trustees, but the other man had been chosen. 
 He wrote somewhat bitterly about it. He had 
 several other livings offered him, but they were 
 not such as he felt inclined to accept. He re- 
 gretted the disappointment the more because it 
 condemned him to a longer delay in consummat- 
 ing his highest hopes. 
 
 So the months drew on — the slow, quiet, 
 wearisome months at Clyston St. Fay. There 
 are long hours and days and weeks in the 
 country in summer and autumn, heavy with the 
 scent of lilies, soft with the flakes of scattered 
 petal and blossom, of rose-leaves, and hydrangea 
 flowers, and strewn jessamine — a fairy carpet 
 that makes the garden -path soft beneath the 
 tread. Life mio'ht seem as delicious at such 
 
 O 
 
 moments as was that wasted in the enchanted 
 castles and gardens of romance, but it does not 
 satisfy the young enthusiastic heart, thirsting for 
 activity in beneficent work. During these long 
 and sultry hours almost the sole incident in 
 Blanche Boteraux's life, the only mental and 
 spiritual sustenance apart from some of her books, 
 was the weekly letter from London. I have said 
 
 L
 
 146 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 that these were good letters. I may say more : 
 I may say that no girl could conceive a method 
 of life, a devotion of aim, higher than these 
 letters revealed. 
 
 The summer and the autumn passed away. 
 Damerle wrote to say that he could not come 
 down to Devonshire for Christmas, but that he 
 would try to come for the New Year. George 
 Falaise would come down for Christmas, and 
 stay till the Lent term began. A very good 
 report of George reached the Rector from his old 
 friends at St. Nod's. When he came down on 
 Christmas Eve, and she saw him in the drawing- 
 room as she came in before dinner, Blanche 
 thought that he was changed — much changed in 
 the last few months. He seemed older, quieter. 
 He never was noisy ; but he seemed within the 
 last few months to have lost his boyish springi- 
 ness, and to have developed an air of lassitude 
 and of extreme distinction, which she was not 
 sure that she liked. She felt what might seem 
 an inconsistent interest and proprietorship in his 
 well-doing and behaviour. As a sister, as a 
 mother even, if he would have had it, there was 
 no perfection of sympathy she would not have 
 given him. 
 
 The room was dimly lighted by a shaded
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 147 
 
 lamp ; candles in branched sockets about the 
 walls would be liohted after dinner. It was 
 necessary to study economy at Clyston St. 
 Fay. 
 
 ' Good evening,' she said, holding out her 
 hand as she came in ; ' I hope you have had a 
 pleasant journey.' 
 
 As she came up softly in the shaded light 
 over the worn old Turkey carpet, she looked to 
 George Falaise like an angel in white llama, with 
 pink camellias in her dress. 
 
 He took her hand, and held it for a second or 
 two, but he did not speak. 
 
 She was perfectly self-possessed, and stood 
 looking at him with a friendly, even affectionate 
 gaze. 
 
 ' You look older than you did in the summer, 
 she said. 
 
 It was a strange contrast from that first 
 meeting in that very room, just over two years 
 ago, when he did all the talking, and she was 
 disdainful and angry at the sight of him. Now 
 he seemed to be tongue-tied and abashed, and 
 she, serene in the possession of so glorious a 
 present and so priceless a future, was able, 
 without effort and without nervousness, to look 
 down upon this brilliant, beautiful, but, she felt
 
 148 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 someliow, unhappy and disappointed boy — no, 
 he was no longer a boy — from a pinnacle of dis- 
 interested pity and interest. 
 
 Still he did not speak. They stood looking 
 into the fire for some moments. 
 
 At last he drew himself up, with the move- 
 ment of a man who had conquered, with no 
 small effort, the inclination to say something 
 else. 
 
 'Yes, I have had a very pleasant journey, for 
 I was thinking all the way that I should see Dr. 
 Boteraux and you again.' 
 
 ' Have you been quite well 1 ' she said, looking 
 at him full in the eyes. 
 
 It is needless to describe the effect that her 
 look, her personality, her friendliness, had upon 
 him ; yet he did not falter nor vary from his 
 set purpose at all. 
 
 ' Well ? ' he said, with something of his old 
 boyish smile ; ' oh yes, quite well, thank you. 
 Why ? ' 
 
 ' You look changed — older, somehow,' she said; 
 and she too this time dropped her eyes, and 
 stood silently looking into the fire. 
 
 At this moment, fortunately, who knows ? the 
 Doctor came into the room. 
 
 ' Ah 1 my dear boy,' he said ; ' delighted to
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 149 
 
 see you. Well, what is it to be ? First in 
 " greats " ? ' 
 
 ' Oil no, sir ; I don't think I shall be in the 
 first at all.' 
 
 The Friday before the first Sunday in the New 
 Year, Damerle came down. He too was altered. 
 He seemed more excited and nervous. He talked 
 incessantly — very brilliantly, no doubt, but too 
 much. The contrast between the two men w^as 
 more marked than ever, now that in age and out- 
 ward appearance they were more equal, and to a 
 disinterested observer the change was altogether 
 in favour of George Falaise. He seemed to con- 
 sider himself merely the guest of the Kector. He 
 addressed himself to him at meals. He left the 
 talking entirely to Damerle. He avoided the 
 society both of him and of Blanche. The Rector 
 was much quieter than formerly. He too seemed 
 aged and tired. 
 
 On the first Sunday in the year, at the morn- 
 ing service, Damerle preached. It was without 
 doubt a great sermon, and it made a considerable 
 impression even on the fastidious congregation 
 of Clyston St. Fay. 
 
 ' The dawn had broke that day over the bare
 
 I50 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 brandies of the apple trees, and the withered oak 
 woods, full of hope and healing, till some faint 
 reflection of its glory had reached even the pallid 
 western sky, and the dun moor, and the western 
 sea — the sea of expectance, and of adventure, 
 and of wealth. But another day had dawned 
 on every one of us — the first day of another 
 movement on life's dial — another of those awful 
 pausings in life's struggle which are given us, 
 in mercy, to warn us as we pass. 
 
 ' In the solemn sunrise of another year every 
 one of us is standing at gaze on the waste for- 
 ward pathways of his life. A year we call it, 
 and prate of days and hours, and scientific divi- 
 sions, and moments of time ; but in truth it is a 
 year, the moments of which are men's passionate 
 and wilful actions, and each chiming of a passing 
 hour, to which perchance we pay no heed, is in 
 truth the proclamation of doom that awaits some 
 one unready or ungracious at life's feast. 
 
 'As I looked upon the dawn this morning 
 there seemed to me angelic stairways and paths 
 traced upon the sky. As we look upon the sea 
 are there not mystic pathways traced there also ? 
 To what bourne ? to what haven ? will these 
 untried, yet beaten, ways lead each of us? 
 What is the doom that will await us in the
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 151 
 
 coming hours ? Is there in any of us the heart 
 of unbelief that trembles at his own future — 
 that sees before him, by the light of that, as 
 yet, not quite extinguished conscience, some 
 possibilities that make him cry, " Is thy servant 
 a dog, that he should do this thing ? that he 
 should do this wickedness and live ? " Oh, if 
 there be any one here j^resent — eh ! if it were 
 the preacher himself, who sees anything before 
 him that looks like this, I beg of him, by the 
 mercies of God, by the love that has followed 
 him from a child, to turn whilst there is yet 
 time.' 
 
 The sermon had an immense effect. Farmer 
 Wray of the Fen Cannons went so far as seri- 
 ously to consider, as he went home, whether his 
 neighbour Lob of Filbeigh was actually meditat- 
 ing passing oflf another broken-winded gelding at 
 Barnstaple Fair. 
 
 They were rather quiet at lunch at the 
 rectory. The Rector was much more silent 
 than formerly, and none of the others seemed 
 to have anything to say. After lunch, the 
 weather being very mild for the season, the 
 three younger people strolled out on to the grassy 
 verge between the deer paddock and the bay- 
 window of the drawing-room, and Damerle
 
 152 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 accepted a cigar tliat George Falaise offered 
 liim. 
 
 Blanche was standing- as though she were 
 looking across the paddock, in the centre of 
 which the deer were feeding, but she did not 
 see them. She was looking into a beatific sky 
 beyond a waste of mystic sea. 
 
 Suddenly Damerle began to speak. He 
 seemed to be the subject of some impelling 
 power, in the guidance of an insight greater 
 than his own, that compelled him to speak in 
 spite of himself, to excuse and to defend where, 
 seemingly, there was no need. 
 
 ' All the time I was preaching this morning,' 
 he said, ' I had a sense of fate, of the unalterable 
 future which none can avoid. There are times 
 when the coils of circumstance are so wound 
 about a man, and his own personality is so in 
 accord with the persuasive drawing of these coils, 
 that his case is hopeless and foredoomed. I fancy 
 that I was preaching to myself, and not to you.' 
 
 George Falaise took his cigar from his mouth. 
 ' Is there not,' he said slowly — he always spoke 
 slowly now — ' is there not a line of Tennyson's — 
 
 ' " Man is man and master of his fate " ? ' 
 ' And there is prayer to God,' said Blanche.
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 153 
 
 ' " There is a little rift within the lute, 
 
 Which by and by will make the music mute," ' 
 
 Damerle said ; ' tlie hope and guard of his 
 existence is taken from him, for the very form 
 and nature of his being is undermined and 
 fractured by a predetermined fate.' 
 
 ' Oh, do not say that ! ' she said ; ' I do not 
 like it. Let us walk a little way.' 
 
 He threw away his half- finished cigar, and 
 placed himself by her side, and they walked up 
 the woodland path that wound round the paddock. 
 George Falaise stood looking at them for a 
 moment as they moved up the path — but only 
 for a moment. Then he turned away and moved 
 towards the seat before the bay-window of the 
 drawing-room — the same seat on which he had 
 sat that first morning when Blanche had come 
 out to him. There he sat down to finish his 
 cigar. 
 
 The winter sun, setting behind the oak woods 
 on the other side of the paddock, cast a kind of 
 false and cold halo over the place where he sat 
 and over the front of the house. He felt deserted 
 and neglected. He hated this man. The cold 
 winter sky, clear and soft and delicate though it 
 was, out of the cloud tissues of which happy men 
 might weave fairy- coloured wreaths, seemed to
 
 154 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 him dun and cliill. The stillness was so profound 
 that the deer, leaving their fodder, strayed up 
 towards the house with wistful, pathetic eyes and 
 questing looks, and quiet pausings now and 
 then, rather lured on than disturbed by his 
 motionless figure. But, in the chill and gloom 
 of desertion and disappointment, in response to 
 somethino; within himself, he seemed to hear an 
 answerino; voice assuring him that the words of 
 the great poet he had quoted were indeed no idle 
 words. Nevertheless, he hated this man. 
 
 For about a quarter of an hour perhaps he 
 had sat there. The rhythm of the breeze through 
 the surrounding woods soothed him as did the 
 narcotic influence of his cigar, when the setting 
 sun, just sinking behind the woods, cast a sudden 
 glow of dying brilliancy over the place, and 
 above, over his head, a golden haze of glory 
 spread itself, beneath the rain-clouds and the 
 deep winter sky. He looked up suddenly, and 
 they were coming back. He rose, threw away 
 the end of his cigar, and went towards them. 
 
 Damerle evidently had been talking well. 
 Whatever he was he was no hypocrite. What- 
 ever he felt, for the moment, he really felt. The 
 climate, physical and mental, of Clyston St. Fay 
 affected him, with an intensity which it would
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 155 
 
 not have exerted upon another man, less easily 
 affected in other ways. George Falaise even, 
 who felt himself, so to speak, a stranger and a 
 pilgrim everywhere else ; to whom this silent 
 village, this home where Blanche lived, was the 
 only spot upon earth, so far as he knew the earth, 
 where he seemed really to breathe — even he did 
 not feel this excited revulsion and contrast of 
 feeling: and of enthusiasm. Damerle had been 
 speaking of high and sacred things and of the 
 work which lay before them, for the girl's face 
 was flushed, and her whole being and nature 
 seemed instinct with a strange happiness and 
 beauty which was not of earth. Never before, 
 at any time, and most surely never afterwards, 
 did George Falaise see her look like that, — the 
 departing flash of sunset around her, the set 
 purpose of devotion, the glory of unselfish love, 
 the beauty which God gave to woman, all around 
 her for a moment as they came up the path. 
 
 The angry, disappointed, perturbed spirit left 
 him at this sight. All self-seeking, all self even, 
 was lost in delight. He felt, in spite of himself, 
 a supreme stillness and calm, a sense of result, 
 of something, long wished for, being gained. It 
 is a great mystery why such things are ; but to 
 him, to whom so much had been given, had been
 
 156 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 added also the priceless gift of unselfish love. 
 To what issue can love tend but to the happiness 
 of the loved ? The perfect vision that awaits 
 love must surely be this. At this happy mo- 
 ment, as it seems to me, many of us might well 
 envy him ; yet at that moment, the one thing 
 in the wide universe that was denied him was 
 the one thing upon which his heart was set. 
 
 As they came up the path the sunset glow 
 faded from the sky above, and what a moment 
 before had been a glory of yellow light was now 
 gray and dark. They went back into the house. 
 
 They were all dispersed soon after this. 
 Damerle went back to London, George to Oxford, 
 Blanche went to visit a clergyman's family whom 
 she knew at Bridgetown. She wanted to see as 
 much as she could of church life in towns, but 
 she had not the heart to stay long away from 
 her father, who seemed to fail and age so much. 
 When she came back to Clyston St. Fay, the 
 place seemed very quiet and dull. Bridgetown 
 is not a gay place, nor would you instinctively 
 look to it as affording a lively scene of action in 
 any sphere of human interest, but it was life and 
 activity itself compared with Clyston St. Fay. 
 As the months went on — the silent uneventful 
 life — broken only by the Sundays, through the
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 157 
 
 lonof slow coiirse of which Blanche lived, as it 
 were, only upon the beating of her heart — 
 Damerle did not write so regularly as before, 
 and at last did not write at all. Blanche made 
 every allowance for him, and wrote herself far 
 oftener than he deserved ; but she could not 
 keep on writing when no answers came, when, 
 morning after morning, the wished-for letter was 
 not there. 
 
 George Falaise wrote frequently, always to 
 Dr. Boteraux. He was not happy about his 
 degree. He had been in the first class in ' Mods.,' 
 but he did not believe that he should be in the 
 first in Uteris Humanorihus. However, when 
 the lists came out, there it was ; quite certainly 
 ' Viscount Falaise.' The Rector was very pleased. 
 ' Je fais fort et je falaise,' he said. 
 
 I have been turning over these old lists all 
 the evening, trying to picture to myself those 
 old days, to revive once again those old efforts 
 and hopes. What realities exist somewhere, or 
 did exist, about every name ! What expectations, 
 what fond desires, how much love ! What does 
 it matter now ? I had almost thought. I should 
 have been wrong. It matters very much. The 
 place of every name has a meaning, and a joy or 
 sting, somewhere, in some heart, even now.
 
 X 
 
 So the summer aud the autumn passed away. 
 It is the custom of the gentry of Devon, of those 
 of them at least who live within possible dis- 
 tance, to visit Minsterley, the Cathedral city, on 
 one or two days of the week. It is a survival of 
 that delightful time when the county town was 
 the resort of the people of the county during 
 the winter, when the stately, red-brick houses, 
 clustered round the Cathedral or the Castle, were 
 the home of culture and refinement during the 
 winter months, in numberless centres of county 
 life throughout the land. In the faint reflex of 
 this custom at Minsterley there was the Club, and 
 there was shopping, and there was the meeting 
 of each other in the street, that made the visit 
 pleasant. Dr. Boteraux was frequently there 
 on a Thursday. He was rarely able to persuade 
 his daughter to accompany him. She disliked 
 the crowded High Street, the gay dresses of the
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 159 
 
 ladies, the shopping, and the pleasant, careless, 
 not very intellectual talk. Even the subdued, 
 restful Minster interior, with its perfect harmony 
 of soft colour, and the sweet singing of its choir — 
 a service unsurpassed, I might say unequalled, 
 in England — did not seem to attract her. The 
 pleasant things of life, even when sanctified, 
 were not to her mind. She had a longing, 
 or thought that she had, for the unattractive 
 and distasteful — a genius for martyrdom, some 
 would have called it, only it was not mar- 
 tyrdom to her. I have thought often with a 
 delighted admiration how completely in the 
 after time she mastered this tendency, when 
 she felt it her duty so to do. 
 
 That Thursday morning at breakfast there 
 was still no letter. The letters came in early at 
 Clyston St. Fay, being dropped at the nearest 
 station, and brought over by a boy before break- 
 fast. The Kector was lookino; at his dauo'hter 
 now and again anxiously over his plate. It was 
 not the first morning that he had done this. 
 
 ' This mullet is really very good, my dear,' he 
 said at last ; ' I wish you would take some. It 
 comes from Plymouth. Binns has some personal 
 friend there who gets it for him. Otherwise, it 
 all goes up to London. It is a singular result
 
 i6o BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE part i 
 
 of civilisation that no fish is procurable at the 
 seaside nowadays. I am told that Birmingham, 
 the very centre of England, is the best supplied 
 place for fish in the country, and that all the 
 fish for the seaside watering-places is sent from 
 Birmingham. They can't get fish at Aberystwith, 
 say, till the train comes in from Birmingham. 
 Think of that ! ' 
 
 Blanche took a little of the mullet mechanic- 
 ally, and her father kept prattling on with a 
 kind of despair in his tone. 
 
 ' I suppose you won't come into Minsterley 
 to-day, my dear,' he said ; ' I think it would do 
 you good.' 
 
 He went to Minsterley alone, and on the sunny 
 afternoon of that day he was strolling down the 
 High Street, looking into the old-book shops, 
 and exchanging a passing word, now with a 
 beautifully-dressed lady, now with a genial but 
 dignified west country squire. Somewhere about 
 the Guildhall he came upon a clergyman whom 
 he only slightly knew, who, somewhat to Dr. 
 Boteraux's surprise, instead of merely bowing 
 and passing on, stopped and shook hands. Then 
 he turned and seemed inclined to walk with the 
 Rector. He made some passing remarks upon 
 the weather and upon the last apple crop, re-
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE i6i 
 
 marked that he had been to London ; but still 
 he did not go away. He was so evidently em- 
 barrassed that the Rector felt bound to help him. 
 
 ' I never can get to London,' he said ; ' not 
 that I want to go,' 
 
 ' Dr. Boteraux,' said the other, making a de- 
 sperate rush at something which he hesitated, 
 and yet wished, to say, — ' Dr. Boteraux, I heard 
 something, when in London, that surprised me 
 very much, and which I can hardly believe, 
 though I heard it from a most trustworthy source. 
 I am not sure whether I ought to tell you or not ; 
 but meeting you so suddenly and unexpectedly — 
 for I am very seldom in Minsterley — something 
 comes into my mind that urges me to tell it to 
 you, although I hesitate very much. It is no 
 secret, I believe, that your daughter is engaged 
 to Paul Damerle, the great preacher. Now I 
 heard more than once in London, and it was 
 there spoken of as certain, that he is going to 
 marry — it was told me very soon — another 
 woman, a lady of rank and fortune. Forgive me 
 if I have done wrong in speaking to you.' 
 
 Dr. Boteraux was a man of nerve, and a 
 gentleman of the old school; he succeeded in 
 suppressing any outward sign of emotion ; but it 
 was by an efibrt that cost him very dear. He 
 
 M
 
 i62 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 was old, and the last few months had broken 
 and aged him very much. Had he received 
 the information anywhere but on the public 
 street, it is probable that he would have broken 
 down. 
 
 ' I thank you very much, sir,' he said slowly, 
 and with very apparent effort, ' for not keeping 
 back this distressing news from me. It distresses 
 me very much, as you may suppose ; but I cannot 
 say that it comes upon me altogether unprepared. 
 I thank you very much.' 
 
 The other looked at him with some anxiety ; 
 but it was so evident that he wished to be left 
 alone that there was nothing to be done but to 
 leave him. 
 
 ' I hope it is not true. Dr. Boteraux,' he said 
 feebly ; ' but I fear that it is. I cannot say,' he 
 added, with a desperate attempt at concluding 
 the interview with some appearance of cheerful- 
 ness, — ' I cannot say that I have so much admira- 
 tion for great preachers as some have ; probably 
 because I am not one myself. Good-bye.' 
 
 'Good-bye, and thank you.' 
 
 Dr. Boteraux turned round the moment that 
 the other had moved off, and slowly made his way 
 through the crowded street, without speaking or 
 seeing any one until he reached the station. He
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 163 
 
 had to wait some time for liis train. He went 
 into the refreshment room and had a glass of 
 brandy and water, then he sat for the remainder 
 of the time in a dark corner of the waiting-room 
 until the train came up. 
 
 ' I am a dead man,' he said to himself over 
 and over again. ' I shall never get over this. 
 Blanche ! Blanche ! ' 
 
 All the way home to the roadside station, 
 some three miles from Clyston St. Fay, he was 
 wondering what he must do : whether he must 
 tell his daughter or not ? Fortunately, there was 
 no one in the carriao;e whom he knew. The 
 train was an earlier one than that mostly used 
 by the gentry of his part of the county. His 
 carriage met him at the station, but before he 
 entered it he had made up his mind that he 
 could not tell her, at any rate not that night. 
 It would be better to wait for confirmation. 
 But he could not conceal from his daughter 
 that he was tired. 
 
 ' It is too much for you going to Minsterley 
 in the day, father,' she said ; ' I am afraid that 
 you will have to give it up.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I shall, my dear.' 
 
 But at dinner he recovered himself a little, 
 and exerted himself gallantly to talk and to
 
 i64 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 entertain his daughter. He told her everything 
 that he could remember of what the ladies had 
 said to him, of the appearance of the shops, of an 
 old book that had attracted him, of the lectures 
 that were announced, of the gossip about the 
 vacant canonry. She was struck with his gentle 
 and benim manner — his more than usual kindli- 
 ness. Her heart was drawn to her father more 
 than it had ever been ; she seemed to see in him 
 somethinof which she had never seen before. It 
 was his habit to retire to his study immediately 
 after dinner, and to come into the drawing-room 
 afterwards for a cup of tea, but he did not 
 leave his daughter that night. He stayed in 
 the drawing-room with her till tea was brought 
 in, talking pleasantly to the end ; then lie ex- 
 cused himself on the plea of fatigue and went 
 to bed. Whether he slept at all that night I 
 cannot say. 
 
 How he passed the next two or three days he 
 probably could hardly have told ; but he had not 
 long to wait. He wrote more than one letter 
 to friends in London, but he tore them up. It 
 seemed like inviting the lightning to strike his 
 home. Whether he acted wisely or not it would 
 be difficult to decide. Probably it did not matter 
 very much what he did. The end was near.
 
 X 
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 165 
 
 One morning, a little less than a week after 
 his visit to Minsterley, the Doctor was up early 
 — he could not sleep much in those days — the 
 sweet summer air lured him into the garden. 
 The fresh summer breeze sweeping over the wide 
 woods and earth and sky cheered and invigorated 
 the old man. He lingered, as if moved by some 
 strange instinct, by some intimation that these 
 peaceful moments were the last he would enjoy. 
 After a time he went back into the house ; there, 
 on the white cloth of the breakfast -table, lay a 
 letter — the long wished-for letter there at last. 
 
 He stood with his back to the window, by 
 which he had entered the room, looking at this 
 letter. ' Should he burn it "? there was yet time.' 
 There w\as a small, comfortable fire upon the 
 hearth, for the rooms were apt to feel chilly in 
 the mornings. For a moment, perhaps, the in- 
 evitable fate might be delayed — the irresistible 
 grappled with, perhaps, who knows ? slain. But 
 the boy knew that he had brought the letter ; the 
 servants had seen it ; and, more than all, he felt 
 that the blow that had been struck must fall 
 some time, however fond love might throw itself 
 fruitlessly in the way. He hesitated, and after 
 some minutes his daughter came into the room. 
 
 Poor old man ! In this commonplace country
 
 i66 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 (lining-room, with the old portraits of his motlier 
 as a young bride, and of his father in a yeo- 
 manry dress, very stiff about the neck, and the 
 worn hearthrug upon which he stood, and the 
 white tablecloth, and the letter, and this striking- 
 looking girl coming in in her simple morning 
 dress, fresh with the freshness of the dawn, there 
 is something, incongruous as it may seem, that 
 recalls to me the old classic stage, and those 
 terrors and sufferings that were borne alike by 
 the father and the child. He saw the speaking 
 light that came into her eyes, he saw the Husli 
 of long-deferred delight upon her face, as she 
 saw the letter upon the white cloth. Poor old 
 man ! 
 
 She took up the letter, opened it and began 
 to read. For a second or two her face kept 
 the look of delight and hope, tlien it suddenly 
 paled, and the whole figure shrank and faded, 
 so to speak, into something strange to the 
 sight, and she turned to her father, as she 
 had never turned before, with a kind of grop- 
 ing, blind helplessness which was beyond all 
 strength of endurance for a man to be com- 
 pelled to see. 
 
 'I — don't understand this — father — what 
 does it mean ? '
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 167 
 
 And she held the letter out for him to read. 
 
 It was a poor letter. The greatest genius 
 upon earth would have found it difficult to 
 write a o-ood letter so as to tell what Damerle 
 had to tell, and Damerle was not, by any 
 means, the greatest genius upon earth. It 
 said that the writer had, after very great dis- 
 tress of mind, arrived at the conclusion that 
 it would be useless and wrong, considering the 
 circumstances in which they were placed, to 
 encourage her, any longer, to unite her fate 
 to his. He had not succeeded in obtaining 
 a living of sufficient amount to enable him, 
 not only to maintain a wife so as he felt him- 
 self bound to do, but also, what was perhaps 
 even more important, to carry on and to pro- 
 mote the work that was so dear to both of 
 them. Under these circumstances he had, most 
 slowly and reluctantly, and after very earnest 
 consideration, decided that it would be for the 
 happiness of both that their engagement should 
 be at an end. Though it w^as an unspeakably 
 painful thing to have to do, it might be as 
 well, the letter said, honestly to confess that 
 he was on the point of forming a matrimonial 
 connection with a Christian lady of rank. 
 
 It may seem to some inconceivable that a
 
 i68 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 man sliould write such words as these ; but 
 it is to be remarked that when you have 
 committed an action of unspeakable meanness 
 there is not much choice of language left to 
 you. It is probably the best way, if there 
 can be a better or a worse in such a case, 
 to state the shameful fact in the baldest way. 
 When the deed is once committed the rest 
 sio^nifies but little. Damerle was clever enousfh 
 to feel this, and he probably consoled himself 
 with the thought that Blanche's affection had 
 been given more to his personality than to his 
 person, and that, when th(5 idol was shattered, 
 she would soon cease to think of the dis- 
 credited shrine. There was a certain tone in 
 his letter, even, which seemed to show that 
 he pitied himself, as the most injured party, 
 in having such a very unpleasant duty put upon 
 him. The power of the human heart in the direc- 
 tion of self-deception is practically unlimited. 
 
 Dr. Boteraux took the letter into his shakinaf 
 hand and made a feint of reading it, but he did 
 not see a word. 
 
 ' I do not understand it, father ; what does it 
 mean ? ' 
 
 He made a little speech which he had conned 
 over continually during the last three days.
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 169 
 
 ' It means, my dear, that you have now no 
 one to love but me.' 
 
 She looked at him again with that terrible 
 look, which was so insupportable to bear — a 
 vague, purposeless, inconsequent look. 
 
 ' I do not understand. What does it mean ? ' 
 
 Then she almost snatched the letter from 
 his hand, with an imjDatient gesture, and with 
 it still in her hand, she went out through the 
 open window, crossed the grass, and sat down 
 upon the seat outside the bay-window of the 
 drawing-room, where others had sat before. 
 The Kector followed her to the corner of the 
 house and stood for a moment and w^atched. 
 She read the letter all through steadily once, 
 then she turned it over and began again — this 
 she did three or four times. It became too 
 terrible to be borne. He went out upon the 
 grass. 
 
 She looked up as he came near and held out 
 the letter. 
 
 ' What does it mean 1 ' she said again. ' I 
 don't understand it. What does it mean ? ' 
 
 And in her look, and in her gesture, there 
 was still that inconsequent, meaningless, almost 
 imbecile gaze. 
 
 He sat down on the seat beside her, and
 
 I70 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 put his arm round her. He spoke as in a 
 kind of dream, so entirely did the words seem 
 to be put into his mouth. 
 
 ' It means, my dear, that there is nothing 
 in the world except Love, It means that 
 everything that is not Love is but the shadow 
 and the neo-ation of what is. Love is all : that 
 is what it means ; ' and he held her fast in 
 his grasp. 
 
 The superb paradox and hyperbole seemed to 
 force itself through her stunned sense. Some 
 kind of light and comprehension came into 
 her dazed and blank eyes. She rested her 
 head upon his shoulder. 
 
 Had he followed his first instinct and burnt 
 this terrible letter, the consequences would have 
 been much the same. There were no prayers 
 that morning at Clyston St. Fay Rectory, there 
 was no breakfast eaten ; but even before that 
 morning that letter had been foreseen ; almost 
 before the Rector had heard the tidinofs in 
 Minsterley, everything that had happejied — 
 that Damerle had married, or was about to 
 marry, a Lady Elizabeth Poer — had been known 
 throughout ilic whole country-side. 
 
 By lunch-time things had, to outward seem- 
 ing, resumed their wonted course. ' Luncheon,
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 171 
 
 sir,' said Mr. Binns, in a perfectly unaltered 
 voice, opening the door of the study where 
 the Rector sat. Hearts must be broken, but 
 the life of the world must go on. The milk- 
 man will still come, early in the morning, and 
 it is as well that he should. 
 
 Two days, each of twenty-four slowly drag- 
 ging sleepless hours, passed away, and it was 
 Sunday, the first Sunday in the month. 
 
 There was always a communion at Clyston 
 St. Fay on the first Sunday in the month. 
 There were not many communicants, as a rule, 
 but there was a solemn hush and stillness in the 
 air, and over the whole parish, at that particular 
 moment, as though something mysterious and 
 beyond the common was taking place. This was 
 especially the case on fine summer Sundays, after 
 the first service was over when, on ordinary days, 
 boys and young men lingered about the church- 
 yard and the village road. On these first Sun- 
 days of the month no one was to be seen. At 
 such times there was a stillness and pause, during 
 which Nature herself seemed to hold her breath, 
 and the yew trees, and the apple orchards, and 
 the rows of stately elms, lay passive and silent in 
 the sunlight glow, and seemed to own and to 
 proclaim a Presence, which was of earth and yet
 
 172 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 divine, to await the tread of the feet of heavenly 
 messeDgers, the rustle of angelic wings, the gift 
 of heavenly food that nourishes all conditions 
 and ranks alike. 
 
 There w^is a larger congregation than was 
 usually the case on this particular Sunday, many 
 people from the neighbouring parishes coming in. 
 
 The Rector preached a well-known sermon. 
 'The Unrelenting Steward, or the Forgiveness 
 of Wrongs.' 
 
 It was a favourite sermon, but not of equal 
 popularity with 'The Ungrateful Son.' It was 
 listened to, to-day, with an unusual relish. A 
 sense of personal interest, of something real and 
 vital, that entered into the life of each and every 
 one, seemed to pervade the church. The well- 
 remembered, sonorous sentence that concluded 
 the sermon was uttered, and the conoTecfation 
 waited for the ascription, that they might rise in 
 their seats, but it did not come. There was a 
 pause, during which the Rector seemed bracing 
 himself to an unusual effort, then he went on 
 again, speaking now without note or book. 
 
 * I have not done. There is sonicthinu' more 
 which I have to say. An event has occurred 
 liere, where so few events occur, which is by this 
 time known to you all.'
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 173 
 
 It would take a very great preacher — I doubt 
 whether there is one now living in England who, 
 in the ordinary course of his calling, could do it 
 — to produce such a hush as followed upon these 
 words. 
 
 The Rector went on, it is possible somewhat 
 incoherently — 
 
 ' A stunning blow, dealt at that part w^here 
 I am most vulnerable, of which you are all 
 thinking, has caused in your hearts, always 
 so kindly affectioned to me and mine, indigna- 
 tion and grief. From the depth of my heart, 
 the heart of a stricken man, I thank you for this 
 last token of your afiection and regard. But I 
 have preached to you now for a lengthened time — 
 long, that is, in relation to the short space given 
 us to work in here — of many high and difficult 
 things. I have enforced, as was my duty, many 
 duties upon you ; woe be to me if, when my turn 
 conies, I do not, at least, recognise my share in 
 the obligation — if I do not, at least, make an 
 effort to practise what I have preached. In 
 this solemn asseveration, therefore, before God 
 and before you all, I purge my conscience of all 
 bitterness and offence against any man, however 
 deeply he may have injured me ; and I go to 
 that Holy Table, and I hope many of us will go
 
 174 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 to-day, in perfect charity and forgiveness, re- 
 membering what black and deep offences God, 
 for Christ's sake, has forgiven me.' 
 
 It was the custom of the Eector on Com- 
 munion morning, after the sermon was over, to 
 move up very slowly towards the Communion 
 Table, that he might give the principal part of 
 the congregation who wished to leave time to 
 do so. He did so now, but he need not have 
 delayed ; no one stirred. 
 
 The English peasant is slow, but there are 
 moments, and those of not such infrequent 
 occurrence as some may be disposed to think, 
 in which he rises to an instinctive sympathy, 
 in which I do not think that he can be beaten 
 by any race or people upon earth. 
 
 Such a moment occurred now. ' And I hope 
 many of us will go to-day,' — these words decided 
 the action of the people of Clyston St. Fay. 
 Mrs. Churchwarden AVike, acting upon some 
 impulse which she never explained, even to 
 her most intimate friends, put her hand upon 
 her children to keep them in their places, 
 and this intimation was instinctively followed 
 throughout the whole church. No one stirred. 
 The children — their young eyes alight with gazing 
 upon mysteries of which they had only heard
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 175 
 
 before — sat still in tlieir places, their hands 
 clasj)ed before them. Many herdsmen and farm- 
 boys, hewers of wood and drawers of water- — 
 the Gibeonites of Nature's tyranny — who never 
 would have thought of approaching that awful 
 table, on this day, struck and overpowered by 
 the pervading feeling, remained at gaze. 
 
 Mr. Churchwarden Wike, very red in the 
 face, and somewhat dim about the eyes, rose 
 in his seat, and, in company with his fellow- 
 warden, proceeded to collect the alms in two 
 large silver basins, marked ' J. Y. (John Yarde), 
 Rector, 1689.' 
 
 It was usually a very simple matter, and 
 occupied a very short time, but to-day it taxed 
 the efforts of the wardens considerably, and a 
 very remarkable collection of coins, to the 
 curious in such matters, was that presented to 
 the Rector at the altar that day. 
 
 The Rector read the prayer for the whole 
 state of Christ's Church Militant here on earth, 
 the exhortation to those minded to come to the 
 Holy Communion of the Body and Blood of our 
 Saviour Christ, the comfortable words addressed 
 to such, and that marvellous prayer, the 
 supremest effort of divine genius, that con- 
 ceives and hopes that the sinful and leprous
 
 176 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 flesh is made clean by the divine food ; and 
 then, after the prayer of consecration and his 
 own communicating, he made a pause. 
 
 Tt may strike many, doubtless, in these days, 
 with astonishment and even disgust, but it is 
 nevertheless a fact, that no one would have 
 dreamt of communicating at Clyston St. Fay 
 before the Hector's daughter had gone up. 
 
 Blanche rose in her seat. Perfectly pale, but 
 without the slightest apparent effort or tremor, 
 she passed up the old chancel, between the 
 foliated scrolls of the memorials of dead rectors 
 upon the walls, and knelt before her father in 
 the angle of the rails. There never has been 
 such a Communion at Clyston St. Fay either 
 before or since. 
 
 Luncheon at the Kectory on Sundays was 
 never a long meal, but on that day it was 
 very short and quiet. The Rector went 
 into his study immediately afterwards. He 
 had hardly dared to speak to his daughter. 
 There was somethinj? in her look that friHitened 
 him. 
 
 He had not been in his study more than a 
 quarter of an hour, looking over his sermon for 
 the afternoon, when a gentle tap sounded on the 
 door, and his daughter came in. She came
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 177 
 
 straight to her father, knelt down before him, 
 and bowed her face upon his knees. 
 
 ' Father/ she said, without sobbing, — ' father, 
 I want to tell you what a wicked girl I have 
 been. It is I who have done it all. I have 
 ruined Mr. Damerle. He is ruined for life, and 
 I have done it — I, and none else. I did not 
 know — oh, I did not know it ! — but I see it now. 
 What I thought was so good in me was the 
 worst that any girl could have been. I despised 
 every one ; I despised George Falaise. I thought 
 no one good enough. Oh, father ! I must say it 
 — I desj)ised you.' 
 
 He stroked her hair with his hand, so kindly 
 and fondly that she began to sob. 
 
 ' Then I saw him. I thought I loved him — 
 I do love him now — but it was myself that I 
 loved first. I loved him because I thouQ-ht that 
 he was like me : because he and I alone were 
 good. I lured him on. He is ruined for life — 
 body and soul — he is ruined for life — he who 
 was so great and good, and it is I who have 
 done it. Father, forgive me ! God can never 
 forgive ! ' 
 
 • He stroked her head fondly and silently for a 
 minute before he spoke. 
 
 ' My dear, my dear,' he said, ' it is a great 
 
 N
 
 1/8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 blow, and it has unnerved you ; you do not 
 know what you say — God can never forgive! 
 and yet }^ou can say, Father, forgive me. You 
 cannot tell — you are too young to know — what 
 has occurred. You judge yourself all too harshly. 
 You say " you lured him on.'"' There is nothing 
 else wanted but this to show that you are un- 
 nerved, and do not know what you say. That 
 you despised George Falaise is a pity, for he is a 
 fine fellow, and will prove himself such before 
 the end. That you despised me — though not 
 dutiful conduct for a dauf^hter — I can better 
 understand. May God forgive me that I have 
 not been a better father and a better man.' 
 
 She v/as sobbing now passionately upon his 
 knees. 
 
 He w^as frightened at her excitement and her 
 distress. 
 
 'My dear, my dear,' he said, 'you are quite 
 unnerved. Command yourself; I have some- 
 thing which I wish particularly to say.' 
 
 It would have been worth a good deal, as 
 some men count worth, to have seen how she 
 collected herself at these words, how she looked 
 up into his face. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, ' 1 do not know what may 
 happen to me. Life is very uncertain. You
 
 X BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 179 
 
 have told me that George Falaise has spoken to 
 you. He will come back. I do not wish to 
 press anything upon you, but I wish to say — life 
 being so uncertain — that it would give me great 
 pleasure to see you united to George Falaise. 
 Now I must ask you to leave me. I am looking 
 over my sermon on " The Misused Talent." I 
 have chosen it because it is very short. 
 
 Blanche went down alone and sat in her seat 
 in the rectory pew. She never forgot that after- 
 noon service. 
 
 The excitement of the morning had been ex- 
 hausting, and there were very few people at 
 church. Afterwards she used to recall it all — 
 the sultry summer atmosphere, the rococo classic 
 tablets on the walls, the sonorous rounded sen- 
 tences of the sermon, ]\Ir. Wike loyally asleep 
 in the churchwarden's pew. How often she 
 remembered it all ! 
 
 She came up alone as was her wont. Mr. 
 Churchwarden Wike accompanied the Eector up 
 some minutes afterwards. He colloquied with 
 Mr. Binns for a minute or two in the porch. 
 
 ' T' Rector seems dazed like,' he said. He 
 suggested that Mr. Binns might 'keep an eye 
 upon him.' Mr. Binns promised that he would. 
 
 When the Pv.ector came in to dinner he seemed
 
 i8o BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 to have rallied a little, and all tlirougli the meal 
 he evidently exerted himself to converse with his 
 daucjhter. He told her one or two old-world 
 stories of people whom he had known in his 
 youth, which she had never heard before. He 
 enjoined Binns to remind him of some poor 
 people he had to visit in the morning. 
 
 He left the room as soon as dinner was over. 
 When the gong sounded for tea he did not 
 appear. After some little while his daughter 
 went into the study. Her father seemed asleep 
 in his chair ; but what struck her with alarm was 
 the sight of a book in white vellum lying, the 
 leaves crumpled up, on the floor at his feet. She 
 knew it to be the Aldine Aristophanes of 1498. 
 However suddenly her father might have fallen 
 asleep he would have cared for the safety of this 
 prized book. She knelt down beside him and 
 took his hand. He was perfectly cold. The 
 Reverend Henry Trethellan Boteraux, Doctor of 
 Divinity and Master of Arts, for twenty-seven 
 years fellow and tutor of St. Nodimus College, 
 Oxford, and Rector of Clyston St. Fay, Devon- 
 shire, was dead.
 
 XI 
 
 There was a funeral at Clyston St. Fay, and 
 another foliated monument in the chancel, and 
 there were executors, and there was a will ; all 
 those terrible things, in short, that uproot the 
 young life and crush the young heart. 
 
 When all this was over, it was said that there 
 would be some two or three thousand pounds for 
 Blanche Boteraux, and this was all. She went 
 on a visit to her kind friends, — the clergyman's 
 family at Bridgetown — not from her own choice, 
 for she would have wished to have gone no- 
 whither, but because there was nowhere else for 
 her to go. If the cynic and the pessimist wish 
 to find any comfort in the contemplation of 
 human existence, which I do not suppose that 
 they do, they might possibly find it in this 
 thought, that in the story of the bereaved and 
 the forsaken, in the saddest hours, such unpre- 
 tentious and unfailing friends are found, of that
 
 i82 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 sort with wliicli the workl i« scattered over here 
 and there, and which is the saving and the salt 
 of it. 
 
 George Falaise was still at Oxford after the 
 lists were out and term was ended. He shrank 
 from leaving Oxford. It was the most perfect 
 shelter, he felt, that he should find anywhere. 
 He was, as he had been all his life, a lonely boy. 
 He was premier-viscount of England, the lord of 
 thousands of acres, which, whether they brought 
 in any rent or not, was of no consequence to 
 him, with coupons and consols and bank stock 
 and every form of safe investment which the 
 most conscientious and wealthy of trustees could 
 contrive, but without father or mother, or 
 brothers or sisters ; practically without a home. 
 He had no immediate relations. His father had 
 been an only child. His mother had had one 
 brother who died unmarried, killed in India. 
 The nearest kin of his own age w^ere distant 
 cousins. He might certainly be said to be lonely, 
 to have been lonely all his short life, and the 
 circumstances of his life had influenced his being 
 very much. He had few of the tastes of other 
 men. He was the greatest j^ccrti of the day. If 
 he went to a dance, the mothers and chaperons 
 were visibly and palpably manoeuvring, with no
 
 XI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 183 
 
 pretence of concealment, to secure an introduc- 
 tion for their daughters and debutantes — exquisite 
 dancers many of these bewitching girls. If he 
 accepted an invitation to a country house, per- 
 haps from a relation, there were girls — girls with 
 innocent beseeching eyes — waylaying him in the 
 early summer mornings before breakfast, when 
 he went out to smoke a cigarette. He had not 
 taken to drink, from some personal idiosyncrasy 
 he disliked the turf ; he shot, but more as a 
 matter of duty than as deriving much pleasure 
 from the pursuit. If there is nothing which you 
 cannot have, you are apt to care for nothing. 
 The peculiarity of his circumstances had made 
 him older than his years would imply, and had 
 produced a lassitude and reserve unusual in so 
 young a man. On one thing he had set his 
 heart, and that thing was denied him. Every- 
 thing beside was at his feet, even the Oxford 
 first-class, but this one denial poisoned all the 
 rest. As I come to know more of him after- 
 wards, from living in his house, I may be able to 
 say more, but this much may suffice now, to 
 explain why he lingered at Oxford. 
 
 He was sitting in his rooms at St. Nod's, 
 which he had not given up, when a late post 
 brought him a letter from Dr. Boteraux ; one of
 
 i84 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE part i 
 
 the last letters the Rector ever wrote. Tlie 
 letter is before me, but I do not choose to print 
 it. It dropped out of George Falaise's hand 
 upon the floor. 
 
 He set his feet strongly upon the fender 
 before him, and bore his back firmly against his 
 chair, his hands thrust down in the pockets by 
 his side. 
 
 ' Damn him,' he said throuo^h his clenched 
 teeth ; ' I hated him from the first. My God ! 
 if I had him by the throat ! ' 
 
 He was of age. He had taken his degree. 
 His guardian was too old to care, and would not 
 interfere. There was only one thing for him to 
 do. 
 
 But he did not count upon sudden death. 
 The next letter he received from Devonshire was 
 edged with deep black, and contained only a 
 funeral card. 
 
 This second blow unnerved him altoirether. 
 He was intensely attached to the Rector, as the 
 Rector had been to him. He had the pluck and 
 the self-possession of his caste, but he was still 
 only a boy. He had done a good deal ; he had 
 twice proposed to Blanche, and had been twice 
 rejected, but he felt that he dared not see her 
 then. He could not have gone to the funeral.
 
 XI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 185 
 
 have been in the house, without seeing her. He 
 did not go to the funeral; he did not even write ; 
 he made one or two attempts and gave it up, 
 
 Bridgetown at best is not a gay place. It is 
 not a place to which, unless there is work given 
 them by the providence of God, the stricken in 
 Life's battle would resort for distraction or relief. 
 
 But it would have made very little difference 
 to Blanche Boteraux had it been the loveliest spot 
 upon earth. If, instead of the dingy vicarage in 
 the commonplace sordid street, she had seen 
 around her everything that art and culture could 
 provide. As she came down, morning after morn- 
 ing, to the frugal breakfast- table, in what might 
 almost be called the House of Charity, a dull 
 sense of disappointment so complete that it 
 crushed the soul, of a future without hope, of the 
 daily drag of everyday existence that lay before 
 her, would have taken the beauty and the culture 
 from any scene of earth, or rendered them flat 
 and unprofitable to the soul's taste. 
 
 It may be said — I know that it has been said — 
 ' Why, even here, in these dull hours and lagging 
 clays, there did not open to her, as to many, 
 stricken as she was, the glorious prospect of 
 devoted work, — -a life of nameless unrecognised 
 self-sacrifice, of forgetfulness of the past, of single-
 
 i86 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part i 
 
 iiess of purpose to press ouward to the hope that 
 is before ? ' 
 
 But it did not. In pLace of this there was 
 depression that can only be described as intense, 
 sleepless nights and aimless days. As the slow 
 hours dragged on, it seemed sometimes to Blanche 
 Boteraux that Time itself had ceased to be, and 
 that already the changeless monotone of a dire 
 eternity had set in. Life and love and all fellow- 
 ship and bond of life were slain in her. 
 
 There are states of being, surely, in which the 
 past cannot be forgotten — its work cannot be 
 undone. The issues of its unheeded hours tend 
 to the outer darkness wdiere there is weeping, 
 comfortless and without end. Blanche's past, at 
 least, could not be forgotten, for it was ever 
 present with her. The Ideal to which she had 
 iriven her whole nature could not be slain. The 
 Idol was not shattered. Something was shat- 
 tered — more things indeed than one, but the Idol 
 remained unscathed. One of the most beautiful 
 of English poetesses has spoken, in lines that will 
 never die, of some whose lot is 
 
 ' — to make idols and to find them clay, 
 And to bewail that worship ; ' 
 
 but, as a matter of prosaic fiict, it is very seldom.
 
 XI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 187 
 
 I fancy, that a real idol is ever found to be clay. 
 Tliere is something surprisingly persistent in the 
 existence of an idol. The one that poor Blanche 
 had elected to worship could not well be shat- 
 tered, for it had never had any real existence in 
 fact. In her excited imagination it was she who 
 was to blame — it was she who was the sinner. 
 
 She had been at Brido-etown for more than a 
 month, her state getting worse and worse, and 
 her friends were at a loss what to do. 
 
 'My dear,' said the good parson to his wife 
 one day, ' it is very difficult to know what to do. 
 Of course she cannot stay here for ever, and it 
 would not be good for her if she could. She 
 wants a complete change of life and scene. What 
 to do I do not know. She has had a terrible 
 shock — a series of shocks, rather — more terrible 
 to her than to others because of her nature and 
 character, and I doubt whether her mind will 
 ever regain its tone. She was always of a 
 peculiar, introspective — I should not like to 
 say wilful — disposition. I pity her from my 
 heart, but I do not know what to do. That 
 man, surely, will have to render a strict account 
 for this.' 
 
 ' Well, she must stay here a little longer,' said 
 his wife. 'Perhaps something will happen.'
 
 i88 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 She was tliiiiking of George Falaise ; but she 
 went on — 
 
 ' Perhaps some of her friends, with whom she 
 travelled on the Continent, would take her al)road 
 
 again. 
 
 We do not know them,' said her husband 
 blankly ; ' still, if nothing else can be done, I will 
 write to that Miss — what was her name — who 
 was her companion at NeufchateL' 
 
 But he did not write ; for only two or 
 three days after this conversation something 
 did happen. 
 
 As I have said, Bridgetown is not a pic- 
 turesque place. It stands on a dead Hat, and 
 has enjoyed just sufficient vitality and business 
 prosperity to destroy every vestige of old-world 
 grace and charm, and to reduce it to a dead level 
 of commonplace ugliness. The vicarage where 
 Blanche was staying was situated in one of the 
 most modern, most prosaic, most squalid and 
 unlovely parts of the town. 
 
 She was sitting alone on the morning of a 
 dull, colourless day in a little bedroom, cheaply 
 furnished, which she did not seem to have cared 
 to adorn with any feminine refinements. There 
 were a few once favourite books, l)ut they did not 
 seem as if they had been read for some time.
 
 XI BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 189 
 
 Over the bliud that screened the window might 
 be seen an extensive view of slate roofs and 
 chimney-pots and back yards, and in tlie extreme 
 distance a range of low, dark woods ; — ^a strange 
 contrast to the scenes in which her life had 
 hitherto been passed. 
 
 She was sitting unoccupied, looking out over 
 the uninviting foreground, which it may be hoped 
 that she did not see, towards these woods ; but 
 her thoughts had probably long ago passed these 
 narrow limits, and were wandering, it surely 
 would be unworthy to inquire where. There 
 was a sudden knock at the door, and the house- 
 maid, a simple Somersetshire girl, came into the 
 room. 
 
 ' Oh, miss,' she said, with an unusual deference 
 and animation, ' there is a most beautiful young 
 gentleman in the drawing-room waiting to see 
 you. He says his name is Lord Falaise.' 
 
 Blanche rose from her chair, and a strange 
 kind of tremor passed over her frame as she stood 
 looking at the girl, her hands clasped tight before 
 her. One would have thought — and the girl did 
 think with wonder — that somethino^ terrible, 
 something that this strange young lady, of whom 
 she was almost afraid, dreaded above all things, 
 had occurred.
 
 I90 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE tart i 
 
 When she entered the drawing-room, or the 
 simply-furnished, dull room that went hy that 
 name, — for she went downstairs after a moment's 
 hesitation, — there certainly might seem to some 
 persons an excuse for the girl's enthusiasm, foolish 
 as her words might be. It was not every day in 
 Bridgetown that you met a George Falaise. He had 
 matured perceptibly since she had seen him last, 
 and never can have looked better than he did at 
 that time. He wore the light morning costume 
 for the country of the decade,— jacket, waistcoat, 
 leggings, and the rest, of different shaded tints, 
 blended with quiet art. Blanche came into the 
 room a little way, and then stopped. Neither 
 spoke for some time. 
 
 She seemed to him, as she stood in her black 
 dress, and her paleness and her sorrow and her 
 distraction, more desperately beautiful than ever. 
 His whole being went out to her with an inde- 
 scribable tenderness and longing of love. He 
 spoke first. 
 
 ' I am come back,' he said ; ' I shall always 
 come back.' 
 
 She looked at him pityingly, with kindness, 
 like the creature of another world, as a dead 
 saint might be supposed to look, but she did not 
 speak.
 
 XI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 191 
 
 'You are free, he said. 'There is nothiug 
 now to stand between you and me.' 
 
 Nothing ! Oh, George Falaise ! gallant, fool- 
 ish, ignorant boy ! 
 
 ' Nothing: ! ' she said : and he almost started 
 at her voice ; it sounded so hollow and strange to 
 him. ' Nothing between you and me ! ' 
 
 She stopped and stood gazing at him, as if 
 wondering at such blindness ; and unconsciously, 
 by her very action and pose, and by the look of 
 her eyes fixed upon him, fascinating him more 
 and more every second. 
 
 She herself almost forgot his presence ; she 
 was speaking not so much to him as to some 
 vague questioner and phantom whom his words 
 had called up before her. 
 
 ' Do you not know,' she went on at last, with 
 something almost like passion in her voice,—' do 
 you not know that I love him better if possible 
 than ever? That if he sent for me now — my 
 God 1 I cannot be certain ! — that I should not go 
 to him, wherever he might be ! Cannot you see 
 that if I were to marry you I should bring you 
 nothing but sorrow, perhaps disgrace ? Nothing 
 between you and me ! ' 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' nothing ; ' and some divine 
 feeling within him endowed him with a passion
 
 192 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE parti 
 
 of speech beyond himself. ' You are mine now, 
 for sorrow, and, if it must be, for disgrace. You 
 are mine now. Nothing can separate us again. 
 You may send me away to-day, l)ut I shall come 
 back. You may forbid me the house, and I shall 
 not try to see you. I may never marry you, but 
 I shall be near you always. You may treat me 
 as you will, but I shall never forsake you. There 
 must be a thousand ways, which I shall find out, 
 by which I can support and nourish and protect 
 you, and which you will not be able to prevent. 
 I shall never give you up. " Je fais fort et je 
 falaise." ' 
 
 She looked at him with the kindly, the pitiful, 
 I might almost say the loving eyes. I was wrong 
 to say that love was slain. Love was stunned, 
 beaten down into a state of trance or stupor, but 
 it was not slain. She, herself, had loved so well 
 that she knew where love was. When she saw 
 it in his eyes, in his gesture, in the self-devotion 
 of his speech, the sight of it was too much for 
 her to bear. No ! love was not dead, but it was 
 not love for hira. 
 
 ' Oh, George, George,' she said, ' I am not 
 worth it ; I am not worthy to be so loved. I 
 have ruined one man, why should I ruin you ? 
 Oh, George, let me go, let me go, let me go ! '
 
 XI BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 193 
 
 Love aiding him with a siiddeu flash of some- 
 thing very like genius, he took these last words 
 for a surrender. 
 
 He crossed the room to the couch on which 
 she had sank down ; he sat down and clasped 
 her in his arms. 
 
 Stunned as she was by blow upon blow, ex- 
 hausted by sleepless nights, — face to face, day 
 and night, with a restless sufiering that knew no 
 respite, with an aching sense of misery that never 
 for a moment ceased, — she sank upon his breast. 
 
 o
 
 PAET II
 
 When I first knew Lord and Lady Falaise, they 
 had been married about twelve years. There 
 was a very quiet wedding at Bridgetown ; the 
 bride was married in her travelling dress. What 
 sort of thrill convulsed London society when the 
 news became public I do not know, but Lord 
 Falaise never forgot the friends from whose 
 house he had married his wife. He took his 
 bride to Hawkridge St. Mary, the Duke's house, 
 where they stayed for a fortnight. The Duke, 
 who was very old and feeble, was exceedingly 
 taken with Blanche. ' Falaise,' he said from his 
 armchair, as they were about leaving the draw- 
 ing-room on the first night of their arrival, his 
 valet standing by his side to take him away as 
 soon as they had left the room, — 'Falaise, you 
 have got a wife of whom any man might be 
 proud ; ' and indeed she looked very well in her 
 low dress of dull black silk.
 
 198 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 There was something about the old man, his 
 courtesy and his old-world talk, that touched her 
 very closely, that reminded her of her father, and 
 associated itself with a thought that made life 
 bitter, with her passionate regret that she had 
 not valued that father as she might have done. 
 
 Hawkridge St. Mary was a beautiful little 
 estate which the Duke had purchased for him- 
 self, the ducal mansions being Palladian in their 
 architecture, and very painful in their domestic 
 arrangements. It has woods and a deer-park 
 and an old timbered mansion, with cosy panelled 
 rooms, and oak staircases and galleries. Some 
 months afterwards, when the Duke died, it was 
 found that he had left this property to Blanche, 
 
 ' It's Falaise's wife, I mean,' he said to his 
 solicitor from his couch ; and whether he knew 
 at the moment which Falaise it was — his godson 
 or his old friend — the lawyer did not think it 
 necessary to inquire. 
 
 They did not keep the place. The new Duke 
 was bitterly disappointed at losing this gem of 
 a house, and it seemed hardly fair to let the 
 passing fancy of a very old man, however 
 kindly, deprive his successor of it. An arrange- 
 ment was made by which it was exchanged for a 
 villa on the Eiviera — a property of inferior value.
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 199 
 
 but which might prove to be useful, though in 
 fact it never did. 
 
 But a still more astonishing event occurred 
 about a year after the marriage, for the final 
 judgment in the protracted suit was given in 
 favour of the heirs of the Kev. Dr. Boteraux. 
 There were considerable estates, but the person- 
 ality was sworn under one hundred and fifty 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 After the visit to Hawkrido;e the Falaises went 
 abroad, where they remained for more than two 
 years, and where both their boys were born. I 
 have talked, at Trefennick, with an old servant — 
 maid, nurse, and housekeeper — and she has told 
 me that her lady was always much better abroad, 
 'When the boys were very little, mere babies,' 
 she said, ' Lady Falaise seemed to take great 
 pleasure and delight in them, as another woman 
 would ; but as they grew bigger, and when the 
 family returned to England, she seemed to lose 
 this interest. " They were Lord Falaise's boys," 
 she used to say. It was always " Lord Falaise." 
 "Lord Falaise likes this, or wishes that."' This 
 woman has told me that she has known her 
 lady to watch her husband during the whole 
 day, to find out what he really wished about 
 any particular scheme or plan. This was pre-
 
 200 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 cisely how she struck me when I first knew 
 her. 
 
 ' The boys are Lord Falaise's boys/ she said, 
 very early in our acquaintance. ' They resemble 
 him in everything — disposition, feature, character. 
 They will grow up to be great and noble, as he is.' 
 
 I had not come to the house many times, 
 reading French with the boys, and teaching 
 them the violin, for which neither possessed any 
 remarkable talent, when Lady Falaise showed an 
 unmistakable liking for me, and for having me 
 with her. The servants said that they had never 
 seen her so well or so interested before. Since 
 the children were babies she had never shown so 
 much interest in them as she did now, in their 
 French, and in their very crude attempts on the 
 violiu. 
 
 If I am asked to account for this singular 
 partiality for a stranger, I can only say that I 
 think it was principally owing to my foreign 
 extraction and training. Blanche Falaise had 
 been much attracted to foreign society of a 
 certain kind, and to foreign thought, in her 
 girlhood, and I think that something about me 
 recalled to her the freshness and interest of those 
 early bright days, before the fatal blow had 
 fallen which had marred her life.
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 201 
 
 One clay Lord Falaise spoke to me. He said 
 that lie could not be grateful enough, for the 
 pleasure I had brought into his wife's life, and for 
 the comparative interest in outward affairs which 
 my coming had seemed to excite in her. He 
 begged that I would come and stay in the house 
 permanently. 'You would come,' he said, 'in 
 every respect on the standing of a most valued 
 guest.' It goes without saying that I agreed to 
 this proposal, and from that day to the death of 
 Lady Falaise, I scarcely slept a night apart from 
 the family. 
 
 It will be easily understood that I took a lively 
 interest in my kind patrons, and in all that 
 concerned them. We lived principally at Tre- 
 fennick. It was a matter of perfect indifference 
 to herself where Lady Falaise lived in England. 
 Society was a burden to her, though she rose 
 to the necessities of such entertainment with 
 an unsurpassable grace. Lord Falaise was very 
 fond of the estate. He was a popular but auto- 
 cratic landlord. He spent exceptional sums 
 on repairs, and on labourers' cottages with 
 allotment gardens, on drainage and improve- 
 ments ; and he was most forbearing to a favourite 
 tenant, forgiving almost anything to keep him, as 
 he would say, on the land ; but he must be a
 
 202 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 tenant after his own mind. He would never cut 
 down a tree, nor demolish an old building if he 
 could help it. He would interest himself ex- 
 ceedingly in procuring old tiles for the repair of 
 the roofs of ancient mills and cattle-sheds. He 
 resisted a local authority, of some kind, for 
 years, over an improvement on the King's high- 
 way, because the proposed alteration would spoil 
 a picturesque turn of the road, and he was in 
 constant hot water with other authorities, over 
 cutting the overhanging boughs of trees in his 
 lanes. He did not seem to care for many things 
 that I should have expected him to care for. 
 Racing he took no pleasure in. I always thought 
 that he shot more as a matter of duty than of 
 pleasure ; I have been told that he was a very 
 good shot. He did not care for the Riviera. 
 ' Too many people there,' he said ; ' princes and 
 millionaires and people of that sort.' I have 
 heard him called a prig. It pained me very 
 much at first, until I remembered that I have 
 heard Sir Charles Grandison called a prig, and 
 by very nice people too. 
 
 Sometime in the summer, after I became a 
 member of the family, the house was very full 
 of company. There was among the party a 
 doctor, a married man of between thirty and
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 203 
 
 forty, who took a great fancy to me. I believe lie 
 complimented me with believing that I was able 
 to appreciate his talk. He was a great talker. 
 I have always divided men into two classes : 
 those who talk in the evening — and these are 
 by far the most numerous — and those brilliant 
 few, whom I have always admired, who talk at 
 
 breakfast. Dr. (I have forgotten his name) 
 
 talked incessantly. He always contrived to sit 
 by me at breakfast ; but, not content with this, 
 he would insist on my taking a turn with him in 
 the long yew walk after breakfast, talking the 
 whole time. 
 
 ' What a perfectly delightful creature Lady 
 Falaise is ! ' he said ; ' I suppose you have been 
 her friend from childhood. She is evidently 
 raffoler on you.' 
 
 I endeavoured to interpose some explanation, 
 but without success. ' Ah yes, yes ! ' he went 
 on ; ' you know her story, of course. I should 
 be very anxious about her if I were her husband. 
 Through all that winsome grace of manner, that 
 devotion to the meanest guest, I can recognise a 
 disordered mind ; I can detect a lurking despair. 
 The strain cannot endure for ever, the cord 
 must snap sometime, and then ? Lord Falaise 
 now, what an absolute contrast ! I do not know
 
 204 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 how it has struck you, Miss Wand (he certainly 
 never gave himself any time to learn), but I always 
 regard him as the perfect example of a noble, the 
 most complete egoist it is possible to conceive.' 
 
 ' Egoist ! ' I said, indignantly. 
 
 ' Ah yes, yes ! ' he said, waving me off ; * I 
 understand your objection, but I use the word in 
 its strictly scientific sense. I look upon the true 
 egoist as the perfect man. The most perfect 
 egoist is God.' 
 
 'That seems to me a strange, not to say a 
 doubtful expression,' I managed to interpolate. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is because you scarcely realise 
 what an egoist really is — a nian absorbed in the 
 one conception, as to what it becomes him — 
 himself — to do and to be. I feel morally cer- 
 tain that in Lord Falaise's secret heart he is pro- 
 foundly convinced that the whole tendency of 
 intelligent being, the entire effort of creative 
 action from, at least, the commencement of the 
 palaeozoic period, has concentrated itself as its 
 supreme result somewhere about George 27th 
 Viscount Falaise.' 
 
 He paused a moment for breath, and I own I 
 could not suppress a faint smile. Thus encour- 
 aged he went on — 
 
 ' But where is the harm — nay, rather, is there
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 205 
 
 not an infinite good ? This superb egoism, so far 
 from being prejudicial to himself or to others, is 
 for both an unspeakable gain, a priceless pos- 
 session. To himself it gives what to other men 
 would seem an unattainable ideal — nothing can 
 be unattainable to George 27th Viscount Falaise. 
 As to others, you are perhaps best able to judge 
 how this nature, sweetened by prosperity, cul- 
 tivated and taught to act by this egoistic ideal, 
 benefits those around him.' 
 
 ' I should hesitate to say " sweetened by 
 prosperity," ' I broke in ; ' the one desire of his 
 heart is denied him.' 
 
 ' That is true,' he said, — ' that is quite true ; 
 but I alluded to mundane prosperity, which is 
 a wonderful lenitive to some natures. Some 
 people may be deceived by his simple, un- 
 afiected, modest manner — I do not mean you or 
 I, Miss Wand,' he said with a smile ; ' but if any 
 coarser nature doubts what I say, I should 
 recommend him, by way of testing the truth of 
 it, to take a liberty with Lord Falaise. Only I 
 should wish to be warned beforehand. I do not 
 like the disagreeable, and absent myself from it 
 where and when I can.' 
 
 When there was no company in the house, 
 we — Lady Falaise and I — used to sit mostly in
 
 2o6 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 her boudoir — a lovely room wliicli she had made 
 her own, or rather which Lord Falaise had 
 arranged for her in an angle of the south front. 
 It commanded views in two directions — into the 
 wooded dingles of the park, and over the distant 
 reaches of the plain. 
 
 It may be supposed that we avoided all 
 mention of Mr. Damerle, but the exact opposite 
 of this was the fact. On one of the first 
 occasions on which we sat together, in this room, 
 Lady Falaise began upon the subject herself — 
 
 ' You have heard all about my miserable 
 story, Miss Wand,' she said ; she had wanted 
 me to call her ' Blanche,' and she would call me 
 Claire, and because I declined, she insisted for 
 some time on calling me Miss AVand, — ' of 
 course you have heard all about it. I want you 
 to understand that it was all my fault. I 
 wish you to understand that it was I who 
 was utterly and entirely to blame. I was eaten 
 up with spiritual pride. I thought myself very 
 good, and, still more, very clever too. No one 
 was good or clever enough for me. When I saw 
 Mr. Damerle first, I endowed him with all the 
 virtues and gifts which I believed that I myself 
 possessed. I was pleased and flattered by his 
 attention. I thought that he alone was worthy
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 207 
 
 of me, and that he recognised at a glance that I 
 alone was worthy of him. My pleasure, and my 
 admiration of him, lured him on. It was my 
 fault.' 
 
 I could not help looking at her with a kind 
 of anger, yet with wondering pity. It seemed a 
 strange perversion of fact and of blame. 
 
 ' It is difficult for me to look at it in that 
 light,' I said ; ' at any rate, whatever fault there 
 may have been on your side, the proportion 
 of suffering has been very unjustly meted 
 out. Mr. Damerle appears to have suffered 
 nothing. He has married a rich and titled lady. 
 He has been living, all these years, a life of 
 public praise and honour, and he is supposed to 
 be working most successfully in the Highest 
 Cause a man can work in. He appears to me to 
 have suffered nothing, and to endure no punish- 
 ment at all.' 
 
 I spoke bitterly, as, I hope, it is natural that 
 one woman should speak of a wrong done to 
 another. 
 
 The expression of Lady Falaise's face seemed 
 to me very beautiful as she spoke again ■ — so 
 beautiful, indeed, that I looked at her with 
 surprise. 
 
 ' If I thought that,' she said ; ' it would make
 
 2o8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 all the difference in my life. If I tliought that 
 his conscience was at j)eace, and that he was 
 happy, I might be a happy mother and wife ; 
 but I do not believe it — for a sinole second I 
 could not believe it. No, not even in a 
 dream.' 
 
 I did not say anything, but waited for her to 
 go on. But she did not say anything for some 
 time. She sat looking straight before her, as 
 though some distinct vision had passed before 
 her eyes, then she said — 
 
 ' No ; it cannot be that. He was too great, 
 too noble, for that. There are some deeds that 
 such a man as he is can never overlive. He is 
 ruined, body and soul ; and it is through me.' 
 
 I began to understand what she meant. 
 
 ' I see,' I said ; ' the captive exile hasteneth 
 that he should not die in the pit.' 
 
 ' But how can he escape ? ' she said passion- 
 ately ; ' how can he breathe freely even, while I 
 am alive ? ' 
 
 'Your death would make no difference,' I 
 said ; ' the deed would have been done all the 
 same.' 
 
 ' Do you ever hear of him ? ' I said, after a 
 pause, as she did not S23eak again. 
 
 ' No,' she said ; ' I never go to London, and
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 209 
 
 I never see the papers — not even the Church 
 papers ; Lord Falaise never mentions his name. 
 I pray day and night,' she went on with a 
 passionate eagerness, 'that Lord Falaise may 
 not hate him ; but I fear that he does.' 
 
 There was another pause, after which she 
 said — 
 
 'He married a Lady Elizabeth Poer, the 
 daughter of a Scottish earl ; she was said to 
 have a large fortune ; but these things are often 
 exaggerated, and a great deal of money does not 
 go far in London.' 
 
 It was only a few days after this talk that 
 I went one morning, after my lesson on the 
 violin, into the morning room or ' saloon,' 
 as it was called at Trefennick, to look at 
 the local daily papers. The London papers 
 did not reach Trefennick till the next morning 
 by post ; but the Western Morning News and 
 some other local papers arrived during the 
 morning, brought by a boy and his pony from 
 the nearest station, and they always lay in the 
 morning room. Opening one of these papers, 
 the first paragraph that caught my eye was 
 the announcement that the Eev. Paul Damerle, 
 Eector of some church in London near the 
 Regent's Park, would preach on a week-day 
 
 P
 
 2IO BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE ■ part ii 
 
 afternoon at the Cathedral at Minsterley on the 
 occasion of the annual festival of some hospital. 
 
 I looked no further into the paper. My 
 thoughts were all absorbed by this single 
 paragraj)h. What should I do ? Should I let 
 things take their course ? Sliould I wait till 
 Lord Falaise, in the natural course of things, saw 
 the paragraph, and let him tell his wife or 
 not as he chose? But Lady Falaise had been 
 so good to me, she had so trusted me, she had 
 confided her inmost mind so fully to me, that it 
 seemed disloyal and base to keep anything that 
 touched her so nearly — anything that I had 
 chanced to become acquainted with — from her for 
 a moment. I took the paper in my hand and 
 went upstairs. 
 
 *Lady Falaise,' I said, 'there is something 
 here that will interest you. I have only just 
 opened the paper.' 
 
 She was sitting in that lovely room, which 
 her husband had arranged for her, with a pale 
 yellow embossed paper that threw up the 
 ebony and ivory cabinets ; above which, on 
 the upper part of the walls, festoons of 
 Indian silk lined the room, and framed win- 
 dows which were in themselves pictures of 
 exquisite beauty.
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 211 
 
 Distinct lines and shades of woodland, losing 
 themselves in dark masses of more distant wood, 
 and beyond this, in faultless gradation, tints, 
 changed and softened into delicate blues, and, 
 still refining and more refined, into a line of 
 stainless white that marked the infinite horizon, 
 and then returning in answering gradations of 
 delicate blues, becoming more and more intense 
 overhead, till in the sky above, instead of the 
 waving greenwood, the pure deep summer azure 
 defied the puny sight to fathom its depths. All 
 this I saw mechanically during the moment 
 that Lady Falaise glanced at the paper and gave 
 it back to me. 
 
 ' Claire,' she said, ' I should like to hear him 
 again, — I fear that it will annoy Lord Falaise that 
 he should be so near — but I should like to hear 
 him again. I never knew him but when he was 
 good. To me, whenever I saw him, until that 
 terrible letter which was not himself, he was 
 nothing but what was noble and good. I 
 should like to hear him again.' 
 
 ' It will bring up the old miserable story 
 again,' I said, 'if you are seen there.' 
 
 ' I should like to hear him again,' she said ; ' I 
 will speak to Lord Falaise.' 
 
 What persuasive argument she used I do not
 
 212 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 know. It was so seldom that she wished for 
 anything — so seldom that anything that could be 
 thought of as self-pleasing could be associated 
 with her — that I fancy that her husband's delight 
 at finding anything that she really wished for 
 overbore every other thought. It was nothing 
 to him what other people would say or think. 
 In a day or two Lady Falaise told me that we 
 were to go to Minsterley, to a cousin of her 
 husband's, a Lady Hele, an elderly lady who 
 lived in Minsterley, in the Close. I was to 
 accompany them of course, she said ; Lady Hele 
 particularly wished to see Blanche's friend. 
 
 We travelled to Minsterley on the morning of 
 the day on which the sermon was to be preached 
 at the Minster, and arrived at Lady Hele's in 
 time for luncheon. She lived in a beautiful old 
 house, which possessed a delightful drawing-room, 
 one window of which looked upon the trees in 
 the Bishop's garden, and the other upon the great 
 east window and the Minster towers. Lady 
 Hele struck me at once as possessing a peculiarity 
 I have constantly noticed in women of rank 
 belonsfinof to the Devon and Cornish families, — a 
 peculiarity which I attribute, in great measure, to 
 their climate — a peculiar softness and sweetness, 
 combined with a freshness and piquancy, singu-
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 213 
 
 larly reminding one of the breezes of their own 
 moors and combes. 
 
 * I hope you will not mind/ I heard her say 
 to Lord Falaise ; ' but I have asked a few people 
 to dinner. We so seldom see you and Blanche, 
 that I could not resist such a temptation.' 
 
 By three o'clock we were assembled in the 
 Minster, the nave of which was crowded from 
 end to end. There was a shortened evening 
 service, and then the preacher entered the pulpit. 
 I was very well placed for seeing him, and was, 
 I confess, very much struck by his appearance, 
 which was more attractive than I had expected. 
 His expression was more refined and less harsh 
 and set than I had anticipated. 
 
 I have already attempted to describe more 
 than one of Mr. Damerle's sermons, which I did 
 not myself hear, but I shall not attempt to 
 describe this one. I will only say that it thrilled 
 and impressed the crowded audience through and 
 through. I doubt if there was a single person 
 in the Minster who was altogether untouched 
 by it. It was not only that the fervour and 
 eloquence were remarkable ; there ran through 
 these impassioned sentences a strange graphic 
 reality that was startling and even painful. One 
 felt from moment to moment as though the
 
 214 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ir 
 
 preacher was about to reveal some shameful 
 confession, either on his own behalf or on that of 
 others. A strained expectation, almost dread, 
 followed him through these rapid and fervid 
 passages, as one follows, or rather is swept along 
 in the rush and tumult of some great sonata. 
 He wound up with a withering denunciation of 
 the conventional charities and the paltry self- 
 denials of ordinary life. 
 
 We were coming out of the Minster in the 
 dense throng. Blanche Falaise was a little in 
 advance with Lady Hele, and was separated from 
 us by the crowd. I was close to Lord Falaise 
 when I was aware of a tall, distinguished-looking 
 young man, with clear, well-cut features, but a 
 hard unpleasant expression of face, who was 
 pressed close to us by the throng. 
 
 ' Ah, Falaise ! ' he said, with an indolent, 
 supercilious drawl, ' you go with the multitude ! 
 Not much in our line, is it ? ' 
 
 ' Speak for yourself,' said Lord Falaise. ' I 
 thought it was very striking.' 
 
 'Oh, striking enough!' said the other. 'I 
 wonder,' he went on, after a moment's pause, and 
 perceptibly sinking his voice, — 'I wonder how 
 much of that spiritual fervour, that thrilling tone, 
 that descriptive power, is due to port wine V
 
 I BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 215 
 
 Lord Falaise looked at him with a sudden 
 interest. 
 
 ' Oh ! that's it, is it ?' he said. 
 
 ' Oh ! and worse/ said the other. ' Debts and 
 the devil to pay ; I should not be surprised to 
 hear of anything. Sorry for Lady Elizabeth — 
 knew her when I was a boy.' 
 
 The crowd seemed to fade from my eyes as I 
 looked eagerly before me to see if it were possible 
 for Lady Falaise to have heard, but she was 
 almost hidden from sight some feet in advance 
 of us, and I do the young man simple justice 
 when I say that he spoke very low. 
 
 ' Well, ta-ta,' he said. ' Thanks, no. Won't 
 speak to Lady Falaise to-day. She would not 
 be in the humour to listen to me,' and he edged 
 his way apart from us through the crowd. 
 
 ' Can it possibly be true ? ' I said. 
 
 'I should not wonder. That is Lord 
 Cheddersley, the Earl of Cheddersley — racing, 
 gambling, money-lenders at his finger ends. He 
 would be a likely man to know.' 
 
 Oh ! dear, dear Lady Falaise !
 
 II 
 
 When we joined Lady Hele and Blanche outside 
 the western door, we certainly found that Lady 
 Falaise was not in the humour to have listened 
 to Lord Cheddersley's society talk. I had never 
 before seen her look so radiant and full of life. 
 It revealed to me something of how she must 
 have looked in the old days. There was not 
 much said. Some of us had something else now 
 to think of, and for the rest, it seemed as if the 
 sermon had so impressed itself upon all hearts 
 that we could speak of nothing else, and not 
 much even of that. We returned to Lady Hele's, 
 where we found afternoon tea, and two or three 
 other ladies followed us in. 
 
 One of these, evidently a gossipy sort of 
 person, began speaking immediately to Lady 
 Hele. 
 
 ' They are staying with Lady Doone,' she 
 said. ' It was she really who brought him down.
 
 11 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 217 
 
 I'm told there was great opposition to it on the 
 committee — all the county members opposed it, 
 but the townspeople carried it. Lady Doone 
 must have a lion every now and then, don't you 
 know.' 
 
 The words were scarcely out of her mouth 
 when the door of the long drawing-room was 
 thrown open, and the butler announced — 
 
 'Lady Doone, Mr. and Lady Elizabeth 
 Damerle.' 
 
 Lady Doone came forward eagerly. She was 
 a small gushing person, not, I believe, a Devon- 
 shire woman by birth. 
 
 'Dear Lady Hele !' she said, 'I thought I 
 must bring them to see you !' 
 
 Then her eyes fell on Lord Falaise, and, 
 glancing round the room she saw Blanche also, 
 and she began evidently to perceive that she had 
 made a mistake. 
 
 There was a somewhat awkward silence in the 
 room. Then Lord Falaise came up and shook 
 hands with her cordially, and Mr. Damerle, who 
 was close behind in advance of his wife, looked 
 very much as if he were going to offer him his 
 hand. He, however, thought better of it, and 
 contented himself with saying — 
 
 ' I have met Lord Falaise before.'
 
 2i8 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lord Falaise ; ' I have met Mr. 
 Damerle before.' 
 
 There are different ways of saying a few 
 simple words. There was nothing further needed 
 after Lord Falaise had said these. 
 
 ' Lady Elizabeth,' said Lady Doone, recovering 
 herself 
 
 She came forward and shook hands with the 
 lady of the house, — a tall woman, with the remains 
 of beauty, but aged evidently before her time, 
 and with a wan, hunted look in the pale eyes that 
 struck me to the heart, for I remembered some- 
 thing like it in my mother's face. 
 
 I did not like Mr. Damerle's look so well as I 
 had done in the Minster. He coarsened per- 
 ceptibly upon a nearer view, and there was a 
 wavering uncertain look about him, as though 
 he were not altogether sure of his ground. 
 
 Then a thing happened, so strange, that I 
 believe no one present would have believed it if 
 they had not seen it with their eyes. Blanche 
 Falaise came across the room with her hand 
 stretched out and a look of radiant welcome in 
 her face. 
 
 ' Mr. Damerle and I,' she said, ' are very old 
 friends.' 
 
 My God ! I thought, has she forgotten what
 
 II BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 219 
 
 she has said to me — that he is ruined, body and 
 soul ? , 
 
 He kept his self-possession marvellously well, 
 and said something; to her in a low voice. 
 
 As I stood watching them, I remembered that 
 she had also said that, could she suppose that 
 he was happy and good, she might even still 
 become a happy mother and a happy wife. Had 
 the sermon worked this hallucination upon her ? 
 Did she really dream that so it was ? Oh poor, 
 poor Lady Falaise ! 
 
 After Lady Doone and her guests had left, for 
 they did not stay long, pleading other visits 
 before dinner, and we were leaving the drawing- 
 room, Lord Falaise was close to me — 
 
 ' Did you notice that woman's eyes ? ' he said ; 
 ' can you doubt Cheddersley's story now ? ' 
 
 Lady Hele's ' few people ' turned out to be a 
 large dinner-party of some twenty people. The 
 hostess went in with the Dean, next to him sat 
 Blanche Falaise, and by her, and nearly opposite 
 to me, sat a most beautiful old man — General Sir 
 Gilford Limoge, who had won his majority in 
 the old Sikh war. One sleeve hung useless by 
 his side, but he fed himself with marvellous deft-
 
 220 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 ness with one liancl ; and through his kindly, 
 courteous manner, as he spoke to Blanche, and 
 through the soft, fatherly glance of the gray, 
 pleasant eyes, there might still be seen, by those 
 who knew how to look for them, some glimpses 
 of the fire and strength that had carried him 
 through that war of the Titans, when the fate 
 of a universe hung in the balance, and the line 
 was broken at Chillianwallah. 
 
 Towards the end of dinner, my immediate 
 neighbour being occupied with Lady Hele, I was 
 occupied in watching this beautiful old man, who 
 was now talking to the lady on his right, with 
 ever-increasing admiration, when I was suddenly 
 attracted by a voice which I had heard as a jarring 
 note more than once during the meal. It pro- 
 ceeded from a gentleman seated a little farther 
 down the table on the opposite side to that on 
 which I sat, and therefore on the same side with 
 Blanche — a cabinet minister of the new school. 
 
 I had noticed this voice at intervals during 
 dinner, — a hard, rasping voice that dominated 
 every other sound in its immediate neighbour- 
 hood. There was something about the man differ- 
 ent from any other at the table, — a something 
 apart from a nameless fellowship that marked 
 the rest — a sort of palpable ignorance and inepti-
 
 IX BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 221 
 
 tude as to the otherwise understood convenance 
 of place and time. 
 
 ' I am told,' he was saying, ' that it is quite a 
 scandal that he was allowed to preach at all. It 
 is gone so far as that. I am told that he has 
 wasted all his wife's fortune, that he ill-treats 
 her, that he drinks — in fact, that his voice, his 
 manner, his eloquence, are simply the result of 
 port wine.' 
 
 Sitting exactly opposite this man was a very 
 intimate friend of Lord Falaise, whom I just 
 knew by sight, a Mr. Senlac, a permanent official 
 in some Government office, a man of peculiar 
 distinction of appearance, both in expression 
 and contour. He made a gallant but desperate 
 attempt to retrieve this fatal blunder. 
 
 'Ah, you are alluding to that person in 
 London ! I saw it in the paper the other day ; ' 
 and I felt, rather than saw, from the side glance 
 which alone I had of the striking face, that he 
 gave this blundering statesman a look which, one 
 might have thought, would have enlightened any 
 man, but it did not enlighten this one. 
 
 ' No, I'm not,' replied the strident voice ; ' I 
 am speaking of the man who preached in the 
 Cathedral this afternoon, before the elite of 
 Devonshire — the Eev. Paul Damerle.'
 
 222 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 Lady Hele stood up, and we all rose. I looked 
 across at Blanche with a terrible dread of what 
 might happen. She rose mechanically and stood 
 for a second or two perfectly rigid and white, the 
 tips of her fingers resting on the table before her. 
 All the blood in her veins seemed to have left 
 the body and to have retreated elsewhere, leav- 
 ing her cold and dead. Her eyes were fixed. 
 The thought struck me, at the moment, that she 
 was like a person shot through the heart, whose 
 body stands for a moment, dead, before it falls. 
 But she did not fall ; after a second or two she 
 seemed to recover consciousness, to control 
 herself. She passed round the end of the table, 
 the tips of the fingers of one hand still resting 
 upon it, to Lady Hele, who took her arm. I 
 stepped back a little way to let them pass, and 
 followed them and the other ladies out of the 
 room. 
 
 When we reached the drawing-room she sat 
 down in the shade, a little behind Lady Hele, 
 and remained quite silent. The conversation 
 flagged a little at first. It required some little 
 time to dismiss the overpowering thought that 
 occupied all minds ; but the feat was accom- 
 plished in a few minutes, assisted considerably by 
 the advent of coff"ee. The gentlemen were not
 
 II BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 223 
 
 long in coming up. I fancied that they had 
 found it more difficult than we had to relapse 
 into ordinary talk. Lord Falaise looked pale, 
 and glanced anxiously round as he came in. 
 Some days afterwards 1 asked him what they 
 had done. 
 
 .' Oh ! I went up to the other end of the table 
 and talked to the Dean and Sir Gilford/ he 
 said ; ' Senlac behaved beautifully, of course. He 
 
 talked "procedure" across the table to Mr. 
 
 in a loud voice. AVhat would have happened 
 without him I don't know. No one else, I think, 
 felt equal to speaking to him. I doubt whether 
 he has the least idea what he did even now.' 
 
 So, as all evenings do, even that evening came 
 to an end at last.
 
 Ill 
 
 We went back to Trefennick the next day. 
 There was no reason why we shoukl not do so ; 
 but apart from other and obvious reasons, I think 
 that Lord Falaise was rather anxious about his 
 boys. I fancy that his peculiar theory about 
 home education was breaking down. The boys 
 were only eleven and twelve. Their father 
 taught them Latin and the Greek verbs, and he 
 rode out with them every day. It was a very 
 pretty sight to see them together — the beautiful 
 ponies the boys had, and Lord Falaise's cob. I 
 used to go to the great hall door to see them 
 start, but I could very seldom persuade Blanche 
 to come. 
 
 I cannot tell how it was. At this distance of 
 time, even, I do not know. It seemed that she 
 could fulfil her duty at other times, that she 
 could bear anything rather than this. 
 
 But, at any rate. Lord Falaise arrived at the
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 225 
 
 conclusion that his boys would be better at Eton 
 than at home, in the country, alone. They 
 should both, being so near of an age, go to Eton 
 together. The second boy was rather more for- 
 ward than the elder. It was decided that they 
 should go to school after Christmas. 
 
 Up and down the great yew walk, in the mild 
 September days, I paced with Blanche, when she 
 poured out to me her whole heart — the depth of 
 self-condemnation, the longing, the passionate 
 yearning to save this man. I bore it for a long 
 time, but at last I could restrain myself no 
 longer, and I spoke out — 
 
 ' You are committing,' I said, ' a terrible, 
 almost a nameless sin. You are trying to take 
 this man's sin, this man's punishment, upon 
 yourself. There is only One who can do that.' 
 
 I do not think that my words had any effect 
 upon her at all. There are some natures, especi- 
 ally among women, who, like the old-time yew 
 trees beside which we walked, seem to belong^ to 
 themselves alone, — that is to say, that, for evil 
 or for good, they press on for the mark that is 
 set before them, turning neither to the right 
 hand nor to the left. Through the valley of the 
 shadow of death — strange cries and voices in their 
 ears — they press on, impassive and unmoved. I 
 
 Q
 
 226 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 think that Blanche Fahiise was such as these. 
 The yew hedges, century after century, remain 
 at their post, the guardian and the shelter of 
 slight beings almost as ephemeral as the gnats 
 that dance around their boughs ; just so the 
 slight, delicate woman, in the midst of life's tur- 
 moil, is not alone. Certainties and Realities and 
 Powers — a science of being unerring and eternal 
 as Fate — environ her, and guard her, and urge 
 her on. 
 
 One morning, when two or three gentlemen 
 were staying at Trefennick for the shooting, as 
 we were leaving the breakfast-table, Lord Falaise 
 said to me — 
 
 ' Lord Cheddersley is shooting to-day with a 
 German prince. They are to lunch with us 
 some miles from here, and Blanche is so good as 
 to join us. I hope that you will come,' 
 
 Outside the room, in the great hall, was the 
 principal coachman in undress, a man of whom 
 I stood in the greatest awe. 
 
 ' Oh, Fisher,' said Lord Falaise, — ' yes, yes, 
 Lord Cheddersley is shooting over the Dornton 
 farms with the Prince von Leuthen-Stalrenberg. 
 They will lunch with us at the bailiff's house at 
 Braynes. You will drive her ladyship and Miss
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 227 
 
 Wand there. You know the hxnes. We shall 
 be there at two o'clock.' 
 
 'Yes, my lord.' 
 
 As we were going up the staircase, Blanche 
 said to me — 
 
 'You had better put on your best things. 
 Lord Falaise will like it.' 
 
 I made myself look as nice as I could, my 
 French mother's instinct helping me ; but I con- 
 fess that I was astonished when Lady Falaise 
 came down the great staircase into the hall to 
 get into the carriage, to see how wonderfully 
 beautiful she was. She was dressed in a close- 
 fitting cloth of peacock blue, edged with small 
 peacock feathers, and a hat to match ; with the 
 lovely colouring of her fair brown hair, and the 
 sad, far-off look in her gray- brown eyes, she 
 seemed to me at that moment the most lovely 
 creature that the world had ever seen. It was 
 one of those days in autumn which summer, like 
 a regal donor, Mings back out of his abundance 
 to console the lingering, gaj^ing crowd left at 
 gaze by his dazzling train. We drove out in 
 the soft, warm, midday air, down the slopes of 
 the drive, shadowed by the great oaks, out 
 through the old iron gates of the park, with the 
 quick-stepping, smooth motion of the beautiful
 
 228 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 horses, through lanes of high-banked, faded fern 
 and bryony, and pale, late-born flowers, surprised 
 and benighted in the autumn hours upon which 
 their birth had been cast, over the first fallen 
 and withered leaves, and through running streams 
 of clear, brown water, seeking their way from 
 the boggy moorlands to the plain. An indescrib- 
 able sense of rest and peace hung over the faded 
 landscape, in the soft blue of the cloud-flecked 
 sky, in the hush of the wide pastures ; over the 
 spreading woods of fading chestnuts and syca- 
 mores, and the bright, dying colouring of the 
 ashes, and the still, warm summer tints of the 
 oaks and elms ; over the churches and old halls, 
 and houses standing in courtyards, with lichen 
 and faded stonecrop and wallflowers upon the 
 tiled roofs and upon the walls ; over the home- 
 steads and groups of cottages in flowery gardens, 
 whence the children ran to see the carriage pass. 
 At last we came out into a more champaign 
 country, where the sense of seclusion and stillness 
 and peace gave place to a wider instinct and a 
 larger vision and desire. Before us, beyond the 
 sunny slopes, there lay a region of brilliant light 
 and deep shadow, of which the dazzled sense 
 knew not whether it were earth or heaven, or 
 woodhmd or sky ; and amid the waviug lines of
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 229 
 
 this mystic sea, which, by some instinct, one felt 
 was teeming; with a hidden life of human effort 
 and promise, we could see the flash of sunshine 
 upon the church towers, the faint mist over 
 village and town, the deeper flush of stately 
 parks, the dark line of moorland hiding mysteries 
 of wild solitudes, and bleak prisons, and haunts 
 of reckless despair. 
 
 Through all this wonderful beauty — this peace 
 and calm, this widespread life and hope — Blanche 
 Falaise lay back in the great carriage perfectly 
 impassive, silent, and unmoved. 
 
 On the nearer slopes before us, between the 
 openings of the hedgerows and the woods, there 
 had appeared, from time to time, curls of white 
 smoke, and I noticed that Fisher timed him- 
 self very accurately as to his pace, sometimes 
 slackening almost to a walk, sometimes increasing 
 his speed. He attained, in fact, to such a pitch 
 of accuracy that, as we turned the corner of a 
 wooded lane and came out upon a broader path, 
 with grass on either side, where two lanes crossed, 
 and saw before us, at the junction of the roads, 
 a picturesque house, apparently of considerable 
 antiquity, the converging parties of sportsmen, 
 who had evidently timed themselves also, ap- 
 peared upon the green. They came up the cross
 
 230 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 road ill opposite directions, and the cliief gentle- 
 men on cither side raised their low-crowned hats 
 as they approached each other. The next mo- 
 ment we drove up. 
 
 There was considerable excitement ; I was 
 presented to His Royal Highness. Lady Falaise 
 had met him before. He was a pleasant, fair 
 young man, with a gracious, winning manner. 
 
 ' I speak English tolerably,' he said to me at 
 lunch ; ' but I do not understand it c[uite so well.' 
 
 I told him I thought that there were many, 
 home-born, who would sympathise with him in 
 that respect. 
 
 We went into the picturesque old house, 
 through a quaint, panelled passage, into a kind 
 of large kitchen or hall. Across the ceiling were 
 vestiges of plaster-work, together with white- 
 washed beams, which seemed to indicate a past 
 history. A wide, open hearth occupied nearly 
 one side of the room, upon which was a large 
 iron pot simmering over a fire of wood. Small 
 leaden panes let in a dim light through one or 
 two long low windows at the end of the room ; a 
 large oaken chest or coffer, with some seventeenth - 
 century date, such as one sees in cottages, was 
 covered with delicate napery, and piled with cold 
 meats and ancient silver flagons containing ale :
 
 Ill 
 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 231 
 
 and in this old-world farmroom we sat down to 
 tlie most exquisite and luxurious luncli I had 
 ever seen. Nearly all the servants at Trefennick 
 were there. A succession of the most delicate 
 entrees and costliest wines seemed to blend or 
 to contrast with the rough rustic surrounding, 
 as in the tissue of some piece of tapestry the 
 fine gossamer threads, with their weft of dainty 
 colour, merge and melt into the background of 
 the broader and more fearless textures of warp 
 and woof. 
 
 I sat by the prince, who, of course, was mostly 
 occupied with Lady Falaise. Lord Cheddersley 
 sat on Blanche's other hand, Lord Falaise at the 
 other end of the table among the men. A young 
 man, who sat at my other side, began to talk at 
 once. 
 
 ' I thought we arranged our meeting very 
 well, didn't you? I hope Falaise was pleased. 
 Cheddersley was awfully nervous : never thought 
 he could be nervous. " We must break off, gen- 
 tlemen," he said ; "we have just time. Falaise 
 is such a very particular man. If we are a 
 minute late, I shouldn't wonder if he gave up 
 shooting for the rest of the day, and that would 
 be a pity. I'm told that his farms are alive with 
 partridges. Falaise shoots very little ; he is too
 
 232 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 great a man to do anything very much." So we 
 had to come. I hoj)e Falaise was pleased.' 
 
 I looked at my companion more closely, and 
 thouojlit that I had seen him before. He was 
 a slight, delicate -looking young man, with a 
 pleasant, almost childlike expression of face, 
 but with a sharply-defined outline, a well-cut, 
 prominent nose, and an infinitely dainty little 
 moustache. He had a way of raising his eye- 
 brows which gave him a look of almost babyish 
 innocence. He wore a shooting costume of fine 
 shades of leather and corduroy, of a careful, 
 almost finikin style. 
 
 ' Have you not been at Trefennick ? ' I said ; 
 ' I think I have seen you there.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' he said very modestly ; ' I re- 
 member you very well. I have a little Property 
 in this neighbourhood — three or four farms — and 
 I come down twice a year to collect my lients.' 
 
 He had a trick of dwellincy on the initial con- 
 sonant of all-important words, which was very 
 efi"ective. 
 
 ' I am staying at Cheddersley's,' he went on. 
 'Cheddersley is very kind. Most astonishing 
 how kind People are. Never could understand 
 wliy people pay you any rent. Why should 
 they ? Don't tell them please, but my tenants
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 233 
 
 always astonish me. I assume a degage manner, 
 don't you know, as though it were the most 
 natural thing in the world ; but it always 
 astonishes me.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt that you are a very good 
 landlord,' I said politely. 
 
 ' Oh, they say that I am a gentleman ! ' he said, 
 smiling. ' I am very proud of that. They 
 always say that. " Whatever comes of it," they 
 say, " they will say that ; " and I always take 
 off everything they ask. I am so astonished at 
 their paying anything. Suppose they didn't ? 
 What could I do ? ' 
 
 ' Would it not be better if you employed an 
 assent ? ' I said. 
 
 ' No,' he said slowly. ' I beg your pardon. 
 Miss Wand, but I think not. I have known 
 men who did that. They had all their farms 
 thrown on their hands. They had to take to 
 farming. They didn't make much of that. They 
 had no tenants to pay them any rents. And, 
 really, Miss Wand, my people take off very little 
 — very little indeed, I assure you I go back 
 loaded with untold gold — gold and notes and 
 cheques. And they give me beer, too, always ; 
 never drink such beer as they give me. Won't 
 you try some of this anchovy toast ? — it is Per-
 
 234 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 fcctly crisp — and bread and cheese ; never get 
 such bread in London, and all for nothing ! It 
 is a very Puzzling world. Miss AVand,' he said 
 very solemnly, looking down upon his plate — 
 ' you may take my word for it — a very Puzzling 
 world.' 
 
 The day was very warm for the season, and 
 we were glad to come out upon the green as soon 
 as possible after lunch. 
 
 We stood about upon the mossy turf amid 
 the stillness and peace of the early afternoon, 
 amid the falling leaves, the groups of gentlemen 
 standing about smoking, the dogs lying down 
 or wandering restlessly to and fro. The prince 
 was standing by me talking pleasantly in German, 
 which he had found out that I knew. Lord and 
 Lady Falaise and Lord Cheddersley had wandered 
 out, as it seemed by some concerted plan, down 
 the wide lane for some five minutes or so, until 
 the carriage drove up. As they came back to- 
 wards us, I could see that Blanche was greatly 
 moved. Lord Cheddersley seemed to be speak- 
 ing eagerly, and, as it seemed to me, with a 
 more sincere endeavour to do right than I should 
 have been inclined to give him credit for. She 
 came up to us walking between the two — Lord 
 Falaise very sad and still — her hands clasped
 
 Ill BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 235 
 
 before her. The appalling beauty of her stead- 
 fast face, set iu the delicate shading and the 
 matchless colouring of her dress, and the back- 
 ground of green sward and faded hedgerow, 
 reminded me again of some old-world tapestry 
 work, making a picture of Our Lady of grief. 
 
 As she came near the carriage, which by this 
 time had driven up, she seemed by a supreme 
 eflbrt to recall herself to the duties of the 
 moment. She spoke to the prince in German, 
 with a sweetness which evidently fascinated him ; 
 she said something equally gracious to several 
 other gentlemen who stood by, and then we got 
 into the carriage and waited while the gentlemen 
 regained their guns, and, this time in a collected 
 group, passed over into the fields, more in the 
 direction from which we had come in the morn- 
 ing. Then we drove oft' slowly, Fisher pulling 
 up now and then at some lane-side gate, whence 
 we might see the line of white pufts of smoke, 
 along the sloping fields, or the ridges of wood 
 and copse. 
 
 Blanche Falaise lay back in the carriage ; she 
 evidently saw nothing of the shooting or of the 
 sloping fields ; she put her left hand upon my 
 lap, as if feeling, as it were, for a friendly grasp. 
 There was something unspeakably touching in
 
 236 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 the action aud iu the craving need that prompted 
 the gesture. 
 
 * Oh, he has told us the most terrible things ! 
 Lord Chcddersley says that he will be imprisoned 
 on a charge of fraud. Sin is at the bottom of it, 
 and the sin is mine.' 
 
 I grasped her hand tightly in mine. 
 
 ' I will not hear what you say,' I said passion- 
 ately. ' I will not listen to you for a moment 
 longer. You are trying, as I told you before, 
 to take this man's sin and punishment upon 
 yourself. You cannot do it. The thought of 
 such a thing even is a terrible, a nameless sin.' 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' I am not mistaken. Would 
 to God I were ! Others may sin and suffer for 
 it ; but they could not have sinned if I had not 
 sinned first. My sin, which no one blames — of 
 which perhaps no one knows — no one ! my 
 God!' 
 
 She was deathly pale, as she had been that 
 nic^lit of the dinner — all the blood seemed to 
 have left her body. She sat in the carriage like 
 a corpse. 
 
 All around us, beneath the autumnal sky, 
 more entrancing in its wan beauty than the 
 loveliest colouring of summer, lay the autumn 
 landscape, with here and there the late sheaves
 
 in BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 237 
 
 and the pale woodlands, with their recollection 
 of a beauty more lovely than beauty ever was. 
 ' Veteris vestigia JiammcB^ I once saw written 
 somewhere. I hardly know, but I fancy that 
 it means something low and poor compared to 
 these autumn woods ; but it always seemed to 
 me that the rhythm of the Latin sound, more 
 than any poem, suited such a scene ; and in the 
 midst of all this beauty she sat, silent and inert, 
 — she, Lady Falaise, a more miserable woman 
 than could have been found that day in the most 
 terrible — for I know them — of the London slums.
 
 IV 
 
 It was about a fortniglit after this luncheon that 
 Lady Fahiise opened a letter one morning at 
 breakfast, which she immediately handed to her 
 husband, and which he, in response to a gesture 
 from her, passed on to me. 
 
 Lady Elizabeth Damerle wishes to see Lady Fahiise 
 for a few moments. She does not wish for any entertain- 
 ment, only for a quarter of an hour's interview. Unless 
 she hears to the contrary, she will come on Tuesday the 
 17th; and if Lady Falaise would be so kind as to send 
 a carriage to Branscombe Station to meet the train that 
 stops there at 3.5 v.u., it would be a great kindness. 
 Lady Elizabeth Damerle would not make this request, but 
 she does not know any other means of reaching Trefennick. 
 
 27 Chertsey Gardens, W.S. 
 
 To this somewhat strange letter an immediate 
 answer was sent — 
 
 Lady Falaise will be delighted to see Lady Elizabeth 
 Damerle at the time she names. A carriage shall be sent 
 to meet the train at Branscombe at 3.5 P.M. Lord and
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 239 
 
 Lady Falaise venture to hope that Lady Elizabeth will 
 accept any hospitality, either for the night or otherwise, 
 which Trefennick can afford. 
 
 As tlie time approached when this visitor 
 was to be expected, Lady Falaise manifested a 
 nervous excitement, which I had not seen in her 
 before. 
 
 ' You must stay in the room with me, Claire/ 
 she said. We had dropped all formalities by this 
 time. 
 
 ' I wdll if Lady Elizabeth does not object/ I 
 said. 
 
 'No, you must stay in any case.' 
 
 As the time approached when the carriage 
 might be expected, she sent for me into her 
 boudoir. 
 
 ' Whatever she may say,' she said to me, ' do 
 not leave the room. I cannot bear it unless you 
 are by.' 
 
 Very punctually, as it happened, the carriage 
 with the two servants drove up. 
 
 We were sitting in that perfect room — Blanche's 
 boudoir — the autumn light flooding it with a 
 roseate glow, when this woman was shown in 
 upon us. She was dressed in a worn, — I fancied 
 at the moment, perhaps uncharitably — affectedly- 
 shabby suit of black. The wan, hunted look
 
 240 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 ill the pale eyes, which liad struck me Ijcfore so 
 sadly, seemed changed now into a passionate 
 excitement, which she made very little eftbrt to 
 control. 
 
 ' You will not object to my dearest friend, 
 Miss Wand, remaining in the room ? ' said Lady 
 Falaise. 
 
 She paid not the slightest attention either to 
 me or to the words. She sat down for a moment 
 in the seat Lady Falaise indicated to her ; but 
 rose immediately, and came up towards the fire- 
 place, standing before Lady Falaise. 
 
 ' Lady Falaise,' she said, ' I have wanted to 
 see you. I saw you once before, at the room at 
 Minsterley, where you greeted the man whom, 
 I suppose, I must call my husband, with a smile. 
 It is time that you and I met.' 
 
 Her manner was so fierce, and her appearance 
 so wild and excited, that I rose in my seat, and 
 stood watching her as I should watch a wild 
 animal about to spring. 
 
 'When you came across the room that day, 
 she went on, ' with your hand held out, you said 
 that you and lie were old friends. Liar and 
 perjurer to you — coward, tliief, liar, hypocrite to 
 me ; and you. Lady Falaise, you, who have 
 chosen to take to j^ourself a name unsullied for a
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE 241 
 
 thousand years, have dared to say this 1 You — 
 false and traitor to your sex ! — you, Blanche 
 Falaise.' 
 
 I moved from my place and came nearer to 
 Blanche, where I stood watching her, for I did 
 not know what might happen next. 
 
 Blanche stood, the carved mantel behind her, 
 laced from the ceiling with curtains of Indian 
 silk, that framed a Madonna and child, herself 
 more like a Madonna than falls to any one's lot 
 often to see. 
 
 Then, as the other paused for a moment, she 
 came a step forward, her hands held out — 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, dear Lady Elizabeth,' she said, 
 ' what can I say to you, to comfort you — you, 
 whose lot is so much harder than mine ? I only 
 knew him when he was so noble and so good. 
 Except for that dreadful letter, which was not 
 himself, I knew nothing else. What can I say 
 to you, w^ho have passed through so much ? 1 
 can say nothing, but to beg of you to remember 
 how good and noble he was. Oh dear, dear 
 friend, remember this ! You have said well that 
 we ought to meet. Between us two at least, of 
 all the women in the world, let there be peace ! ' 
 
 I confess that it seemed to me an impressive 
 sight, and one which, I might almost say, I 
 
 R
 
 242 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part n 
 
 aloue, as a woman, had a right to see. These 
 two, united in so sad and so strange a fellowship, 
 yet in the working out of which, in suflFering 
 and in wrong, so different — at enmity even, as 
 it seemed, between themselves. 
 
 I am so impressed with my story, I am so 
 clear in my admiration of its heroine and of its 
 end, that I am free from all doubt and appre- 
 hension that I am ' a traitor to my sex ' in 
 revealing these things. Had I not felt all this 
 it would have been different, but in that case I 
 never should have written this story. As it is, 
 it seems to me that whoever will be shamed by 
 the narration, it will not be us women. As I 
 looked at these two, standing upon the hearth, I 
 seemed to see, as in the crystal brightness of a 
 clearer air than men breathe, the meaning and 
 the end of the world-tragedy of woman's life — a 
 meaning and an end, shadowy, men would call 
 it — teeming with transcendental life and being, 
 as it seemed to me. 
 
 ' Coward and liar as he was,' Lady Elizabeth 
 went on with no apparent diminution of fierce- 
 ness ; ' I knew nothing of you ; I never heard of 
 you. I thought him everything that a man 
 ought to be ; and you welcome him ! you con- 
 done him ! you, Blanche Falaise ! '
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 243 
 
 They stood looking at each other for some 
 moments as if trying to know more, to under- 
 stand more. For a time no one spoke, then she 
 went on again — 
 
 'He deceived me. He deceived my people. 
 He took all I had. He must live in the greatest 
 style ; " it was part of his mission," he said. He 
 gambled in shares to make up for his extravag- 
 ance. God knows, I spent nothing on myself! 
 I bought no dresses but the grand ones he made 
 me buy. Then he drank, to make up his splendid 
 sermons, and to soothe his conscience, as I sup- 
 pose ; but I daresay you did not know all this.' 
 
 ' Know it ! ' said Blanche Falaise, and the 
 look of pallor and wretchedness in her face 
 might have moved a cynic, — ' know it ! How 
 should I know it? What was your fortune, 
 Lady Elizabeth Damerle ? ' she said suddenly, 
 after a second's pause. 
 
 ' Fifty thousand pounds. I inherited from 
 my great-aunt, the Baroness Eothes.' 
 
 ' That, at least,' she said, with an almost 
 startled, radiant look, — 'that, at least, he can repay. 
 I have more than that in my hands which is his 
 by right. You shall have it whenever you wish.' 
 
 Lady Elizabeth gazed at her with wonderment 
 for a moment.
 
 244 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 ' Lord Falaise ? ' she said. 
 
 Then for once I saw her smile, the most 
 beautiful thing I ever saw — a smile of supreme 
 confidence, of a certainty amused even at the 
 thought of doubt, and — if you speak of the love 
 of angels — of love. 
 
 ' I will speak to Lord Falaise,' she said. 
 
 The other stood perfectly still, her face be- 
 coming gradually more pale. Then she said — 
 
 ' My God ! if I had known this, there would 
 have been no need for him to have gone to jail !' 
 
 Blanche caught suddenly at the mantel-shelf 
 behind her, against which she reeled. ' Jail ! ' 
 she cried. 
 
 ' Yes,' continued Lady Elizabeth, without re- 
 garding her, and with the same desperation of 
 tone and manner that had marked her through- 
 out, — ' yes, the jail. He gave a cheque for two 
 thousand pounds to some one, knowing it to be 
 worthless, and by that he got possession of 
 coupons, or whatever they are called, and gave 
 these to some one else. He had done somethinsf 
 of the same kind before, and they were very 
 severe upon him. Still, when he was remanded 
 upon bail, if the two thousand pounds had been 
 paid, it would have been hushed up ; but I was 
 not going to ask my people, after all that they
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 245 
 
 had done, and if I had, they would not have 
 given it. I am utterly penniless, as my dress 
 shows. I could not have come down here had 
 not my brother sent me twenty pounds. Still, 
 if I had had two thousand pounds, I would have 
 given it to him — to keep him out of jail !' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, dear Lady Falaise ! ' — I was holding 
 her in my arms, — ' don't look like that ! S|)eak 
 to me, your own friend, Claire. Speak — oh, 
 speak to me ! ' 
 
 She recovered herself with a sudden effort, 
 and sank down into her chair ac:ain. She sat 
 for a few moments lookinoj before her into the 
 fire, then she turned to me with a pitiful, help- 
 less look and gesture which 1 well understood. 
 
 ' Lady Elizabeth,' I said, ' we had better leave 
 Lady Falaise for a time. Lord and Lady Falaise 
 are most anxious that you should stay here for 
 the night. I can find you everything you may 
 need ; let me try and persuade you.' 
 
 We left the room together. As w^e went out 
 into the gallery above the great staircase, sur- 
 rounded with family portraits and great cabinets 
 of buhlwork, she said — 
 
 ' She is more fortunate than I am. It is 
 killing her. Unfortunately it will not kill me. 
 I am made of coarser stuff.'
 
 246 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE i'art ii 
 
 ' I do not think it/ I said. ' It is killing her 
 mind, Init not her body. She is more unhappy 
 than you are.' 
 
 Lady Elizabeth would not stay at Trefennick. 
 She accepted some slight refreshment, and we 
 sent her back in the carriag-e to the roadside 
 station, and she got back to London, sometime, 
 I believe ; but before she left, Blanche had seen 
 her husband, and the fifty thousand pounds 
 was promised to be settled, at Lord Falaise's 
 especial stipulation, strictly upon Lady Elizabeth 
 Damerle. 
 
 I spoke to Lord Falaise once, as I had an 
 opportunity, saying I thought it was wonder- 
 fully good of him. He treated it very lightly. 
 
 ' It is what my father would have done,' he 
 said. ' Besides, the money is not mine ; I have 
 enouofh.' 
 
 About a month after this visit we had another 
 surprise. About midday, when the boy had been 
 a second time to the roadside station for letters, 
 Lady Falaise came into the room where I was 
 sitting, with a letter in her hand. 
 
 ' Kead this,' she said, ' and bring it to me 
 when you have done.' 
 
 There was something in her manner, in these 
 days, that frightened me. I recalled the words
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 247 
 
 of that garrulous doctor, aud 1 trembled, as I 
 watched her leave the room, for I dare not 
 follow her, at what I ignorantly fancied might 
 be coming in the future time. Our faithlessness 
 is what astonishes me more than anything else. 
 
 When she had left the room 1 read the 
 letter. 
 
 It was dated Jail, and began thus — 
 
 ' My Lord, 
 
 Being confined in this place, with nothing but my 
 own miserable thoughts to occupy me, 1 feel a strong, 
 an overpowering impulse to write to you. The in- 
 stinct of confession is one of the most deeply seated, the 
 most insistent, in the human heart. It seems, almost, at 
 times as if the act of confession of sin nullifies sin. The 
 Church of Rome, with her usual cleverness, has grasped this 
 fact up to a certain jjoint, but our own Church, as is her 
 wont, in a manner of her own, at once more human, and 
 therefore more touching and pathetic, has also met this 
 supreme craving and need, for in her case the confession 
 is voluntary and the choice of confessors unlimited ; and 
 I, as a churchman, exercise my unfettered volition, and I 
 choose my own confessor, and I choose your Lordship. 
 Why I choose you might appear strange to some, but it 
 does not seem so to me. I am convinced that you are 
 the man whom I have injured more than I have injured 
 any other man in the world. This too might seem strange 
 to some, seeing that it was through my action that you 
 obtained the Avoman upon the gaining of Avhom your life 
 was set. But in spite of this I have no shadow of doubt, 
 and I am perfectly certain that you have no doubt, that, 
 in the intolerable wrong and injury I have inflicted npon
 
 248 BLANCIIP:, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 one wliom I dare not name to you, I liave done you the 
 most inappeasable Avrong that one man can do another. 
 On that memorable evening, when, unconsciously perhaps 
 to all of us, every moment was big with the fate of each 
 of that small company assembled, almost' by chance, in a 
 country rectory — on that evening I, in the pride of a 
 vulgar ignorance, regarded you with disdain. It will prob- 
 ably be easy for you, in the confidence of an unsullied 
 past, and in the strength of a steadfast present, to look 
 with pity and even with forbearance upon a wretch, of 
 whom it may suffice to say that, as it seems to him, nothing 
 but the annihilation of the race can blot out the memory of 
 the past. 
 
 I have said this much that I may explain, in some small 
 degree, what may seem to you to be an extraordinary letter. 
 I will endeavour, in what I Avrite, hereafter to be more 
 plain and precise. 
 
 As far as I can look back upon, and understand my 
 past existence, I think that I can trace, not my own fall, 
 for that would not merit a moment's thought, but the evil 
 that I have wrought upon others, to the exuberance of 
 an unrestrained imagination, and from the fact that I re- 
 garded Eeligion as an end and not as a means. I am more 
 and more convinced that Eeligion is intended to teach us 
 how to live now, not how to die hereafter. 
 
 I imagined numberless evils, which had no likelihood 
 of occurring, and then, because these misfortunes did not 
 happen, I considered myself the peculiar favourite of 
 Heaven. I imagined myself to be especially depicted by 
 Heaven to do certain work, for which 1 had especial gifts 
 granted me. This last, as far as outward influences ex- 
 tended, and apart from an ineradicable weakness and evil 
 tendency in my own nature, was, so it seems to me now, 
 the immediate cause of my fall.
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 249 
 
 I write these lines under a feeling of intense mental 
 depression. I have lived for years in the continuous 
 excitement of alcoholic stimulants, and the misery of re- 
 action is more than can be described ; yet, in the depths of 
 such misery lies something of a clearer vision if not the 
 promise of an assured hope. 
 
 I imagined myself in love — with whom I dare not say 
 — I endowed her with visionary qualities. 
 
 I imagined that it was necessary for the Avork of God 
 that I should attain a position of more commanding influ- 
 ence in the Church and in society ; I imagined that I could 
 only obtain this by means of private wealth. When I 
 was told by Dr. Boteraux that it was hopeless, as it seemed 
 then, to expect this from him, I received a great shock. 
 I rallied from it for the time, but I never really recovered 
 from it. 
 
 I persuaded myself that I was acting for the best. It 
 is, I am firmly persuaded, from experience both of myself 
 and of others, a certain fact, that anticipated or imagined 
 sin has little or no effect upon the conscience. It is com- 
 mitted sin that stamps the life, and either scorches the 
 conscience into insensibility, or urges it, through the agonies 
 of despair, into repentance. The moment that I had ab- 
 solutely committed that unpardonable sin, life assumed to 
 me an altogether different guise. Side by side with me, as I 
 walked, there Avalked another ; between me and my wife, as 
 we sat at meat, there sat another, a spectre, impalpable, 
 ghastly, yet wholly real. In the pulpit, at my elbow as I 
 preached, he stood gazing over my shoulder. I preached, 
 it was said, and I myself think, better than ever. It was 
 he, I believe, who suggested the impassioned words ; what 
 could gratify incarnate sin more than the taste of the ironic 
 salt of such words, coming from such a Avretch as I ? I took 
 to drink — God in Heaven, w^hat would not a man take to in
 
 250 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE i'art ii 
 
 such a case as mine? — not common drunkenness, but the 
 constant drinking of the best wine, so that, for months and 
 years together, I do not suppose that I was ever free from 
 the excitement of alcoholic stimulus. 
 
 We lived most expensively. We entertained profusely, 
 always with that suave, devil-bated hire, that it was to pro- 
 mote the eflficacy of my -work for God, and to bring others 
 into His service. 'To lay for souls with Pheasant shoot- 
 ing,' as was said once. I was soon short of cash. I sold 
 out, safe investments, my wife's money. Then I began to 
 speculate upon the Stock Exchange. There is but one 
 end to that. All paths in that dark under world — and 
 there are many — lead to misery and ruin. I became 
 more desperate and more involved as the years rolled 
 on. I was engaged in one or two very shady trans- 
 actions, through which I contrived to pass by the skin of 
 my teeth, thanks chiefly to that marvellous halo that, 
 even with the most worldly, surrounds a parson. At 
 last I committed the stupidly illegal action that brings 
 me here. 
 
 Of course it is impossible for such as I am to hazard a 
 guess whether such a man as you are will show this letter 
 to your wife. If you do, it must surely be a source of 
 constant thankfulness to Lady Falaise that, by the pro- 
 vidence of a merciful God, she escaped the unspeakable 
 misfortune of marrying me. 
 
 My lord, I can only sign a disgraced and polluted 
 name — Paul Damekle. 
 
 It took me a \o\m time to read this letter, 
 lu fact, I read it over three or four times before 
 I began to feel that I had read it at all. Then I 
 tried to arrive at some conclusion with my own
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 251 
 
 mind, as to wliat I tliouglit of it. Here I was 
 entirely at fault. My mind absolutely refused 
 to answer any question concerning it. Even 
 now, when so many things have happened, I 
 do not seem to have advanced a step. I feel 
 that I must leave it to the reader to decide. 
 What does he think of it ? 
 
 After I had sat in this state of imbecility for 
 some time, I began to think that I must return 
 the letter to Lady Falaise. I got up and 
 went to her boudoir ; she was not there. 
 I went down into the saloon ; she was not 
 there. Then I went up into her own rooms 
 and found a maid. — She 'had not the least 
 idea where her ladyship was.' — Then I went 
 downstairs again into the hall, where I met 
 one of the footmen. 
 
 ' Lord Falaise is out with the boys, I sup- 
 pose ? ' I said. 
 
 * Yes, Miss Wand. His lordship has been 
 out more than an hour. I should think they 
 will be back soon.' 
 
 ' Do you know whether her ladyship is in the 
 gardens ? ' I said. 
 
 ' No, Miss Wand ; I do not know where her 
 ladyship is.' 
 
 I put on a hat and cloak, for it was late
 
 252 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 iu the year, and tlic day was cold, and went 
 out. 
 
 I had some sort of half idea, or rather I hoped 
 that I had, that I should find her in the yew- 
 walk, where we had so often been togetlier ; but 
 in my heart of hearts I knew that I had no such 
 hope. That strange and wild letter, whatever 
 it might mean to any of us, what might it mean 
 to her ? Something it would most certainly 
 mean. I shuddered to think what it might be, 
 what she might be thinking now of him who had 
 written it, what she mi^-ht be doinsj now. 
 
 I went out across the wide grass-plot into that 
 drear, ghostly, desolate walk. It stretched itself 
 before me, in the dreariness of its weird length, 
 lined on one side by the bare trees, and on the 
 other by that long, unbroken, funereal hedge of 
 darkened yew branches ; here and there, where 
 the gardeners had neglected to remove them, hung 
 the dead garlands of the summer wreaths. In 
 the terrible extent of its entire distance there 
 was no one to be seen. 
 
 Something, I know not what — for why should 
 I walk along a path, upon which there was evi- 
 dently no one, to seek for one whom 1 wished to 
 hnd — led me on for all this dreary length. 
 
 The wailing of the autumn wind ; its notes
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 253 
 
 drawn out and perfected by its passage, and 
 travelling, tlirongii miles of woodland, through 
 the withered, moss-grown branches of ancient 
 trees, accompanied me as I went up this grassy 
 walk. 
 
 Nothing happened as I went up; only an ever- 
 increasing, overwhelming dread accompanied me 
 step by step. 
 
 An overpowering dread, so vague that I could 
 give it no name — would that I had been able to 
 do so ! — of what I should find at the end of this 
 path lured me, with a terrible fascination, to go 
 on. I reached the end of the terrace, and 
 nothing had happened : and but for that strange 
 prompting, I should have turned back, for I saw 
 nothing of Lady Falaise anywhere. Nevertheless 
 I went on. At the end of the terrace was a 
 grove of yew trees, which I had often noticed for 
 their solemn dejDth of shadow, but which I had 
 never thought of piercing through. Now, this 
 irresistible impulse still urging me, I forced my 
 way through the tangled boughs. Underneath 
 was a wide, overarched space, a floor of parched 
 and lifeless ground, thickly covered with the 
 dead debris of the yew branches, that felt soft 
 and still beneath the tread of my feet. I 
 remember that I recalled something that I had
 
 -54 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 read in some poet of such a wood — so drear, so 
 lifeless, so arched and shadowed by death. As 
 I entered, for the light was as clear beneath these 
 shades as elsewhere, I saw beneath me, in the 
 debris, the faint mark of a woman's delicate foot. 
 Then I knew what it was that had led me on. 
 
 I followed the shadowy footprints, pointing 
 with a waverino- and uncertain line ris^ht throuirh 
 the wood, and to my surprise — for I had never 
 penetrated its shades before, nor known that 
 there was any passage through it — 1 came out 
 upon a neglected terrace, stopped and choked up 
 with the spreading yew branches, and a flight of 
 stone steps, with stately balustrades and urns. 
 There were no signs of footprints here, but I 
 went on down the steps. 
 
 There 1 found myself upon a wide combe or 
 dingle of the moor, the faded grass of which 
 stretched out before me on every side, which, 
 ascending towards the north to a certain eleva- 
 tion between the higher moorland on either hand, 
 evidently dipt down again, out of my sight, in 
 the direction of the sea. Straggling up this 
 gentle slope, and becoming thicker towards the 
 top, was a wood of extremely small, weather- 
 beaten oaks, with lichen-covered boughs, twisted 
 and contorted into ftmtastic shapes by the
 
 IV BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 255 
 
 northern gales sweeping up from the sea ; and, 
 towards the bottom, where the slope was lost in 
 the level basin of the valley, was a small, dark 
 pool, also shaded by the dwarf oaks. In all 
 this wide solitude, beneath the cloudless winter 
 sky of palest blue, not a living creature was to 
 be seen. The noonday stillness was unbroken 
 by the slightest sound save the almost inaudible 
 whisper of the gentle wind along the grass. I 
 stood perfectly still, stunned suddenly, as it 
 seemed, by a terrible dread. 
 
 What if those ghostly, withered trees, standing 
 there for centuries like elfin dwarfs, wicked and 
 malicious, and the dark waters of the pond, knew 
 now another secret, added to the long list of 
 dreary memories — had witnessed, but a few 
 seconds ago, a sadder tragedy than any enacted in 
 the wild, romantic days that were long passed. 
 Should I ? had I strength indeed to go on ? 
 
 Then, as I stood, straining my eyes towards 
 the distant rise, a single figure came out from 
 among the oaks, and came towards me across 
 the level grass. My heart leaped towards it with 
 a sudden, joyful spring and hope, and I moved 
 to meet her very slowly, for it was with difficulty 
 that I could steady myself to walk. 
 
 As she came nearer, it seemed to me that her
 
 256 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE tart ii 
 
 face was altered with a change that would never 
 leave it, and there was a look in her eyes which 
 I had never seen before. I hastened to speak. 
 
 ' I could not find you in the house and sought 
 for you on the terrace, but I have found what is 
 quite new to me. I never knew before of the 
 path through the yew hedge, or the terrace, or 
 the steps, or of this wild valley.' 
 
 I went on speaking, hardly knowing what I 
 said. 
 
 ' I have only been here once before,' she said 
 in a hushed voice. ' It is a lonely, terrible place. 
 I always told you that I dread the terrace walk 
 itself, and this is more ghostly still. But for 
 God's mercy it would be fatal to me ; I will not 
 come again. Let us go back.' 
 
 'Yes,' I said, 'here is the letter. Lord 
 Falaise will be back by this time. He is out 
 with the boys,'
 
 V 
 
 Loud Falaise took things into liis own hands 
 after this, and insisted that we should go abroad. 
 The boys went to a clergyman connected with 
 Eton, in the neighbourhood of Windsor, and 
 were to go to the school after Christmas. We 
 went to the villa on the Eiviera, where we stayed 
 into the New Year. Lady Falaise was happier 
 on the Continent than anywhere else, and even 
 attained at times to a certain kind of cheerful- 
 ness ; but it was evident to me that in spite 
 of this improvement she was greatly changed, 
 and I began to despair. The tone and habit of 
 foreign life, endeared to her by recollections of 
 her girlhood, produced an outward appearance of 
 calm and peace, but underneath, as I knew very 
 well, was an undying misery of regret — an endless 
 struggle which would end only with life itself. 
 
 Lord Falaise, as I have said, did not like the 
 Riviera. He especially hated what he called 
 
 s
 
 258 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 ' the vulgar rowdyism ' of the Battle of Flowers. 
 He proposed that we should move into South 
 Austria. I have heard him say that, to his mind, 
 there was now no country in Europe, saving 
 Ensjland, where a o-entleman could live at ease 
 except South Austria. He had been there 
 before. He was acquainted wdth the Austrian 
 nobles. Himself a Norman noble, with as many 
 quarterings as a Festitic, he w^as received with 
 cordiality. So about the middle of February we 
 left the villa, and made our w^ay through Northern 
 Italy. I believe that our final object w^as to 
 reach a certain chateau in the valley of the 
 Traun, belonging to an Austrian noble, before 
 the quail-shooting was over ; but as we never 
 reached it, it is not of much consequence what 
 our finite intention was. The end wdiicli was 
 designed for us we accomplished without let or 
 fail. 
 
 I was constantly with Blanche Falaise — I was 
 scarcely ever from her side. Before we left the 
 villa, in the long, lovely afternoons, as we sat by 
 the open windows, looking out upon the azure 
 waters, and the brilliant sunliulit chansfed into 
 the deep colouring of the night, I tried in vain 
 to rouse her to any real interest in wdiat lay 
 before her, in any books we read, in any subject
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY p-ALAISE 259 
 
 that stirred the world. Still less — when the sun 
 had sank, and the cold, night air swept across the 
 gardens, driving even the young and the happy 
 to take refuo;e indoors — could I feel that her heart 
 was there, that she was listening to what I said, 
 to what I read. Ever her heart was wandering, I 
 knew, to that man in jail, to what he suffered 
 and had to bear — always to that man in jail. 
 
 We travelled up by Padua and Traviso, pass- 
 ing Venice, which we saw one evening, from the 
 railway carriages, rising out of the sea. We left 
 the line at Udine, and buying carriages, we drove 
 up into the Carnic Alps, through the Eaccolano 
 valley and its deep ravines, by Venzone, with 
 its mediaeval walls and its silkworms, and on to 
 Pontebba, and its foaming torrents and streams, 
 following the old high road from Italy to Vienna. 
 
 I left behind me, in imagination, the world of 
 modern fashion and travel, and entered a land of 
 romance, — a land of mountains and lakes, of feudal 
 castles upon the craggy summits, of nobles and 
 serfs, of old-world distinction of rank. 1 was 
 not disappointed. 
 
 We passed through old towns, with bronze 
 dragons upon the fountains in their marketplaces, 
 and winged eagles upon lofty pillars, and frescoed 
 houses, dim and faint now, but painted, as was
 
 26o BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 said, l)y Girolamo du Traviso. We walked 
 through quaint arcades running beneatli the 
 houses on either side. We went into churches, 
 than wliich the mind of man or woman conceives 
 nothing so marvellous or wonderful, with Gothic 
 choirs and lancet windows, which were dreams of 
 deepest colour and mystic signs, and with figures 
 in knightly costume lying upon tombs. Then, 
 ignoring the railways that desecrate this moun- 
 tain land, we went up through the narrow pass 
 wliich was, and is, the gate of Italy, on tlie old 
 Roman road to Vienna that was trodden by 
 Trajan and his legions, and through the old 
 Hercynian forest — that fated wood, full of inde- 
 scribable terrors, which the Roman legions them- 
 selves failed to pierce. 
 
 I had expected to see the Alps with a rosy 
 tinge upon the snow, but they faded into the 
 gray clouds of evening, and the next morning, 
 as we drove up the pass, a dense, white mist and 
 vapour settled down upon us, and as we entered 
 into this land of wonders we saw nothin^j. 
 
 All through the long journey over the Italian 
 plain I had watched this long line of shining 
 light, broken here and there with a shade of 
 gray, and now, as we drew near it, it was snatched 
 from my sight.
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 261 
 
 We drove up the pass in three carnages, 
 steadily hour by hour, in a kind of luminous 
 golden mist and veil which seemed at every 
 moment as though it would lift and reveal to us 
 indescribable things, and yet did not lift, except 
 for an instant here and there, revealing great 
 crags of schist rock, from which the snow had 
 slipped, standing solemn and dark, like guardian 
 sentinels upon either hand. 
 
 All around, in this appalling yet luminous 
 mystery, we could hear the rush and fall of 
 mountain torrents, swelled by the melting of the 
 snow, and the thud of the distant avalanches in 
 the higher reaches of the hills. 
 
 No possible entrance to a world of romance 
 and wonder, long looked forward to, could have 
 been more impressive than this. 
 
 Lord Falaise was, most of the time, alone in 
 the second carriage ; I sat with Blanche, for the 
 most part, in silence. 
 
 We reached the summit of the pass, still, with 
 the single exception of the momentary vision of 
 the guardian rocks, without sight or knowledge 
 of what was beyond or around us, and be^an to 
 descend, as we could dimly discern, into the 
 valley of the Drave. Everywhere and always 
 the luminous haze, the enchanted veil, was around
 
 262 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ir 
 
 US, strange sounds and whisperings seemed to 
 come to us from the distance of hidden rocks. 
 
 As we came down into the valley the mist 
 rose, and we found ourselves in an unknown 
 world of beechwoods, over a rushing torrent, 
 and finally drove into a little town where the 
 wizard Paracelsus was said to have been born, 
 with cattle standing at the street-corners, and 
 open shop windows^ and women knitting at the 
 doors. 
 
 The next morning all was changed. We 
 drove up the valley of the Drave, as I was told 
 the river was called, amid forests of birch and fir, 
 which clothed the bases of the hills, many of 
 which were still covered with snow. 
 
 The whole land was full of legends of the 
 valleys and the hills, and we saw, even then, the 
 castles of the old Carinthian chivalry towering 
 above us in the craggy hills against the sky. 
 Nothing seemed impossible in such a land. 
 
 The sky was perfectly clear, w^oods of beech 
 of a brilliant, fresh green colour skirted the road 
 on either side, above them were forests of fir, also 
 of a fresh green, above these banks of moss crept 
 close up against the dazzling snow. The Alps 
 ^vQVQ loftier than any that we had seen before, 
 and above their white summits w^as a deep, solemn
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY P^ALALSE 263 
 
 blue sky. AVe drove slowly aud silently up the 
 steep, winding road. The scene was too beautiful 
 to allow of speech. 
 
 At the top of the pass, some four thousand feet 
 above the valley, we came upon frozen fields of 
 white and dazzling snow, beyond which rose 
 higher summits, crested with a fairy fretwork of 
 frost tracery pierced with sunlight, and almost 
 transparent against the blue of heaven. I 
 thought at the moment that the mind of man 
 had never conceived anything more lovely than 
 this. 
 
 We descended the pass, the snow melting 
 more and more rapidly as we descended, the 
 avalanches in the distant hills and the torrents 
 below us becoming every moment louder and 
 more insistent, and after some time we came 
 upon what seemed a very considerable hotel, 
 where the carriages stopped. Lord Falaise got 
 out of his carriage and went into the house. 
 
 The afternoon was inexpressibly beautiful, with 
 that inconstant beauty that belongs to a spring 
 day. There was the sudden hush and stillness 
 that follows when long -continued motion is 
 stayed. We sat in the carriage without a word. 
 A delicious pause and rest — how given and from 
 whence ? — seemed to fall upon us suddenly, as
 
 264 BLANCHE, LAUY FALAISE part ii 
 
 we sat side by sick'. J^elow us, down tlie j)ass, 
 we could discern glimpses of wooded vales, reach- 
 ing with a soft beauty into the infinite unseen, 
 with faintly -drawn, delicate lines and shades, 
 suggestive of a vague yet corresponding effort of 
 thought, of hamlets and villages peeping through 
 the trees, here and there the flashing waves of 
 a lake, the faint smoke of iron forges and char- 
 coal fires. We sat contented and perfectly still. 
 
 It has often seemed to me that, at the 
 supreme moments of life, when the fate, not of 
 ourselves alone, which were nothing, but of 
 others, hung in the balance, there has been no 
 effort, no consciousness of necessity even, on our 
 part. Such certainly was it now. 
 
 We sat perfectly still — Blanche and I. Above 
 us was a heavenly vision of faint streaks of 
 cloud, drawn and woven and pencilled across the 
 spring azure of the sky. I am certain now, 
 though perhaps I did not know it then, that 
 there was something in this sudden hush and 
 stillness, in this supreme beauty and perfectness 
 that was sent to prepare us for what was to 
 come, ' Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by 
 the inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may 
 perfectly love Thee ! ' 
 
 But, the next moment, as I looked, a watery
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 265 
 
 cloud seemed to form itself out of the earth, iu 
 the valley, and creep up towards the hills. By 
 little and little it seemed to force itself upon the 
 serene sky above ; it fascinated me with an in- 
 describable power and force. I sat looking at 
 this faint gathering cloud, at first no bigger than 
 a man's hand, with an intensity that would have 
 frightened me, had I thought of it at all. 
 
 Presently Lord Falaise came out of the hotel. 
 
 ' It seems a comfortable house,' he said ; ' and 
 there is a fall in the valley to the left, which 
 they seem to speak highly of. I think that we 
 had better stay here for the night. You might, 
 perhaps, like to see the fall ? ' he added, looking 
 at his wife. 
 
 ' I should like it very much indeed,' she said ; 
 'nothing would please me so much.' 
 
 It was always her way, whatever her state ; 
 at the slightest suggestion of his, the first 
 thought was, if possible, to please him. 
 
 The innkeeper had come out — a Frenchman, 
 with an astonishingly pointed moustache and a 
 white apron. 
 
 ' The fall is very fine,' he said ; ' there is a 
 natural bridge — a great curiosity ; my ladies would 
 be very pleased. We have ponies for the ascent. 
 There is also a Calvary, not a Virgin,' he added
 
 266 BLANCHE, LADY FALALSE I'akt ii 
 
 apologetically, — ' not like the Virgin of Mount 
 Luscliari. All no ! It is a Christ. But it is 
 thought a good deal of here. My ladies may 
 like to see it.' 
 
 We got out of the carriage and went into the 
 hotel. It was a good house, very well appointed. 
 The visitors from the watering-places on the 
 lakes, from Velden and Klagenfurt, and from as 
 far as Ischl, came up hither in the summer for 
 the mountain air and the cool breeze. After 
 lunch two ponies were provided, and we went 
 up a parallel valley to the one which we had 
 descended, to the falls. 
 
 The afternoon was very hot. It was a very 
 early season, and the melting of the snow was 
 very rapid ; as we left the hotel we could see 
 mist rising from the distant valleys beneath us, 
 and, farther off still, over the mountains to- 
 wards Salzburg, dark masses of cloud were 
 gathering. 
 
 ' There will be a storm to-morrow, madamc,' 
 said one of the men to me ; ' but it will be fine 
 here this afternoon.' 
 
 We went slowly up the pass. As before, there 
 were the rushing torrents below us and the 
 winding path — only it was now much narrower 
 — the green beech wood, then the fir reaches, here
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 267 
 
 and there the bare rocky sentinels, and, above 
 all, the snow ranges and peaks. 
 
 Suddenly, after ascending for about a mile, 
 we turned a sharp corner of the schist rock, and 
 saw the most beautiful sight that I, for one, shall 
 ever see on this side the grave. 
 
 A slight rain -cloud, a forerunner of the 
 coming storm, had followed us up the valley, 
 and a passing shower, delicate and refreshing 
 and quite harmless, passed over us for a second 
 and was gone. To the left lay the vast world 
 of snow mountains, down which we had come a 
 few hours before, with the great masses of bare 
 rock, from which the snow had fallen, standing 
 out stern and cold ; but up towards these snow 
 mountains, and even to their very base, was a 
 bank or meadow of the finest young grass, which, 
 like the warp of the most delicately worked 
 tapestry, was rather suggested than seen, for 
 strewn all over it, in a marvellous tracery of 
 form and colour, were crowded anemones, gen- 
 tians, cyclamens in groups and families, and 
 scattered lines, and wastes of tinted form ; and, 
 from this broad belt of colour, the snow was 
 visibly melting, moment after moment, so that 
 the lovely zone broadened sensibly before the 
 eyes, as by the motion of a wizard's wand. To
 
 268 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part n 
 
 the right, on the other side of the \ alley, which 
 was in deep shadow, masses of wood lay far 
 below us ; and above these, level with ourselves, 
 long lines of fir forests, and the dark masses of 
 rock, upon which no sun shone. Before us lay 
 the upward pilgrim path to the Calvary above, 
 and, higher still, the broken rocks, falling from 
 the precipitous hillsides on either hand, had 
 formed themselves into a marvellous bridge, 
 which crossed the ravine in front of a fall of 
 water, swollen now beyond its natural limits, 
 and divided it into an upper and a lower fall. 
 Across the fallen rocks a framework of planks 
 and rails led the way across the ravine to a still 
 narrower path than the pilgrim path on which 
 we stood, followed only by the hunters of the 
 izard and the chamois. At the entrance of this 
 impenetrable path were carved, as it seemed to 
 us, dim and mystic traceries upon the rock. A 
 summer sky, though it was still only early 
 spring, flecked with passing clouds, faint and 
 delicate as a dream, stretched itself over our 
 heads; but l)chind us dark clouds, rain-laden, were 
 gathering up from the valleys, and before us 
 over the fall, and the bridge, and the woods on 
 either hand, mid on the mystic carving upon the 
 rocks, and nowhere else, lay a brilliant band
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 269 
 
 and prism of distinct colours, and tliroiigli these 
 rainbow hues we could see the green tints of 
 the firs and of the beeches, and the dolour of 
 the schist rocks, and the white glamour of the 
 passing snow. 
 
 We left the ponies, and, with hushed breath- 
 ing, as if fearing that the vision would fade at 
 the slightest jarring sound, we followed the 
 pilgrim path. 
 
 As we crossed the bridge and approached the 
 opposite side, bewildered by the rush and flash of 
 waters, through which we seemed to pass, and 
 deafened by the ceaseless roar, the dim traceries 
 upon the rock assumed distincter shape. To the 
 right hand, between the rock and the lower fall, 
 was a sort of field, strewn with juniper bushes, 
 and with low mounds of earth and little wooden 
 crosses. 
 
 I was walking a little behind Lord and Lady 
 Falaise, and near me was one of the guides who 
 had come up with us from the hotel. I pointed 
 to this strangely strewn field. 
 
 ' What is this ? ' I said. 
 
 ' These are the graves, madame,' he said, ' of 
 unfortunates who have perished in the chamois 
 hunting, in the snows, and,' — he lowered his voice 
 and raised his cap as he went on — ' such is the
 
 270 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 grace of the Saint Calvary, that no grave has 
 ever been torn up, and no corpse mangled by 
 the wolves in this holy ground.' 
 
 And when, a minute after, we stood beneath 
 the rock, and gazed up upon this ' Saint 
 Calvary,' we could well fancy that some such 
 legend might be true. 
 
 It was carved altogether out of the massive 
 rock ; it was not, so at least it seemed to 
 me, a mechanical imao;e or fio-ure, but seemed to 
 be dimly, while perfectly, shaped, and to show 
 itself, as through a veil, as much in a certain 
 vagueness and roughness of handicraft, as in 
 a sacrament or mystery of thought and feel- 
 ing, as though it were striving and growing 
 into existence, by the gradual and earnest 
 creation of a devout servant of his art, who 
 had sought and found, by prayer and fasting, 
 his ideal in the stony rock. As we neared 
 it, the rainbow hues had faded ; yet it seemed 
 to me that there still lino-ered over it, or it 
 may have been that it was only in my eyes, 
 some delicate colouring, some faint memory of 
 those heavenly tints. 
 
 It was a true Calvary of the orthodox type. 
 It consisted of the three crosses, with their 
 suffering burdens, ;ind a foundation of skull
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 271 
 
 and bones, with two figures standing beneath 
 the crosses, more rouglily and carelessly worked 
 — St. John, and the Virgin mother in a swoon. 
 
 There might be something conventional in 
 the treatment of the two thieves — the one 
 writhing with strained and contorted limbs, 
 the other in a rapt attitude of ecstatic gaze ; 
 but, if it were so, it seemed only to supply 
 two needed forms of type — the one the rest- 
 less, unsubdued human nature, the other the 
 saintly, consecrated life. It was evident that 
 the sculptor's thought had been concentrated 
 upon the central figure. 
 
 Those momentous hours, laden with the 
 destinies of unimagined existence, were, so 
 at least it seemed to me, drawing to an end. 
 The regal admission into Paradise, the human 
 message to His mother and to His friend, 
 the cry of suffering, even the agony of felt 
 desertion by His Father and His God — all 
 these were over. The last stage of this world- 
 journey, the pilgrimage of the Son of God 
 had arrived. 'It is finished' was bitten into 
 every line, graven by the iron chisel into the 
 dark gray stone. 
 
 I have heard that some one says that Words- 
 worth evoked a sort of soul in matter, and, no
 
 272 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part n 
 
 doubt, all inanimate beings — plants and flowers 
 and trees — have a certain sort of instinct if 
 not of soul ; but here, in the centre of this 
 great Calvary, there was visible a soul in the 
 stolid rock. 
 
 For in this figure of a sacrifice that re- 
 deemed the world, there was manifested such 
 a sympathy between the genius that grasped 
 the artist's chisel, and the so-called dead rock 
 that lent itself in indescribable shades of lioht 
 and delicacies of shadow, to the Ideal that 
 lifted a world of pollution and death into one 
 of healthy breezes and of lioj)e, that, as we 
 stood before it, we could no longer wonder 
 that peasants, in their holiday dress, came up 
 the pass to worship with serious and mournful 
 faces, and went back, down the path, singing- 
 hymns of joy, for that they were delivered from 
 their sins. 
 
 For in this chief fisfure — this fiQ-ure that 
 realised the death of God, down -pressed and 
 over -weighted as it was — it was perceptible 
 that the defeat and disaster, however perfect 
 and complete — and no work could give the 
 idea of more perfection and completeness of 
 suflfering and of oppression and of defeat — was 
 not such as that which ordinary men call by
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 273 
 
 these names ; that even in the moment of 
 death's triumj^h the victory was not with 
 Death ; that the defeat and oppression — the 
 weight of suffering and of grief — were not such 
 grief and oppression and disaster as befall an 
 ordinary man ; that the death was not such 
 as awaits a mortal who has finished his course, 
 but such death as may be imagined of a pil- 
 grim-God. 
 
 Over the whole Calvary, above the rough 
 grotto-work that fringed the recess which gave 
 scope for the relief of the figures, like a 
 halo above the sacred scene, were these words, 
 fastened into the rock in iron letters, moulded, 
 no doubt, ages since in the iron-works in the 
 valleys — 
 
 VERB LANGUORES NOSTROS IPSE TULET, ET 
 DOLORES NOSTROS IPSE PORTAVIT. 
 
 She stood close by me, clasping my hand. 
 
 ' Surely He hatli borne our grief, and carried 
 our sorrows ! ' she said. 
 
 We returned to the hotel to dinner, and we 
 slept there, and in the middle of the night came 
 the storm, at least so it seemed to me. It awoke 
 me and I lay and listened to it ; but it was not 
 the storm itself that 1 heard, or that kept me 
 
 T
 
 274 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE i'akt ii 
 
 from sleep ; it was tlic knowledge of what lay 
 around me — of tliat wonderful world of mountain 
 and snow and rock. Tt was the conception of 
 what was happening, at that moment even, in 
 those mountain solitudes, in those vast reaches 
 of snow slopes, of wind-swept hill -meadows 
 and valleys, of what ghastly shapes held wild 
 revel there, what powers of darkness and of 
 storm kept the field. 
 
 But in the morning; we found that we had 
 been needlessly disturbed. There had been no 
 storm, we were told, only a passing scud and 
 shower ; but there were signs of a thunder- 
 storm in the valley, which would probaljly come 
 up the pass, and, it being so early in the 
 season, might prove alarming. The host ad- 
 mitted this. He would advise the ladies not 
 to venture far from the house. 
 
 Lord Falaise, of course, would be likely to 
 go out — in fact, a temptation had been pro- 
 vided for him. He was not satisfied with the 
 horses with which we travelled. The railways 
 which thread the water-courses of the valleys, 
 and even cliiul) some of the lower passes, have 
 very much deteriorated the postal service upon 
 the roads. Once or twice, in ascending the 
 passes, we had had to engage extra horses, which
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 275 
 
 were not to his miucl. It was suggested to 
 him that, at a farm not far down the valley, 
 horses were to be purchased of a superior 
 kind, bred for sale in Vienna. ' Milord Anglais,' 
 travellins: with three carriao;es, was not to be 
 suffered to pass without toll. The host pro- 
 posed to send for the horses to the hotel, 
 but Lord Falaise, with the eccentricity of his 
 race, preferred to walk down to the farm. 
 He left the hotel soon after breakfast, accom- 
 panied by his English groom, who travelled 
 with us. 
 
 I sat for some time with Lady Falaise. She 
 was distraite, very distraite ; she said some- 
 thing about prisons and what prisoners had to 
 undergo, but she did not seem to wish to 
 follow even this theme. After some time, as 
 she wished to be alone, I left her. May God 
 forgive me if what followed was caused by 
 any fault of mine ! 
 
 To tell the truth, I had a book which I 
 wished to read^ — Histoires UHiver, by the 
 Vicomte Eugene Melchior de Vogue, which I 
 had bought in Italy, the first pages of which 
 only I had found time to read. They had 
 fascinated me very much. 
 
 The perfect French, the most beautiful, I
 
 276 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 thought, excepting that of Pascal, wliich I had 
 ever read, the tone of distinction with which 
 the simple stories were treated, — most simple 
 stories of peasants and servants, after a manner 
 other from that of some nauseous and vulgar 
 modern schools which leaves a nasty taste in 
 the mouth — absorbed and fascinated me more 
 completely the further I read. 
 
 The exquisitely pathetic story of ' Oncle 
 Fedia/ the quaint Petrouchka and his history, 
 and the terrible sufferings, which, as a woman, 
 made my blood run cold within me, of Vavara 
 Afanasievna, — all of them, real and commonplace, 
 surely, to the heart's desire, but redeemed from 
 vulgarity and annoyance because told by a man 
 of genius who is also a gentleman, — occupied me 
 for hours. I did not look up until I had laid 
 down the book. 
 
 Lord Falaise came back a little before lunch. 
 He had not bought the horses. ' They were not 
 bad,' he said ; ' but the people asked an exorbitant 
 price. He was willing to pay an exceptional price 
 considering the circumstances, but he was not 
 going to be swindled. They would probably send 
 them up in the afternoon at his own price.' 
 
 The horses indeed came up as he said, but 
 something else had happened in the meantime.
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 277 
 
 I had not been aware of it, so absorbed liad I 
 been in my book, but during the morning the 
 storm-clouds had gathered from the valleys, and 
 crept up the pass. Eain had begun to fall, 
 ' rather sharply,' Lord Falaise said. He wore a 
 rough suit with leggings, suitable for the moun- 
 tains, and did not seem to mind it. ' There was 
 also thunder in the distance,' he said. The rain 
 ceased, and an appalling darkness covered the 
 sky. We were waiting for Lady Falaise to go 
 in to luncheon. 
 
 The next moment a waiter called me out of 
 the saloon. I went out into the corridor, and 
 found Lady Falaise's maid, her face white as 
 death. 
 
 ' We do not know where her ladyship is,' she 
 said ; ' she is not in her rooms.' 
 
 As she spoke, a flash of light, pallid, vivid, 
 all-pervading, filled the place in which we stood, 
 drawing us into, and withering us, as it were, 
 with its ghastly flame, and the next second a 
 clap of thunder, more terrible, if possible, than 
 the living fire, fell upon us and upon all the 
 houses around. 
 
 The girl fell to the ground in a heap, burying 
 her face in her hands. I clasped my hands over 
 my eyes and ears, but otherwise I stood my
 
 78 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 ground. The next instant another, as livid a 
 flash, burning into our very flesh, followed by as 
 terrific a clap — and then a third — and the storm, 
 driven, as it seemed to me, by a fierce wind, 
 swept up the pass, and left us. 
 
 After a minute or two the girl gathered her- 
 self up from the ground. She looked at me 
 with her white scared face. 
 
 ' We have found this,' she said. 
 
 She held out a folded letter, which 1 took. 
 It was addressed — 
 
 *The Lord Falaise.' 
 
 I went into the saloon to Lord Falaise, the 
 letter in my hand. He looked at me anxiously, 
 as though to see how I had stood the shock. 
 
 ' They cannot find Blanche any wlicre,' 1 said ; 
 ' l)ut they have found this.' 
 
 And 1 gave him the letter, which was not 
 sealed, only folded up. 
 
 He took it, and, going into the window, read 
 it through ; then he turned it over, and read it 
 again. I sank into one of the great lounges in 
 the saloon, and waited. 
 
 He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he 
 turned towards me, came back, and handed it to 
 me.
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 279 
 
 This was what I read — 
 My Lord — 
 
 (Ah me 1 some one else had begun a letter 
 just like this !) 
 
 At last Avhat I have dreaded all these long years, and 
 what I -warned you of, is come to pass. He calls me, 
 not by any message or voice of his, but by his suffering 
 and misery, — he calls me, and I must go, if not to him, 
 then somewhere ; whither, God knows ! Here I can- 
 not stay. The misery and the strain is too intolerable 
 to be borne. When I am gone from you, from this 
 AATetched world — oh no, not a wretched world ; it is I 
 who am worthless — think of me as of one utterly un- 
 worthy, whom you stooped to rescue from the abyss into 
 which she had fallen, gallantly strove to aid and to restore, 
 when aid and rescue were hopeless and all too late, — one 
 who has fallen of her own fault and of none other. I 
 despised all common joys, and all common joys — even the 
 joys of motherhood — have been denied me. Think of me 
 as one upon whom you have lavished such a splendour of 
 love as no woman besides has ever yet received. For 
 twelve long years bearing with what no man besides has 
 ever borne with ! What that has been you know even 
 better than I, though I know it all too well ; and through 
 all that length of years, not one averted look, never an 
 impatient word. It is impossible but that you must have 
 much to comfort and to console you. It cannot be that, 
 through such as I, a life like yours can be thwarted and 
 ruined. You have the boys. They are wholly yours. No 
 taint of their unhappy mother will ever cling to them. 
 They will grow up to prove themselves what they are — 
 the sons of the noblest and most chivalrous gentleman in 
 the world. Blanche.
 
 28o BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 I read this letter over twice, as lie had done. 
 I turned it over, and examined the creases and 
 the folding. Then I said — 
 
 ' Lord Falaise, this letter was not written 
 to-day, nor for many days. I think that I 
 know the day when it was written. Send for all 
 the servants, and ask them where they found this.' 
 
 He called the waiter, and told him to send 
 all his servants into the saloon. They came in, 
 looking very scared, as well they might. There 
 were three men — Lord Falaise's own man, a very 
 superior person, who spoke French and German, 
 a young footman, and the groom. They put the 
 women forward as they came into the room — 
 Lady Falaise's maid, and a young girl whom, I 
 believe, Blanche had engaged, simply that she 
 might wait upon me. 
 
 ' Will you tell me exactly,' said Lord Falaise, 
 ' where you found this letter ? Was it on her 
 ladyship's table ? ' 
 
 There was a considerable pause. Then the 
 maid who had come to me said — 
 
 ' No, my lord, we found it in my lady's 
 writing-case.' 
 
 ' And how dare you,' said Lord Falaise, ' to 
 open her ladyship's writing-case ? ' 
 
 Then the young girl, the under-maid, said —
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 281 
 
 ' We wanted to find out where my lady was.' 
 
 ' That will do,' said Lord Falaisc ; and they 
 left the room. 
 
 ' Lord Falaise,' I said, the moment we were 
 alone ; ' believe me, this letter was not written 
 to-day. It was written months ago at Trefen- 
 nick, in moments of terrible depression and 
 despair. It was written, but her pure spirit and 
 the mercy and love of God being as one, it was 
 never acted upon, only it was not destroyed. I 
 know her. I met her, on the day on which she 
 wrote this letter, in the yew wood, beyond the 
 terrace at Trefennick, and I know where she is 
 now. She is gone up to the Calvary beyond the 
 falls.' 
 
 His face turned to a deathly white. 
 
 ' In this storm ? ' he said. 
 
 I dressed myself as well as I could. We 
 collected together some men who called them- 
 selves guides, and some ostlers and people 
 attached to the hotel, and we set off up the 
 pass. There was no rain, only an appalling 
 darkness and cloud everywhere. We could hear 
 the thunder in the distant valleys and hills, but 
 the lightning seemed to have passed away. It 
 seemed to me, or rather I had a strange fancy, 
 that the storm had found in the fastnesses of the
 
 282 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE tart ii 
 
 mountains some power or storm other than itself, 
 and was en2^aQ;ecl in a death-struo-ole, for we had 
 not gone far before it returned upon us, tliis 
 time with the wind, for it had gone up the j)ass 
 against the south wind which had blown steadily 
 for days. Flashes of lightning, followed by 
 thunder- claps, passed over our heads; then it 
 all ceased, and the storm seemed to go down the 
 pass into the valleys from which it had come. 
 But still the dense black cloud lay above our 
 heads as we slowly ascended the pass. 
 
 When we came to the turn whence, only the 
 day before, such a vision of loveliness had burst 
 upon my sight, there was nothing of the kind to 
 be seen. The flowers had folded themselves up 
 into the grass, the green tints of the woods 
 seemed to have faded into a sombre hue, and 
 the fall itself seemed hushed and still. Always 
 the dense dark pall of darkness, as of the grave, 
 spread itself over the scene, ever, as it seemed to 
 me, ready to burst in a deluge of rain. 
 
 Wc toiled up the pilgrim path, dreading at 
 every instant what we might see, and crossed 
 the bridge. 
 
 As we crossed the bridge — Lord Falaise and I 
 walking first — the black pall suddenly lifted, and 
 seemed to disperse and break itself up into great
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 283 
 
 masses of cloud ; and a sudden light from the 
 western sun, brilliant as thought could imagine, 
 spread itself all over the under world, and lighted 
 with a radiant and burning glow all the woods 
 and water and grassy slopes, and the dark rocks, 
 and the distant white summits, and the blue 
 streaks of the glaciers or ice -bands running 
 through the snow. Above us, a pall of black- 
 ness and of death ; below, a radiance and light 
 breaking, as it were, from the tomb. Behind 
 us rifts of storm-cloud, driven, wreathed and 
 streaked, across a sky of the intensest blue that 
 the eye ever saw ; all around us deep calling 
 unto deep, as the avalanches and the rushing 
 torrents spoke from hill to hill ; and before us, 
 across the bridge, at the foot of the Calvary, this 
 strange light full upon the divine traceries upon 
 the stony rock, lay Lady Falaise, one small black 
 spot upon her shoulder, where the lightning had 
 struck. 
 
 It is the good that suffer here. ' You have 
 only to be bad enough/ says the cynic, ' and you 
 may live on pate de foie gras and champagne 
 to the end of your days ; and the uncomplaining 
 stillness of broken hearts, of wives, and mothers, 
 and sisters is unheeded, as it seems to you, by 
 the God of Sabaoth.' It is a trutli as old as
 
 284 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 time, and the pagans knew it as well as we : 
 ' In very faithfulness hast Thou afflicted me ; ' 
 'Whom the gods love they slay.' And they tell 
 us, with their patient voices and their pleading 
 eyes, that suffering, with the people of God, is 
 to be preferred to j;f^<e de foie gras with the 
 servants of sin, and that they who have tasted 
 of this bitter but invigorating cup, scarcely care 
 to pray that it be taken away. 
 
 Something more than three weeks afterwards, 
 as we rested in Paris on our way home, I re- 
 ceived a letter from Lady Elizabeth Damerle, 
 which I insert here — 
 
 I have just seen in the papers the death of Lady 
 Falaise in the Austrian Alps, and I can scarcely breathe 
 for awe. I will tell you what has happened to me. 
 
 As near as I can calculate, the day on which she died 
 was the day on which my husband's term of imprisonment 
 came to an end. I had taken some rooms in Bloomsbury, 
 and I had sent word to the governor of the jail where I 
 was. I do not know why I had done this, for my heart 
 was as hard as Hint against my husband, and I said that 
 I wished that I might never see him again. Nevertheless, 
 it is a fact that I had done it. 
 
 I was sitting in my room — the shabby room of a 
 London lodging, perhaps you may know Avhat that is — on 
 the very afternoon, as I believe, on v/hich Lady Falaise 
 died, and T was wondering whether my husband would
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 285 
 
 dare to come to nie. He did not know — at least I had no 
 reason to siqipose that he knew — that I had any money. 
 I thought that probably he would not come. I hoped that 
 he would not come. I set my face against him like a flint, 
 and yet I could not but remember that Lady Falaise had 
 given me back all that money, and that she had said that 
 it was his. I suppose that it was for that reason that I 
 had sent the governor word where I was. 
 
 It was a dull, cold, spring day in London, a north-east 
 wind biting through the streets. Across the street, from 
 my windows, the opposite houses pressed upon me, dull and 
 blackened by the smoke. 
 
 Suddenly, as it seemed to me for no reason — for I 
 had not begun to think of her before — I began to think 
 of Lady Falaise. I thought of that afternoon when I had 
 gone down to Trefennick, and how I had seen her and you. 
 I remembered how she had looked, standing against the 
 fireplace, when she had pleaded for him. I remembered 
 her look. I do not know that women are particularly 
 taken by the looks of other women — at any rate, I do not 
 think that I am ; but I remembered, with a sort of strange 
 admiration, how she had looked when she had pleaded for 
 him. 
 
 There seemed a wonderful stillness in the air. The 
 uproar of the London streets, the jargon of discordant 
 sounds, instead of jarring upon the ear, seemed lulled into 
 a sort of harmony and hush of sound — a hush that spoke 
 through stillness with a power greater than that of speech. 
 I remember particularly that this hush and stillness struck 
 me. I think that I associated it in some way with Lady 
 Falaise. I have read that 'there is a supreme Art that 
 rules the world, and that can subdue all things, even the 
 most discordant, to itself I believe it now. 
 
 I fell into a kind of dream or trance — I say trance,
 
 286 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 because I do not tliink that I was asleep in tlic common 
 sense of the word. In my trance, or dream, or sleep, I 
 thought that I was wandering under a dense pall or cloud 
 as of an endless vault or grave. The intense darkness 
 settled down upon me with a weight and oppression in- 
 describable in words, and my spirit was borne down with 
 a terror and a trouble which I could not explain, until it 
 suddenly flashed upon me that I was lost in the catacombs 
 of Eome. 
 
 No words that I can invent can describe what I 
 suffered, — the horror of a lost clue, the blackness of dark- 
 ness for ever — during the hours of a bright Italian after- 
 noon which I spent with a gay company in those ghastly 
 vaults and shades. Now, strange as it may seem, when I 
 realised where I was, I felt an instantaneous relief. 
 
 In my trance or dream, with a lightened heart, I 
 wandered on. The gloom and the darkness seemed 
 terrible no more. Suddenly, so suddenly that it was 
 moments before I was conscious of it, I saw a light. No 
 language of mine can describe this light, so diflcrent was 
 it from anything of earth ; and, in the centre of this light 
 — and now I knew more surely that I was in the cata- 
 combs — was a shepherd with a lamb. It was carved only^ 
 as it seemed to me — so flat and faint it was — upon the wall, 
 over an altar, which itself was traced only upon the wall. 
 The unspeakable light, that no man can approach unto, 
 became clearer and more clear, and in the midst of it, 
 before the altar, stood Lady Falaise ; and it seemed to me, 
 during the moment that I saw the vision, that words were 
 spoken to her which rang in my ears, as, when one wakes 
 from a dream, something of the mystery seems to linger 
 for a few seconds upon the sense — 
 
 ' Thou hast tried to offer a sacrifice which it was not 
 for thee to off'er, and to bear a punishment which was not
 
 V BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE 287 
 
 thine to .suffer or to bear. Nevertheless, the sacrifice 
 which thou hadst to offer is accepted, and the punishment 
 which was thine thou hast fully borne. Thy prayer is 
 heard. His sins, which are many, are forgiven him. He 
 is turned, and shall be saved.' 
 
 And I aAvoke from my dream, or trance, or sleep, and 
 there was a noise at the door, and my husband came in. 
 
 He was very pale and worn ; but there was a look in 
 his face which I had never seen there before. He sank 
 upon his knees on the threshold of the room ; and I went 
 to him, and I raised him up, and I kissed him on the fore- 
 head ; and I said to him — 
 
 ' My husband, it is meet that we should forgive each 
 other, needing so much forgiveness for ourselves ; ' and 
 we knelt down together in prayer to God. 
 
 A month ago I was at Trefennick, and sat 
 
 with my aunt in the nave, in the same seat 
 
 from which I had first seen Lady FaLaise. She 
 
 has a tomb to herself in the chancel, with her 
 
 titles, and the quarterings of the Falaise arms 
 
 above, and a space below for her husband's 
 
 name ; but above the seat where Lord Falaise — 
 
 he is very white, though he is not yet fifty years 
 
 of age — sits alone (the boys are at Eton) is an 
 
 escutcheon of marble with black letters upon the 
 
 white shield — 
 
 In mebiory of 
 Blanche 
 
 Viscountess Falaise.
 
 288 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE part ii 
 
 1 had tliought to stop here ; but, in turuing 
 over these leaves, I came upon this passage, 
 which I transcribed from her diary, written in 
 the first glow of her young faith and gratitude 
 and hope — • 
 
 ' What can I do to deserve such gracious 
 treatment ? How can I possibly live so as not 
 to discredit it ? — some fruitful harvest, some 
 great future — it seems impossible, nay, faithless, 
 to doubt — must be intended where such blessing 
 is given now.' 
 
 Something, I know not what, tells me that 
 no words are so befitting to end with as are 
 these. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Ci.ark, Edinburgh.
 
 September, 1891. 
 
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 INDEX. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 I'. 
 
 \(;e 
 
 AnnEY(E. A.) . 
 
 • 37 
 
 Attwell (H.) . 
 
 
 20 
 
 Abbot (F. E.) . 
 
 • 33 
 
 Austin (Alfred) 
 
 
 14 
 
 AiiBOTT(Rev. E.) 3.i.'?,3o>3i.33 
 
 Autenkieth (Georg) 
 
 
 7 
 
 AcLAND(Sir H. W.). 
 
 . 22 
 
 Awdry (F.) 
 
 . 
 
 38 
 
 Adams (Herbert B.). 
 
 . 28 
 
 Bacon (Francis) 
 
 '9 
 
 20 
 
 Addison . 
 
 4, 20 
 
 Baines (Rev. E.) . 
 
 
 33 
 
 Agassiz (L.) 
 
 3 
 
 Baker ( Sir S.W.) 28,30,37 
 
 ,38 
 
 AiNGKK(Rev. A.) . 4, 
 
 20> 33 
 
 Balch (Elizabeth) . 
 
 
 12 
 
 Ainslie(A. D.). 
 
 ■ 14 
 
 Baldwin (Prof. J.M.) 
 
 
 26 
 
 Airy (Sir (;. B.) 
 
 2, 27 
 
 Balfour (Rt. Hon. .\. 
 
 J-) 
 
 2t 
 
 AlTKEN(MaryC.) . 
 
 . 20 
 
 Balfour (F. M.) 
 
 
 5,6 
 
 AlTKEN(SirW.) . 
 
 • 23 
 
 Balfour (J. B.) 
 
 
 6 
 
 Alhem.\ri.e (Earl of) 
 
 • 3 
 
 Ball (V.) . 
 
 
 38 
 
 Aldrich iT. B.) 
 
 • 14 
 
 Ball (W. Piatt) 
 
 
 6 
 
 Alexander (C. F.) . 
 
 . 20 
 
 Ball(W. W. R.) . 
 
 
 22 
 
 Alexander (T.) 
 
 . 8 
 
 Bai.lance (C. A.) . 
 
 
 22 
 
 Alexander (Bishop) 
 
 • 33 
 
 Barker (Lady) 
 
 2,8 
 
 37 
 
 Allhutt (T. C.) 
 
 . 22 
 
 Barnard (C.) . 
 
 
 27 
 
 Allen (G.) 
 
 . 6 
 
 Barnes (W.'i . 
 
 
 3 
 
 Allingham (W.) . 
 
 . 20 
 
 Barry (Bishop). 
 
 
 33 
 
 Amiel(H.F.) . 
 
 3 
 
 Bartholomew (J. G.) 
 
 
 3 
 
 Anderson (A.). 
 
 • 14 
 
 P.artlett(J.). 
 
 
 7 
 
 Anderson (Dr. McCall) 
 
 . 22 
 
 Barwei.l (R.) . 
 
 
 22 
 
 Andrews (Dr. Thomas) 
 
 . 26 
 
 Bastaisle (Prof. C. F.) 
 
 
 28 
 
 AlM'LETON (T. G.) . 
 
 • 37 
 
 Bastian (H. C.) 
 
 6, 
 
 22 
 
 Archer-Hind (R.D.) 
 
 . 36 
 
 Bati;son(W.) . 
 
 
 6 
 
 Ariosto . 
 
 • 38 
 
 Bath (.Marquis of) . 
 
 
 28 
 
 Arnold, M. 8, 14, ig, 20, 
 
 21, 30 
 
 Bather (.\rchdeacon) 
 
 
 33 
 
 Arnold (Dr. T.) 
 
 • 9 
 
 Baxter (L.) . 
 
 
 3 
 
 Arnold (W.T.) 
 
 • 9 
 
 BEESLY(MrS.) . 
 
 
 9 
 
 Ashley (W. J.). 
 
 • 3 
 
 Benham (Rev. W.) . 5 
 
 20, 
 
 32 
 
 Atkinson (J. P.l 
 
 2 
 
 Benson (Archbishop) 
 
 32> 
 
 33 
 
 Atkinson (Rev. J. C.) 
 
 1,38 
 
 Berlioz (H.) . 
 
 
 3 
 
 Bernard (T. H.) 
 Bernard ("M.) . 
 Bekners(J.) . 
 Bksant(W.) . 
 Bei'hune-B.-vker (J. F\) 
 Bettany ((i. T.) 
 
 BlCKKRTON (T. H.) . 
 
 Bigei.ow(M. M.) . 
 Bikei..\s(D.) . 
 BiNNiE(Rev. W.) . 
 BiRKs(T. R.) . 6,25, 
 
 BjORNSON (B.) . 
 
 Black (W.) . 
 Bl.^ckhurne (E.) . 
 Blackif (J. S.) . 0, 
 Blake (J.F.) . 
 Blake (W.) . 
 Blakision (J. R.) . 
 Blanfokd(H.F.) . 
 Blanfokd(W. T.) . 
 Blomfielu (R.) 
 Blytii (A.W.). 
 
 B6H.\l-li.\WEKK (Prof.) 
 BolSSEVAIN (G. M.) . 
 Boi.DHHWOOD (Rolf). 
 
 BONAR (J.) 
 
 Bond Rev. J.). 
 Boole (G.) 
 Bou(;hton i(J. H.) . 
 Boutmy (E.) . 
 
 B0WEN(H.C.). 
 
 Bower (F. O.) . 
 Bridges (J. .\.). 
 
 r.iGE 
 
 
 25 
 
 
 12 
 
 
 II 
 
 
 * 
 
 ) . 
 
 'I 
 
 
 22 
 
 
 12 
 
 
 17 
 
 
 a 
 
 30 
 
 33 
 
 
 17 
 
 4 
 
 17 
 
 
 3 
 
 14 
 
 19 
 
 
 2 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 8 
 
 9. 
 
 27 
 
 9. 
 
 24 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 II 
 
 
 28 
 
 
 28 
 
 
 '1 
 
 
 3' 
 26 
 
 
 37 
 
 
 12 
 
 
 25 
 6 
 
 
 19
 
 INDEX. 
 
 41 
 
 I'Atii-; 
 17 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bright (H. A.). • • 9 
 Bkk;ht (John^ . . 28, 29 
 Kkimlev(G.) . . '19 
 BKouiK(Sir B.C.) . . 7 
 Bk(ii)Kii!B (\V. J.) . 13)37 
 Bkooke (Sir J.) . .3 
 liKiiofCE (S. .\.) .13, 14, 21 
 
 Bkodks (Bishop) . . 33 
 Bkown (A. C.) . . . 26 
 Kkowx (J. a.) ... I 
 Hkown (Dr. James) . . 4 
 Br(i\vn (T. 10. ' . . -14 
 Bkownk (J. H, B.) . .11 
 I'.Row.NE (Sir T.) . . 20 
 Bkownk (W. R.) . . 27 
 BKL\TON(Dr.T.Lauder)22,33 
 
 Brvce (James) . . 9, 
 
 28, 
 
 37 
 
 BucHHEi.M (C. a.) . 
 
 
 20 
 
 BUCKL.\NU (.\.). 
 
 
 5 
 
 Buckley (A. B ) . 
 
 . 
 
 9 
 
 Blcknili. (Dr. J.C.) 
 
 
 22 
 
 BUCKTON ((J. Vt.) 
 
 . 
 
 40 
 
 BL'NYAN . . .4, 
 
 19. 
 
 20 
 
 Bukc;on(J.\V.) 
 
 
 14 
 
 Burke (K.) . 
 
 . 
 
 28 
 
 Burn (R.). 
 
 
 I 
 
 Burnett (F. Hodgson) 
 
 . 
 
 17 
 
 Burns 
 
 14. 
 
 20 
 
 BuKv(J. B) . 
 
 
 9 
 
 BuTCHEK(Prof. S. H.) 13,19,36 
 Butler (A. J.) . . . 37 
 Butler (Rev. G.) . . 33 
 Butler (Samuel) . . 14 
 Butler (W. Archer) . 33 
 Butler (Sir W. F.) . . 4 
 BvRON . . . .20 
 
 Caiknes(J. E.) . . 28 
 Caldecott (R.) .12, 38, 39 
 Calderwocid (Prof. H.) 
 
 8, 25, 26, 33 
 Calvert (Rev. A.) . . 31 
 Cameron (V. L.) . . 37 
 Ca.mi'hkll (J. F.) . . 37 
 Cami'1!Ell (I)r. J. M.) . 33 
 Ca.mim'.ell (Prof. Lewis) 5,13 
 Cai'Ks(W.W.). . . 13 
 Carles (W. R.) . . 37 
 
 C.\RLVLE (T.) ... 3 
 
 Carm.\kthen (Lady) . 17 
 Carnarvon (Earl of) . 36 
 Carnot (N. L. (;.) . . 27 
 Carpenter (Bishop) . 33 
 Cark(J.C.) ... 2 
 Carroll (Lewis) . 26,38 
 Carter (R. lirudenell) 22, 23 
 Cassel (Dr. D.) . .9 
 Cautlev(G. S.) . . 14 
 Cazen()ve(J.(:;.) . .33 
 Ch.\li\iers (J. B.) . . 8 
 Ch.\lmers (M. D.) . . 29 
 Chahm.\n (Elizabeth R.) . 14 
 Chasseresse (Diana) . 30 
 Cherry (R. R.) . . 12 
 Cheyne (C. H. H.) . .2 
 Cheyne (T. K.) . . 30 
 Chrisite (J.) . . .23 
 Chkistip: (\V. D.) . . 20 
 CHURCH(Prof. A. H.) . 6 
 Church (Rev. A. J.) 4,30,37 
 Church (F. J.). . 20,37 
 Church (Dean) 3,4,13.19.31-33 
 Clark (J. \V.) . . .20 
 Clark (L.) ... 2 
 Clark (S.) ... 3 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 Clarke (C. B.;. . 9, 28 
 
 Clausius (R.) . . .27 
 
 Clifford (Ed.) . . 3 
 
 Clifford (W. K.) . 19, 26 
 
 Clifford (.Mrs. \V. K.) . 38 
 
 Clough (A. H.) . 14, 19 
 
 COIIDEN (R.) . . .29 
 Cohen (J. B.) ... 7 
 
 Colen.so (J. W.) . . 32 
 
 Coleridge (S. T.) . . 14 
 
 Collier (Hon. John) . 2 
 
 Collins (J. Churton) . 19 
 
 Col.QUHOUN (F. S.) . . 14 
 
 CoLVi.N (Sidney) . 4, 20 
 
 Combe (d.) ... 8 
 
 CoNGRE\ E (Rev. J.) . . 33 
 
 Conway (Hugh) . . 17 
 
 Cook (E. T.) ... 2 
 Cooke (C. Kinloch) . 
 Cooke (J. P.) . . 7 
 
 CoRBETT (F-) ■ • 4, 17 
 
 CORFIELD (W. H.) 
 CORRY (T. H.) . 
 COTTERILL (J. H.) 
 
 Cotton (Bishop) 
 Cotton (C. ' 
 Cotton (J. S.) . 
 COUES (E.) 
 COURTHOI'E (W. J.) 
 CoWELL (G.) 
 CoWl'ER 
 
 Cox((;. V.) 
 
 CRAiK(Mrs. D. M.) 
 
 17. 19: 
 
 24 
 
 34 
 
 34 
 
 12 
 
 29 
 40 
 
 4 
 23 
 20 
 
 9 
 
 I4> 17. i9> 20. 37> 
 Craik(H.) . . 8, 
 Cr.\ne (Lucy) . ■ 2, 
 Crane (Walter). 12,14, 
 Craven (Mrs. D.) . 
 Cr.wvford (F. ^L) . 
 Creighton (Bishop M.) 4, 
 Crichton -Browne (SirJ.) 
 Cross (J. A.) 
 Crossley (E.) . 
 Crossley (H.) . 
 Cumming(L.) . 
 
 CUNNINGHA.M (Sir H. .S.) . 
 
 Cunningham (Rev. J.) . 
 
 CuN'NINGHAM(ReV.\V)3I,33,34 
 
 Cunynghame (Sir a. T.) . 23 
 CuRTEis (Rev. G. H.) 32 
 Dahn (F.) 
 Dakyns (H. G.) 
 Dale (A. W. W.) . 
 Dalton (Rev. J. N.) 
 Dante . . .3, 13, 
 D.wies (Rev. J. LI.). 20, 31 
 Davies (W.) 
 Dawkins(W. B.) . 
 Dawson (G. M.) 
 Dawson (SirJ. W.) . 
 Dawso.n (].) 
 Day (L. B".) 
 Day (R. E.) . 
 Defoe (D.) 
 Deighton (K.). 
 Del.^motte (P. H.). 
 Dell(E.C.) . 
 De Morgan (M.) . . 39 
 De Vere {A.) . . .20 
 Dicey (A. V.) . . 12, 29 
 Dickens (C.) . . 5, 17 
 
 DiGGLE(Rev. J.W.). . 34 
 DiLKE (Ashton W.) . . 19 
 Dilke (Sir Charles W.) . 29 
 
 15 
 
 DiLLWVN (E. A.) 
 
 DoHsoN (.\.) . . . 4 
 Donaldson (J.) . . 33 
 Donisthori'E (W.) . . 29 
 DoWDEN (E-) ■ • 4, 13. 15 
 Doyle (Sir F. H.) . . 14 
 Doyle (J. A.) . . . lo. 
 Drake (B.) ... 36 
 DRUM.\iONu(Prof. J.) . 34 
 Drvden . . . .20 
 Du Cane (E. F.) . . 2(^ 
 DuFF(Sir M.E.Grant) 20,29,37 
 
 DUNSMUIR (A.). . . 17 
 
 DUNTZER (H.) . . • 4, 5 
 
 Dui'RE (A.) ... 7 
 Dyer (L.) . . . . i 
 Eadie (J.). . . 4, 30, 31 
 E.\sTLAKE (Lady) 
 Ehers(G.) ... 17 
 Edgeworth (Prof. F. Y.). 28 
 Edmu.vds (Dr. W.) . 
 EDWARUs-Moss(Sir J. E. 
 Eimer (G. H. T.) . 
 Elderton (W. A.) . 
 Ellerton (Rev. J.) . 
 Elliot (Hon. A.) 
 Ellis (T.). 
 Emerson (R. W.) . 
 Evans (S.) 
 Everett (J. D.) 
 Falconer (Lanoe) . 
 F.\RRAR(.\rchdeacon) 5, 
 FARRER(SirT. H.) . 
 
 F.\ULKNER (F.). 
 
 F AWCET T (Prof. H .) . 2 
 
 Fawcett (M. (;.) . 
 F.\Y (Amy) 
 Fearnley(\V.) 
 Fearon(D.R.) 
 Ferrel (\V.) . 
 Ferrers (N.M.) . 
 Fessenden (C.) 
 Finck (H. T.) . 
 Fisher (Rev. O.) 
 Fiske(J.). 6, 9, 25, 
 
 Fison(L.). 
 Fitch (J. G.) . 
 FiTZ Ger.\ld (Caroline) 
 Fitzgerald (Edward) 
 FiTZM.\URiCE (Lord E.) 
 Fleav(F. G.) . 
 Fleischer (E.). 
 Fleming (G.) . 
 Flower (Prof. W. H.) 
 
 Fl.UCKKiER (F. A.) . 
 
 Formes (A.) 
 Forbf:s (Prof. G.) 
 Forbes (Rev. G. H.) 
 Foster (Prof. M.) . 
 
 FoTHERGILL(Dr. J. M.) 
 
 Fowi.E (Rev. T. \V.). 
 Fowler (Rev. T.) . 
 Fowler (\V. W.) . 
 Fox (Dr. Wilson) 
 FoxwELL (Prof. H. S) 
 Framji (D.) . 
 Fr.xnkla.nd (P. F.) . 
 Eraser (Bishop) 
 Fr.\ser-Tytler (C. C.) 
 Frazer (J. G.) . 
 Frederick (Mrs.) . 
 Freeman (Prof. E. A.) 
 
 2, 4, 10, 29, 
 French (G. R.) 
 
 30 
 6 
 
 9 
 
 34 
 29 
 
 2 
 20 
 
 14 
 26 
 
 17 
 
 , 34 
 
 29 
 
 7 
 29 
 28 
 
 24 
 27 
 
 S 
 27 
 27 
 26 
 
 r 
 26, 27 
 
 29, 34 
 
 I 
 8 
 
 14 
 
 4, 20 
 
 5 
 13 
 
 7 
 17 
 39 
 23 
 37 
 
 3 
 34 
 27 
 23 
 
 34 
 25 
 24 
 23 
 28 
 
 9 
 I 
 
 34 
 '4
 
 42 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Fkikdmann (P.) . . 3 
 
 Frost (A. 1!.) ... 38 
 
 Froldk (J. A.) ... 4 
 
 FuKMSS (Harry) . . 38 
 
 FURMVALL (F. J.) . . 14 
 
 Fvfke(C. A.) ... 10 
 Fyii:(J. H.) ... 10 
 
 (jAIKUNER (J.) ... 4 
 
 Gai.ton (F.) . . I, 27 
 
 ("tAMGKE (.\rthur) . . 27 
 
 Gakdnkk (Percy) . . i 
 
 Garnett I R.) . . -14 
 
 Gai<nktt(\V.). • ■ 5 
 
 Gaskell (.Mrs.) . . 12 
 
 Gaskoin (.Mrs. H.) . . 30 
 
 Geddes (W. D.) . 13. .37 
 
 Gee (W. H.) . . 26, 27 
 
 Geikie (Sir A.). . 4,9,27 
 
 (Jennadius (J.) . . 17 
 
 GiuiiiNS (H. de 15.) . . 10 
 
 Giiiiio.v (Charles) . . 3 
 
 Gilchrist (A.). . . 3 
 Giles (P.). ... 25 
 
 GiL.MAN (N. P.) . . 28 
 
 GiLMDRE (Rev. J.) . . 13 
 Gladstone (Dr. J. H.) 7,8 
 
 Gladstone (W. E.). . 13 
 
 Glaister (E.) . . . 2, 8 
 GODFR.'VY (H.) ... 3 
 
 Godkin (G. S.). . . 5 
 Goethe . . . 4, 14 
 Goldsmith 4, 12, 14, 20, 21 
 GooD.\LE (Prof. G. L.) . 6 
 
 GoODFELLOW (J.) . . II 
 
 GoRDo.v (General C. G.) . 4 
 Gordon (Lady Duff) . 37 
 GoscHEN (Rt. Hon. G. J.). 28 
 GossE (Edmund) . 4, 13 
 
 Go\v(J.) .... I 
 Graham (D.) . . .14 
 Graham (J. W.) . . 17 
 Grand'homme (E.) . . 8 
 Gray (Prof, .\ndrew) . 26 
 GRAY(.\sa) . . . ^ 
 Gray ... 4, 14, 21 
 Green (J. R.) . 9, 10, 12, 20 
 Green (Mrs. J. R.) . 4, 9, 10 
 Green (W. S.) . . . 37 
 Greenhill (W. .\.) . . -20 
 Greenwood (J. E.) . . 39 
 Griffiths (W. H.) . . 23 
 Grimm .... 39 
 Grove (Sir G.). . 9,24 
 Guest (E.) . . . 10 
 (Juest (M. J.) . . . 10 
 Gl'illemin (.\.) . 26, 27 
 Guizot(F. P.(;.) . . 5 
 
 GUNTON ((i.) . . .28 
 
 Hales (J. W.) . . 16, 20 
 Hallwakd (R. F.) . . 12 
 Hamekton (P. G.) . 2, 21 
 
 HAMILTON(Prof. D. J.) . 23 
 
 Hamilton (J.). . . 34 
 Hanhurv (D.) . . 6, 23 
 Hannay (David) . . 4 
 Hakdwick (.-\rchd. C.) 31, 34 
 Hardy (A. S.) . . . 17 
 Hardy (T.) . . .17 
 Hake (A. W.) ... 20 
 Hare (J. C.) . . 20,34 
 H.VRiER (FatherThos.) 25, 34 
 Harris (Rev. G. C). . 34 
 Harrison (F.}. . 4, 5, 21 
 Harrison (Miss J.). . i 
 
 . 
 
 34 
 
 . 
 
 29 
 
 . 
 
 29 
 
 . 
 
 23 
 
 . 
 
 21 
 
 . 
 
 9 
 
 
 4 
 26 
 
 
 7 
 
 7. 
 
 10 
 
 38 
 
 12, 
 .) 
 
 ^2 
 38 
 
 . 
 
 12 
 
 13. 
 
 6 
 
 36 
 37 
 
 . 
 
 30 
 
 . 
 
 4 
 
 . 
 
 2 
 
 . 
 
 9 
 
 • 
 
 14 
 18 
 
 13 
 
 20 
 
 30 
 
 32 
 28 
 
 
 11 
 
 
 40 
 
 
 I 
 
 ■) 
 
 32 
 
 
 24 
 
 
 37 
 
 20 
 
 . 37 
 
 
 2, 9 
 
 20 
 
 , 24 
 
 4 
 
 HARTE(P>ret) ... 17 
 HAKTi(;(I)r. R.) . . 6 
 Hartley (Prof. W.N.) . 7 
 Har\v()od(G.). .21,29,32 
 Hayes (.\.) . . . 14 
 Headlam(W.). . . 36 
 Heli'S (Sir A.) ... 21 
 HE.Mi'EL(Dr. W.) . . 7 
 Herodotus . . .3'^ 
 Hekrick . . . .20 
 
 HERTEL(Dr.) ... 8 
 
 Herv[:y (Lord A.) . 
 Hill (F. Davenport). 
 Hill(0.). 
 HioknsCA. H.) 
 Hoh.\rt (Lord) 
 HonDAV (E.) . 
 HoDiisoN (Rev. J. T.) 
 HoFFDiNi; (Prof. H.) 
 Hofmann(A. \V.) . 
 Hole (Rev. C). 
 Holiday (Henry) . 
 Holland (T. E.) . 
 Holi.\vav-Calthrop(H.) 
 Holmes (O. W., junr.) 
 Homer 
 
 Hooker (Sir J. D.) . 
 HOOLE (C. H.) . 
 Hooter (G.) 
 HOOI'ER (W. H.) 
 Hote(F.J.) . 
 Hopkins (E.) . 
 Hoim'Us(^L A. M.) . 
 Horace . 
 HoRT(Prof. F. J.A.). 
 HoRTON (Hon. S. D.) 
 
 HoVENDEN (R. iVL) . 
 
 Howell (Cleorge) . 
 Howes ((;. P..) . 
 HoWITT(A. \V.) 
 HiiwsoN (Very Rev. J. S.) 
 Hozier(C.>1.H. M.). 
 HCnNEK (Piaron) 
 Hughes (T.) 4, 15, 18 
 
 HULL(E.). 
 
 HULLAH (J.) . . 2 
 
 Humk(D.) 
 H u M 111 KY(Prof.SirG. M.) 28,39 
 Hlnt(\V.) ... 10 
 Hunt(\V.M.). . . 2 
 HUTTON (R. H.) . 4' 21 
 
 Hu.xley (T.) 4, 21, 27, 28, 29, 40 
 Iddings(J. P.). . . 9 
 Illingwokth (Rev. J. R.) 34 
 Ingram (T. D.) 
 Irving (J.) 
 Irvin(; (Washington) 
 Jackson (Helen) 
 jACoii(l<tv. J. A.) . 
 Jamf;s (Henry). 
 James (Rev. H. A.) . 
 James (Prof W.) . 
 jAMEs(SirW. M.) . 
 Jardine (Rev. R.) . 
 jEANs(Rev. G. E.) . 
 jEiii>(Prof. R.C.) . 
 
 jELLKTT(Rev. J. H.) 
 
 Jenks (Prof. Ed.) . 
 Jennixc;s (.\. C.) 
 Jevons(\V.S.). 4,26,28, 
 Ji;x-l!i.AKE (Sophia). 
 Johnson (.^my) 
 Johnson (Samuel) . 
 Jones (H..Vrthur) . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Jones (Prof. D. E.) . . 27 
 Jones (F.). ... 7 
 Kant .... ■•■5 
 Kari . . . -39 
 
 KAVANAGH(Rt.Hn..\.M.) 4 
 
 K.AY (Rev. W.) . . . 31 
 Rkary (Annie). 10, i3, 39 
 
 K.EARY (Eli/a) . . -39 
 K.EATS . . .4, 20, 21 
 Kellner (T)t. L.) . . 25 
 K.ELLo«G(Rev. S. H.) . 34 
 Kempe(.A.. B.) . . . 26 
 KENXEDY(Prof.A. P.. W.) 8 
 Kennedy (I''- H.) . . 36 
 Keynes (J. N.). . 26,28 
 
 KlEPEKT(H.) ... 9 
 KiLLEN (\V. D.) . . 32 
 
 KiNGSLEY (Charles) . 4, 8, 10, 
 
 11,12,13,15,18,21,24,32,37,39 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 12 
 
 18 
 
 34 
 
 21 
 
 34 
 26 
 10 
 26 
 
 34. 37 
 4, 10, 13 
 
 • 34 
 
 • 29 
 30 
 29 
 
 8 
 27 
 13 
 15 
 
 c, 37 
 . 38 
 . 18 
 
 ■ 34 
 6, 23 
 
 • 14 
 
 • 30 
 57 
 
 3 
 
 j4> 
 
 4, 20 
 
 KiNGSLEY (Henry) 
 Kipling (J. L.). 
 Kipling (Rudyard) . 
 
 KiRKPATKICK (Prof.) 
 
 Klein (Dr. E.). 
 Knu;ht(W.) . 
 Kuenen (Prof. A.) . 
 Kyn ASTON (Rev. H.) 
 Laphekto.n (R. H.). 
 Lafargue (P.). 
 Lamb. 
 
 LANCIANl(Prof. R.). 
 
 Lanuauer (J.). 
 Landor . 
 Lank-Poole (S.) 
 Lanfrev(P.) . 
 Lang (Andrew). 2, 12, 
 Lang (Prof. Arnold). 
 Langley (J. N.) 
 Lankester (Prof. Ray) 
 Laslett (T.) . 
 Leaf(W.). 
 Le.\hv (Sergeant) 
 Lea(M.) . 
 Lee(S.) . 
 Leeper (.\.) 
 Legge(.\. O.) . 
 Le.mon (Mark) . 
 Leslie (A.) 
 
 Letiibridge (Sir Roper) 
 Levy (.\my) 
 Lewis (R.) 
 
 LlGHTKOOT(Bp.) 21,30,31,33,34 
 
 LiGHTWOOD (J. M.) . . la 
 
 LiNDSAY(Dr. J. A.). . 23 
 
 Lockyer(J. N.) . 3,7.27 
 
 Lodge (Prof. O.J.) . 21, 27 
 
 LoEWY(B.) . . .26 
 
 LoKTiE(.Mrs. W. J.y . 2 
 
 LoNGIELLOW (H. W.) . 20 
 
 Lonsdale (J.) . . 20, 37 
 Lowe (W. H.) . . . 30 
 Lowell (J. R.). . 15. 21 
 LuiiiiocK(SirJ.) 6,8,21,22,40 
 
 21 
 3 
 
 • 7 
 4, 20 
 . 20 
 
 • 5 
 21, 36 
 
 • 39 
 
 ■ 27 
 6, 21 
 . 6 
 
 1.3. 36 
 
 ■ 30 
 . 18 
 
 20, 37 
 
 • 37 
 10. 34 
 
 . 20 
 
 . 38 
 10 
 18 
 13 
 
 10, 
 
 Lucas (F.) 
 LUPTON (S.) 
 Lyall (Sir Alfred) . 
 Lyte(H.C.M.) 
 LvTTON (Earl of) 
 Mac.\listek (D.) . 
 Macarthur (M.) . 
 Macaui.ay (G. C.) . 
 M ACCOi.L (Norman) . 
 M'CosH (Dr. J.) 
 Macdonald (G.) 
 
 25. 
 
 IS 
 7 
 
 4 
 10 
 i3 
 
 23 
 
 10 
 36 
 J4 
 
 26 
 16
 
 INDEX. 
 
 43 
 
 FAtJK 
 
 Maciji ixKi.i. (J.) . . 29 
 Mack AH. (J. W ) . .37 
 Macki-.n/ik (Sir Morell) . 23 
 ]VIaci.a.,.\\ (Or. T.). . 23 
 Maci.ankn (Rev. Alex.) . 34 
 Maci.akkn- (.Archibald) . 39 
 Maci.i;an(W. C.) . . 23 
 MAC!.h: Ai<(Rev. Dr.G.F.) 30,32 
 M'l.I NNAN ([. K.) . . I 
 
 M'Lkxnan (Malcolm) . 18 
 MAC.Mii.i,AN(Rev. H.)22,35,38 
 M.\c.mii.i,an (^lichael) 5, 15 
 Macnamara (C.) . . 23 
 Macquoiij (K. S.) . . 18 
 Madoc (['".) ... 18 
 M..\Gi iRK(J.F.) . . 39 
 
 MAHAFI.Y(Prof. J. P.) 
 
 2, II, 13. 22, 25, 35, 38 
 
 Maitland (F. W.) . 12, 29 
 
 MALtT (L.) ... 18 
 
 Mai.ohv (.Sir T.) . . 20 
 Mansfield (C. B.) . .7 
 Markiia.m (C. R.) . . 4 
 Marriott (J. A. R.). . 5 
 Marshall (Pruf. A.) . 28 
 Marshall (M.P) . . 28 
 Martel (C.) . . .24 
 Martin (Frances) . 3, 39 
 Martin (Frederick). . 28 
 Martin (H. N.) . . 40 
 Martineau (H.) . . 5 
 Martinkai (J.) . . 5 
 Masson(D.) 4,5,15,16,20,22,26 
 Masson (G.) . . 7, 20 
 Masson(R.O.) . . 16 
 Maturin (Rev. W.). . 35 
 MAUDSLEv(Dr. H.). . 26 
 Maurice (Fredk.Denison) 
 
 8, 22, 25, 30, 31, 32, 35 
 Maurice (Col. F.) . 5,24,29 
 Max- Miller (F.) . . 25 
 Maykr(.\. M.). . . 27 
 Mayor (J. B.) ... 31 
 Mayor (Prof. J. E. B.) . 3, 5 
 jNIazini (L.) . . -39 
 M'CORMICK (W.S.) . . 13 
 Meldola (Prof. R.). 7, 26, 27 
 Mendenhall (T. C.) . 27 
 Mercier (Ur. C.) . . 23 
 MERCUR(Prof. J.) . .24 
 
 INIeredith (G.). . . 15 
 Meredith (L. A.) . . 12 
 Meyer ;E. Yon) . . 7 
 Mi all (A.) ... 5 
 Miciii-.lkt (M.) . . II 
 Mill(H.R.) ... 9 
 Miller (R. K.). . . 3 
 MiLLU,AN(Rev. W.). 31, 35 
 Milton . . 13, 15, 20 
 
 MiNCHiN (Prof. G.M.) . 15 
 MiNTo (Prof. W.) . 4, 18 
 Mitford (A. B.) . . 18 
 Miv.^RT (St. George). . 28 
 Mixter(W. G.) . . 7 
 Mohammad . . .20 
 MOLESWORTH (Mrs.) . 39 
 
 Molloy (G.) . . .26 
 
 MONAHAN (J. H.) . . 12 
 
 Montelius (O.) . . I 
 Moore (C. H.). . . 2 
 MooRHousE (Bishop) . 35 
 MoRisoN (J.) . . .15 
 MoKisoN (J. C.) . . 3, 4 
 MoRLEY (John). 3, 4, 16, 22 
 
 I'AUE 
 
 Morris (NFowbray) . . 4 
 
 MoKKis (R.) . . 20, 25 
 
 MORSHEAD .E. D. A.) . 36 
 
 Moii.TON (L. C.) . . 15 
 
 MUDIK (C. E.) . . . 15 
 
 Ml-ir(M. M.P.) . . 7 
 
 Ml'LLER(H.) ... 6 
 
 Mullikger (J. B.) . . II 
 
 MURI'HY (J. J.). . . 26 
 
 Murray I'l). Christie) . iS 
 Murray (E. C. G.) . . 38 
 Myers (E.) . . 15,36 
 Mykrs(F. \V. H.) . 4, 15, 22 
 MvLNE (Bishop) . . 35 
 Nadal (E. S.) . . .22 
 Nettleshii' (H.). . . 13 
 Newcastle (iJuke and 
 
 Duchess) 
 Newco.mi! (S.) . 
 Newton (Sir C. T.). 
 Nichol(J.) 
 Noel (Lady A.) 
 Nokdenskdld (A. E.1 
 Norgate (Kate) 
 NoRRis(W. E.) 
 Norton (Charles Eliot) 
 Norton (Hon. ISIrs.) 
 OnPHANT(Mrs. M. O. W.) 
 
 4- II, 13. i9> 20, 39 
 OLn'HANT(T. L. K.) 
 
 Oliver (Prof. D.) . 
 Oliver (Capt. S. P.). 
 Oman (C.W.) . 
 Ostw.-\ld (Prof.) 
 Otte (E. C.) . 
 Page(T. E.) . 
 Palgrave (Sir F.) . 
 Palcrave(F.T.) 
 
 2, IS, 16, 20, 21, 33, 
 Palgrave (R. F. D.) 
 PALfiRAVE (R. H. Inglis) . 
 Palgra^'e (W. G.) 15, 29, 
 Palmer (Lady S.) . 
 Parker (T. J.). 
 Parker (\V. N.) 
 Parkinson (S.) 
 Parkman (F.) . 
 Parsons (Alfred) 
 Pasteur (L.) . 
 Pater (W. H.) 
 Patekson (J.) . 
 Patmore (Coventry) 
 Patteson (J. C.) 
 Pattison (Mark) 
 Payne (E. |.) . 
 Peabody (C. H.) . 
 Peel(E.). 
 Peile(J.). 
 Pellissier (E.) 
 Pennell(J.) . 
 Pennington (R.) . 
 Penrose (F. C.) 
 Perry (Prof. J.) 
 Pettigrew (J. B.) . 
 Phillimore (J. G.) . 
 Phillips (J. A.) . . 23 
 Phillips (W.C.) . . 2 
 Picton (J. A.) . . .22 
 
 PiFFARD (H. G.) . . 23 
 
 Plato .... 20 
 Plumptre (Dean) . . 35 
 Pollard (A. W.) . . 37 
 PoLLOCK(SirFk.,2nd Bart.) 5 
 PoLLoci';(SirF., Bart.) 12,22,29 
 
 4. 13 
 
 38 
 
 15, 19 
 
 6, 3 
 
 19, 
 
 20, 
 
 4, S: 
 10, 
 
 7 
 22 
 12 
 39 
 
 5 
 35 
 29 
 8,27 
 
 • IS 
 
 • 25 
 
 • 25 
 
 2 
 
 • 9 
 
 ■ I. 3 
 
 • 27 
 28, 40 
 
 4. 
 27. 
 
 Pollock (Lady) 
 Pollock (\V. H.) 
 1'oole(.\L E.) . 
 Poole (R.L.) . 
 Pope. 
 Poste (E.) 
 Potter (L.) . 
 Potter (R.) . 
 Preston (T.) . 
 Price (L.L.F.R.) 
 Prickard (A. O.) 
 Prince Alhert Victor 
 Prince George 
 Procter (F.) . 
 Propert (J. L.) 
 Rauci.ifee (C. B.) 
 Ramsay (W.) .■ 
 Ransomi-; (C.) . 
 R.\thi!one: (\V.) 
 Rawlinson (W.G.), 
 Rawnslev (H. D.) 
 Ray(P. K.) . 
 Ravleigh (Lord) 
 Reichel (Bishop) 
 Reid (J. S.) . 
 Remsen (L) 
 Rendall (Rev. F.) 
 Rendu (M. leC.) 
 Reynolds (H. R.) 
 Reynolds (J. R.) 
 Reynolds (O.). 
 Richardson (B. W. 
 Richey(A. G.). 
 RoiiiNsoN (Pieb. H.G.) 
 Robinson (J. L.) 
 Robinson (Matthew) 
 Rochester (Bishop of) 
 
 R0CKSTR0(\V.S.) . 
 
 Rogers (J. E.T.) .11, 
 Romanes (G.J.) . 
 RoscoE(Sir H.E.) . 
 
 ROSENBUSCH (H.) 
 
 Ros.s (P.) . 
 
 ROSSETTI (C. G.) . 15, 
 
 RoUTLEDGE (J.) 
 
 RowE(F.J.) . 
 
 RCCKER (Prof. A. W.) 
 Rumford (Count) . 
 Rushdkooke (\V. G.) 
 Russell (Dean) 
 Russell -Sir Charles) 
 Russell (W.Clark). 
 Ryland (F.) . 
 Ryle (Prof. H. E.) . 
 St. Johnston (A.) .19, 38, 
 Sadler (H.) 
 Saintsdury (G.) 
 Salmon (Rev. G.) 
 Sandford (M. E.) 
 Sandys ( L E.) . 
 Sayce (A". H.) . 
 
 SCHAFE (P.) . 
 
 Schlie.mann (Dr.) 
 schorlem.mer (c.) 
 Scott (D. H.) . 
 Scott (Sir W.). . 15, 
 ScRATCHLEV (.Sir Peter) 
 
 SCUDDEK (S. H.) 
 
 Seaton (Dr. E. C.) . 
 
 Seeley fJ.R.). 
 
 Seiler (Dr. Carl) . 23, 
 
 SELBORNEiEarloO 12,20,32 
 
 Sellers (E.) . 
 
 Service (J.) . . 32, 
 
 GE 
 2 
 2 
 22 
 I I 
 20 
 36 
 22 
 
 35 
 27 
 
 28 
 22 
 37 
 37 
 
 15 
 26 
 
 27 
 35 
 37 
 
 7 
 35 
 
 9 
 35 
 23 
 II 
 
 24 
 5 
 5 
 4 
 
 29 
 6 
 7 
 9 
 
 19 
 
 39 
 
 ?6 
 
 7 
 22 
 
 31 
 35 
 29 
 
 19 
 13 
 30 
 39 
 
 35 
 
 5 
 
 33 
 
 7 
 
 6 
 
 20 
 
 24 
 40 
 
 23 
 II 
 
 28 
 35 
 
 35
 
 44 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 I'AGK 
 II 
 
 4> »5 
 
 20, 21 
 
 8,27 
 
 5 
 21 
 
 35 
 
 '9 
 
 24 
 
 2 
 
 36 
 40 
 
 ■■3 
 
 -Sewell (E. >I.) 
 Shaiki- ^J. C.) . 
 
 >>HAKES1'EAKE . I3, Ij 
 
 Shann ((j.) . . 8 
 
 .SHAKI' iW. ) 
 
 Shelley ... 15 
 Shirley (W.N.) . 
 Shorthouse (J. H.) 
 Shortland 'Admiral) . 
 Shlchhakot (Carl). 
 Shuckulkgh (K. S.) II, 
 .Shufeldt (R. W.) . 
 .SiHSON (Dr. F.) . ■ . 
 
 SmciwicK (Prof. H.) 26, 28, 29 
 
 Sl.MK ij.) . 
 
 .Si.Mi'S(.N (Rev. W.) . 
 Skeat iW. W.) 
 .Skkink (J. H.). 
 Slade (J. H.) . 
 Sloman (Rev. .\.) . 
 Smart (W. ) 
 Smalley (G. W.) 
 Smetham (J.) ■ 
 Smith (.\.) 
 Smith (C. B.) . 
 Smith (Goldwin) . 4 
 Smith (H.) 
 Smith (J.) . 
 Smith (Rev.T.) 
 Smith (\V. C.) . 
 Smith (W..S.) . 
 Somekvili.e (Prof. \V.) 
 Southey . 
 
 .Sl'ENUEK (J. K.) 
 Sl'ENSEK . . • 
 
 Spottiswoode (W.). 
 Stanley (Dean) 
 Stanley (Hon. Maude) 
 Statham (R.) • 
 Steubing (\V.). 
 Stephen (C. K.) 
 Stephen (H.) . 
 Stephen (Sir J. F.) 11, 
 Stephen (J. K.) 
 Stephen (1..) . 
 Stephens (J. F>.) 
 Stevenson (J.J.) • 
 Stewart (.\.) . 
 Stewart (Balfour) 26, 
 Stewart (S. X.) 
 Stokes (Sir G. (''.) . 
 Story R. H.) . 
 Stone (W.H.). 
 Strachey (Sir K.) . 
 
 STKACHEY(Gen. R.). 
 
 St k a n f ; e o rd( V iscountess 
 Stretteli. (A.) 
 STUi!iis(Rev. C. W.). 
 Stup.bs (Bishop) 
 Sutherland iA.) . 
 Symonds (T- a.) 
 SVMUNDS (Mrs. J. .\.) 
 Symons (A.) . 
 Tait (.\rchbishop) . . 35 
 Tait (C. \V. A.) . .11 
 Tait (Prof. P. G.) 26, 27, 35 
 
 10 
 32 
 13 
 15 
 
 8 
 
 31 
 
 28 
 22 
 
 20 
 16 
 29 
 i6 
 6 
 
 35 
 6 
 
 35 
 6 
 
 5 
 23 
 20 
 27 
 
 35 
 29 
 29 
 
 4 
 8 
 
 13 
 
 , 22 
 
 13 
 
 4 
 
 16 
 
 2 
 
 39 
 
 , 35 
 
 6 
 
 27 
 
 3 
 
 27 
 
 16 
 
 35 
 
 31 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 16 
 
 
 38 
 
 
 24 
 
 25> 
 
 35 
 
 24. 
 
 27 
 
 8 
 
 
 35 
 
 16 
 
 4 
 
 38 
 
 38 
 21 
 
 
 16 
 
 12 
 
 39 
 6 
 
 27 
 
 40 
 
 12 
 
 Tanner (H.) . 
 Tavermek (J. B.) . 
 Taylor (Franklin) . 
 Taylor (Isaac). 
 Taylor (Sedley) 
 Tp:getmeier (W. 15.) 
 Temple (Bishop) 
 Temple (Sir R.) 
 Tennant (Dorothy). 
 Tenniel . 
 
 Tennyson . _ i4' 
 Tennyson (Frederick) 
 Tennyson (Hallam). 
 Thompson (D'A. W.) 
 Thompson (E.). 
 Thompson (S. P.) . 
 Thomson (A. W.) . 
 Thom.son (Sir C. W.) 
 Thomso.n (Hir.ih) 
 THO^LSON CSir Win.) 24, 26, 27 
 
 Thokne (Dr. Thome) . 23 
 
 Thornton (J.). . . 6 
 Thoknton (W. T.) 26, 29, 37 
 
 Thorpe (T.E.). . . 7 
 
 Thking(E.) . . 8,22 
 
 Thrupp(J- F-). • ■ 30 
 
 Thuuichl'm (J. L. W.) . 7 
 
 Thursfield(J. R.) . . 4 
 
 TfJDHL'NTKR (I.) . . 5> 8 
 
 Torrens (W. .M.) . . 5 
 
 ToURGltNIEF(I. S.) . . 19 
 
 Tout(T. F.) . . .11 
 T(Wer(H. F.) ... 9 
 
 Traill (H. D.). . 4,29 
 
 Trench (Capt. F.) . . 29 
 
 Tri:nch (.\rchl)ishop) . 35 
 
 Tkevelyan (Sir G. O.) . i r 
 Tribe (A.). ... 7 
 
 Tristram (W. O.) . . 12 
 Trollope (A.) ... 4 
 
 Truman (J.) . . . 16 
 
 Tucker (T.G.) . . 36 
 
 TuLi.ocH (Principal). . ,iS 
 
 Turner (C.Tennyson) . 16 
 
 Turner ((1.) . . . i 
 
 Turner (H.H.) . . 27 
 
 Turner (J. M.W.) . . 12 
 Tyi.or(E. B.) ... 1 
 
 TYR\vinTT(R. St. J.) 2,16 
 Vaughan (C. J.) 31.32,35.36 
 
 VAUr.HAN (Re\-. D. J.) 20, 36 
 
 Vaughan (Rev. E.T.) . 36 
 
 Vaughan (Rev. R.). . 36 
 Veley (M.) ... 19 
 
 Venn (Rev. J.). . 26,36 
 
 Vernon (Hon. W. W.) . 13 
 
 Verrall(A.W.) . 13,36 
 
 Verrall (Mrs.) . . i 
 
 Wain (Louis) . . .39 
 
 Waldstein (C.) . . 2 
 
 Walker (Prof. F. A.) . 28 
 Wallace (A. R.) . 6, 24, 28 
 
 Wallace (Sir D. M.) . 29 
 
 Walpole (S.) . . .29 
 
 Walton (I.) . . .12 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ward (.\. W.) . . 4, 13, 20 
 Wari)(H. M.). . . 6 
 Wakd(S.). ... 16 
 Ward (T. H.) . . . 16 
 Ward (.Mrs. T. H.) . 19. 39 
 Warl>(W.) . . 5.32 
 
 WARINf.TON (G.) . . 36 
 
 Waters (C..\.) . • 28 
 Waterton (Charles) 24, 38 
 Watson (E.) ... 5 
 Watson (R. .S.) . . 38 
 Wei;ii(W.T.) . . j6, 37 
 Webster (Mrs. .\.) . . 39 
 Welbv-( Gregory (Lady) . 32 
 Welldon (Rev. J. E. C). 36 
 Wi;sTCoTT (Bp.) 30, 31, 32, 36 
 Westermarck (E.). . I 
 Wepherell (J.) . . 25 
 Wheeler (J. T.) . . 11 
 Whewell(\V.). . . 5 
 White (Gilbert) . . 24 
 White (Dr. W. Hale) . 23 
 White (W.) ... 27 
 Whitham (J. M.) . . 8 
 Whitney (W.D.) . . 8 
 Whittier(J. G.) . 16,22 
 Wickham (Rev. E. C.) . 3^ 
 Wicksteeu (P. H.) . 28, 30 
 
 WiEDERSHEIM (R.) . • 4° 
 
 Wilbraiiam (F. M.). . 32 
 WiLKINS (Prof. .\. S.) 2, 13, 36 
 
 Wilkinson (S.) . . 24 
 
 Williams (G. H.) . . 9 
 
 Williams (Montagu) . 5 
 
 Williams (S. E.) . . 13 
 
 ' Wili.oughby(F.) . . 39 
 Wills (W.t;.) . 
 Wilson (A. J.) . 
 Wilson (Sir C.) 
 
 Wilson (Sir D.) . i, 3, 13 
 
 Wilson (Dr. C!.) . 4, 5, 22 
 
 Wn son (Archdeacon) . 36 
 
 Wilson (.^lary). . . 13 
 WiNGATE (Major F. R.) . 24 
 
 WiNKVVORTH (C.) . . 5 
 
 WoLSELEY(Gen. Viscount) 24 
 Wool. (A. G.) . . ■ iC^ 
 Wooi5(Rev. E.G.) . . 36 
 Woods (Rev. F. H.). . i 
 Woods (Miss M. A.). 16, 33 
 Woodward (C. M.). . 8 
 
 WoOLNER (T.) . . .16 
 
 Wordsworth . 5, 14, 16, 21 
 Wc>RiHEv(M!s.) . . 19 
 Wright (Rev. .V.) . . 31 
 Wright (C. E.G.) . . 8 
 Wri(;iit(J.) ... 21 
 Wright iL.) . . .27 
 Wri(;ht (W. Aldis) 8, 15, 20, 31 
 WuRTZ (Ad.) ... 7 
 Wyatt (SirJkLD.) . . 2 
 Yonge(C. M.)5, 6, 8, 10, II, 
 
 19,21,25, 30, 39 
 Young (E.W.) . . 8 
 
 ZlEGLER (Dr. E.) . . 23 
 
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